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A Light in the Shadow

Summary:

There is an old Ravkan saying – the willing, destiny guides them; the unwilling, destiny drags them, but no one escapes what fate has planned. It was the fate of the Sun Summoner to be born, her fate to meet the Darkling, her fate to save Ravka. How this happens, however, is up to her and the choices people make.

Alina is five years old when she first meets the Shadow Man. It changes everything.

Notes:

Err.. so a couple of warnings; 1) this story is almost totally AU and plays fast and loose with canon, 2) I really hate Mal in the books and just about put up with him in the series, he's not in this chapter (whoo) but if I get around to write the second part then he will be making a small appearance but there will be no Mal/Alina, 3) Grisha powers in this story are a bit more autonomous and quirky. 4) Enjoy :).

Chapter 1: Turn Left

Chapter Text

Alina was just six months when her power first manifested. Her Papa was dancing around with her, jumping up and down and twirling around as he hummed the melody to a peasant’s dance and little Alina glowed like the sun, giggling joyfully. At first her parents discounted the odd experience and dismissed it from their minds. But as Alina grew it happened more and more often until they lived in constant fear of someone seeing what their child could do for fear of her being taken away to live in the Little Palace with all the other Grisha’s who were discovered.  

Little Alina was their miracle child. It had taken so long for the Starkov’s to have a child. So many long, barren years in which the couple consulted any healer or medical official they met. The result of these consultations was always the same – their purse lighter and hope extinguished with the news that Madam Starkov was unable to carry a child. At last, over ten years after they had married and long after all hope was gone, Alina was born.

It was this fear which led to their life on the road, always on the move, lest someone see something they shouldn’t. Something that might get back to the Second Army scouts who were always on the lookout for unclaimed Grisha.

It was an odd life, constantly moving around, never staying long enough to make friends or put down roots, but it was one Alina loved. She had her beloved Mama, her adored Papa and the glow that raced under her skin and that was all she needed to be happy. If she sometimes wondered what it would be like to live in a house with doors and windows, to have friends, or to be somewhere for more than a few weeks, then she never mentioned it to her parents.

“Keep it secret, Alinochka. No one must ever know.” It was the mantra repeated by her parents every day and more when they are approaching a new town or village. At first Alina doesn’t understand what the secret is that must stay hidden or why it is so important to her parents. This changes as she grows older.

By four years old she is beginning to understand – it is her that that is the cause of her parent’s fear. The spark in her veins which makes the sun smile and laugh is the reason why they cannot stay anywhere long enough to make friends. She is too young to understand that it is for her and not of her - but it is too late, the lesson is learnt and the first block is placed. Slowly but surely Alina learns to push the glow in her blood further and further away in her mind until it is so deep she can no longer hear its siren call.

For a few months all is good. Alina has no more accidents and her parents start to relax. As more time passes, her parents decide it is safe to settle somewhere and they find a home in one of the many nondescript Ravnkan villages not far from the Shu Han border to make their home. It is a new experience for Alina, she lives in a proper cottage and not their caravan for the first time that she can remember and is allowed to play with the other children who live nearby. Most do not like her. They dislike the Shu features she has inherited from her mama and take to calling her names and trying to play tricks on her. There is still Irina though. Irina who is different too and doesn’t care that Alina has Shu heritage. Irina gives her courage and makes her brave enough to respond to the cruel taunts.

Slowly, however, Alina grows weaker.

It starts with a cold that sweeps through the village. While the other children shake it off quickly, Alina does not.

Weeks pass, her fifth birthday comes and goes, and still Alina is ill. She more tired than usual and is easily fatigued. Alina no longer wants to play. Her appetite shrinks until it is almost non-existent and her features grow gaunt. Her mother whispers to her father when she thinks Alina cannot hear that is as if the light has gone out of their Alina and all that is left are shadows.

Her parents take her to the village medicine man who is confounded. His prognosis is poor and he sees recovery as impossible. Two other healers in nearby villages are also consulted with no success.

Finally, in desperation they decide to find a Grisha healer. It is better, they tell each other when Alina is asleep, that their beloved daughter is discovered to be Grisha if it means she will live. The only question is whether to head to Kribirsk in the hope of finding an army healer who will help or to set out for Os Alta and the fabled healers at the Little Palace.

 


 

There is an old Ravkan saying – the willing, destiny guides them; the unwilling, destiny drags them, but no one escapes what fate has planned. It was the fate of the Sun Summoner to be born, her fate to meet the Darkling, her fate to save Ravka. How this happens, however, is down to the choices people make.

History is made by choices. Sometimes, however, it is not the big decisions of kings and the powerful which have the greatest impact, but by the little decisions of the ordinary man that no one remembers or even notices. This is one such moment: in one world the Starkov’s turn left and head off to the port by the Unsea. They will make it as far as Keramzin before disaster strikes and Alina is left orphaned in the care of Ana Kuya. She will save the world but only after bringing it to the point of utter desolation.

But that is not this world.

In this world her parents turn right. Kribirsk is judged as too dangerous, the risk too great that no healer will be found in time. So it is to Os Alta that the family set off and the future changes.

 


 

The journey is hard and takes weeks. In a rare stroke of luck the Starkov’s have the fortune to encounter a group of merchants travelling in convoy to Os Alta. It is slow going moving a group this large and cumbersome, particularly as by consensus they are avoiding the main roads and instead sticking to the less known routes in the hope of avoiding bandits, or worse, but It is a joyful party for the most part.

There is a group of players and acrobats who are hoping to perform for the royal family, a puppet maker, a rare book collector and purveyors of fine silks and perfumes. At night the whole group come together to eat and tell stories around the campfire.  Much to Alina’s delight, sometimes the younger members dance or take turns reading from plays and stories.

The journey is going smoothly, until suddenly it’s not.

The attack comes out of nowhere and takes them all by surprise.

It is brutal and bloody and fast.

The first Alina knows of the raid is the screaming. The noise awakens Alina from where she had been sleeping in the back of her parent’s wagon and in her confusion she pokes her head out of the canvas to look around.

Alina is too young to understand the full reality of what is happening.

Too young to understand why their group has been attacked.

Too young to understand why one of the attackers has grabbed her mama and is forcing her to the ground.

Too young to understand why her beloved papa, who has never raised a hand to another, scoops up a rock before hurling himself at the man who has pinned his wife and is pulling at her skirts, and starts beating him around the head.

She is old enough, however, to understand what happens next.

“Run, Alina – RUN!!” her mother screams as her father falls face down into the dirt, blood already pooling underneath his body from the wound in his neck.

She is older enough to understand her father’s murderer crowing about another killing another stinking witch as he turns towards her mother.  

For a long moment Alina stays still, paralysed by fear and shock, and then she is scrambling out of her bed and running and ducking and weaving through the chaos until she can scramble into the shadows under a forgotten wagon, her mother’s screams ringing in her ears. There she waits tucked into a ball, her limbs shaking in terror and teeth biting into her fist as she tries to muffle the sobs that want to break free.

She feels the change before she sees him. The air grows heavy and shivers race over her skin as darkness spreads over the grass. It is like all the light has been sucked out of the glade - as if dusk has suddenly and unexpectedly fallen in the middle of the day. Even the birds grow quiet. It is the silence before the storm, the pause before the next wave crashes, and then she hears it. The thunder of hoofbeats pounding through the earth. Through the wheels Alina sees flashes of bright reds and blues as a group of riders storm past her hiding place. It is not the brightly coloured riders, however, who capture her attention but the hazy outline of the man leading the group, the man whose clothing blends seamlessly with the inky darkness that embraces him.

Alina watches entranced as shadows leap from the man, swirling and dancing as they wreak havoc on those who attacked her camp. The beauty of it distracts her and she crawls forward so she can keep him in her eyeline.

It is a distraction that proves disastrous. Alina cries as she feels a hand clamp painfully on her ankle before she is dragged from her hiding place by an unfamiliar man with an axe. The man’s breath stinks as he growls something indecipherable and foreign, the hand that had gripped her leg now wrapping around her throat and squeezing so hard black spots dance across her vision. Alina tries to fight, tiny fists beating against her assailant, like her mama showed her. It is to no avail - he is so much bigger and stronger than she is - and the something in her blood that she knows could help will not answer her pleas. Her mind is growing foggy and distant when suddenly the weight and pressure are gone, and sensation rushes black with a roar.

Confused and disorientated, Alina can only stare at the shadows wrapped around her attacker’s face and arms, watching as he thrashes before dropping to the ground eyes open and unblinking. It is a child’s curiosity, and quite probably oxygen deprivation, which prompts Alina to reach up and touch one of the inky tendrils as it retreats from the man who assaulted her. It is a strange sensation - burbling, rushing, cold - reminiscent of how it felt when she put her hand in the stream they had passed a few days before.

In the space between one breath and the next the shadow moves, wrapping itself around the little girl and engulfing her completely in a cloak of darkness. Twenty feet away, a red robed Grisha watched in horror as an axe flew through the air toward the spot where the child had disappeared, only to shatter into glittering metallic confetti.

The first the Darkling knows of anything odd occurring is after the bulk of the fight is over. He and a small group of Grisha had been en-route back to the Little Palace following an urgent summons from the Tsar when they heard the unmistakable sounds of battle. Given his irritation over the inconvenient timing and the dubious urgency – most likely relating to yet another architectural monstrosity - which had forced him to leave the Second Army camp at two in the morning, it had been music to his ears.

He had needed a fight, and he had found one.

The first Drüskelle he saw met a sudden and painful end as he was sliced cleanly in two. The same for the second and third Fjerdans. By the fourth, he had to abandon the Cut and get creative as around him his Grisha were rushing around the ruined convoy despatching the enemy and looking for survivors. It wouldn’t do, after all, to accidently injure or kill his own soldiers.

Less than 15 minutes after first happening upon the scene and there is not a single Drüskelle alive and the only sounds are from his Grisha, their horses and the pained cries of the survivors. It was while he was standing there surveying the damage the thrice damned Drüskelle had caused that he heard one of the Inferni calling him, voice high and worried. Spinning around he can see exactly what has Corporal Olga Artyomova concerned – there, before her, is a little child ringed in writhing snake like shadows. Whenever the Corporal tries to approach or touch the young girl the swirling shades lash out like whips.

At first, he thinks he has finally found another Shadow Summoner and has one heart stopping moment of wondering if this could be his daughter - or worse an unknown sibling - before reason reasserts itself. Those shadows are his. He can feel them, can control them, although they are strangely reluctant to leave the body they are wrapped around.  It takes more effort than it has in years to force his shadows to fade back into the ether.

What is left before him is a young girl. Her Shu features marking her immediately as different from the others he had seen in the convoy.

She is a tiny little thing with a sickly pale face and large dark eyes that flit nervously between him and the other Grisha who came to help after hearing Olga’s call.

“What is your name, little one?” he asks gently, drawing on years of experience dealing with young frightened Grisha to make his voice just the right mix of soothing and commanding to get her to answer.

“Alina,” she whispers, eyes darting around nervously at her audience.

Kneeling down so that he is no longer towering over her, the Darkling tugs off one glove to take her hand in his. He has to suppress a hiss at the unexpected crackle that races along his skin. The little girl is Grisha, but more than that, he can feel a tug just below his sternum and it takes all his control to keep his shadows from rushing out of him to embrace the child before him.

It unnerves him as much as it intrigues him. He is over 500 years old and nothing like this has ever happened before. Before he has a chance to really consider this new development, however, his attention is wrested back to the little girl who is now shyly tugging on his Kefta.  

 “Please, shadow man,” she whispers to him, “I don’t know where my mama is, but she needs help. There was a man… Papa tried… but then another man hurt him and he didn’t get up again. Mama told me to run and hide, so I did, but now I don’t know where she is…” The Darkling pauses in surprise at the name before instinct kicks in and he lifts a hand to wipe away the tears that are trickling down her cheeks.

“Then let’s go look for her, little one.” He says as he lifts her up into his arms. “I would be very interested in meeting your Mama.” A nod of his head and the three Grisha surrounding them fan out to start corralling the survivors.

It takes much less time that he feared to find Alina’s mother. She is alive, thankfully, and is in the middle of arguing hoarsely with the blue robed Grisha trying to help her when Alina spots her and immediately wriggles in his arms to get down shouting “Mama. Mama!” loudly enough to make his ears ring.

It is a touching moment watching mother and daughter reunite, but the absence of the girl from his arms is like a physical ache in his chest the moment her feet hit the floor, and it is only his iron clad self-control honed over centuries which prevents his shadows from following her.

The Drüskelle attack has wrought chaos on the convoy. More than half of those travelling have died and those that remain alive are too injured and weary to carry on travelling today. With the Little Palace still over two days walk away, it is an easy decision to order his soldiers to set up camp around the ruins of the caravans and wagons. Sergeant Gurin, the healer who has accompanied him on this trip, will need time to triage those injured and heal those with the most severe wounds and as a good General he couldn’t possibly think of leaving wounded Ravkans unprotected. That this delay also has the side benefit of annoying the Tsar is of course neither here nor there.

There is also the mystery of Alina, the little girl who calls to his shadows. It is a puzzle though that will ned to wait until she and her mother are well enough to be tested.

 


 

While most of the merchants are otkazat’sya, and barely worth his attention, it is only right that the dead are buried with respect and what funeral rights can be managed. Well, those who are Ravkan, anyway. No one minds dragging the dead Drüskelle away from the camp and leaving them for nature to take its course. It is the least they deserve.

Grisha and otkazat’sya alike work together digging graves and paying the final respects due to the dead. Alina watches as his men lower her father’s body into his final resting place with large solemn eyes, a tight grip on the Darkling’s hand and his shadows wrapped around her like shawl. From that moment on he gains another shadow.

With her mother healing and often asleep, the younger Starkov takes to following the General, peppering him with questions about everything from the small sciences to what his horse is called. The sight of Alina with the tall, dark, fearsome Black General becomes so common that Gurin starts referring to her as his little ghost. It is an apt moniker and one which brings a reluctant smile to the normally dour General as he makes his rounds, Alina never far from his side.

It takes less than a day to bury all those who died, but Gurin refuses to break camp until those with the worst injuries are stable. Even after that progress is slow and it takes the party nearly a week to cover a distance that should have taken half that time.  

At last, nearly a week after the attack, and on the day before they are due to arrive in Os Alta, Gurin declares the Starkov’s sufficiently recovered for testing. It is a day the General has been eagerly, impatiently, awaiting. It is the day he would get answers. The day he would solve the puzzle that is Alina Starkov.

Moving his ring, the Darkling prepared to test both mother and daughter. A short cut to the mother’s arm confirms what he already suspects that the older woman is an inferni, but it is the daughter who astonishes the watching Grisha and silence their cries of welcome.

He knows she is a Grisha. He felt the wellspring of power humming through her skin every time their skin has come into contact, yet when he creates the cut and calls for it to appear nothing happens. Absolutely nothing.

For a moment, the General wonders if battle fatigue and stress are to blame; that maybe he imagined the crackle of power when she held his un-gloved hand. Confused, he wraps his hand around Alina’s tiny wrist and nearly sighs when he feels the same sensation. Not in his head then. It was there – he could feel it, humming against his senses, but now he’s looking for it he can see the block that keeps the girl’s power from him. It’s like a pane of glass between them – he can see it but he cannot touch it or get to it, and neither can Alina. Nor can he even get a sense for what type of power it is, no matter how hard he strains his senses, or why it is causing his own powers to behave so erratically.

This is a problem.

It is unusual, but not unheard of, for a Grisha as old as Madam Starkov to be trained, but to do so she would have to give up Alina. In ordinary circumstances this would not be a problem as the little girl would simply join her Grisha agemates. Mother and daughter would be separated, but ultimately both would be safe and trained. Unfortunately, such an approach would not work here. He can tell already from the stubborn set of her jaw that Madam Starkov will not leave her daughter and with Alina’s power blocked it is impossible for her to come to the Little Palace.

The following argument is loud and passionate and makes him regret allowing the Grisha who accompanied him to watch the testing.

Artyomova, Mikhailov and Rybakov are vociferous as they make their case to the older woman.

It is the law.

  It is what is right.

  Grisha should be with Grisha.

  It is sad but the child would be better off in an orphanage where she will be safe with the other Otkazat’sya children.

 Their clamouring serves no purpose other than to give their General a headache and to scare the child who is now clinging to her sole surviving parent with increasing desperation. Gurin alone remains quiet, ignoring the nonsense his fellow officers are spouting, a sad expression in his eyes and the General knows that, like himself, Gurin is aware that Alina is one of them and the travesty it would be to send a Grisha child into the care of the Otkazat’sya.

Despite the furore, Madam Starkov remains unmoved, a quiet bastion of strength in the middle of a verbal squall. She will not leave her daughter, will not even entertain the idea of it, as she serenely cuddles the tearful child and strokes her hair.  With an annoyed sigh and a dark glare he dismisses the other Grisha in the tent. No good will come of their continued presence in this discussion, and he could do without the pain already pounding in his temples getting worse.

Regardless of the irritation that this morning has brought he is impressed with the Shu woman. He had mistaken her lowered eyes and carefully demure behaviour - so typical of Shu Han women - for meekness and servility.

He was wrong. Her quiet dignity hides a core of steel and iron self-control that make his highly trained Grisha look like rowdy misbehaving youths in comparison, and the General cannot help but wonder what Alina would be like as an adult growing up with such an influence. It is an idle thought, but one that takes root, and presents a possible solution.  

While the test showed that Madam Starkov is Grisha, and technically should now be part of the Second Army, she isn’t a strong one. With her age against her, it is unlikely the older woman will be of great importance or use in the ranks of his army. He no desire to tear this family apart and effectively orphan the mysterious child yet something inside bulks at the thought of the pair leaving, never to be seen again.

So instead, he offers a bargain. A devil’s choice.

The Shu woman will not be conscripted. He will find a suitable residence for the Starkov’s in Os Alta, somewhere safe and anonymous where they can hide. He will help Madam Starkov find employment and pay for Alina to have a good education. In return he will visit regularly to check on Alina and teach both mother and daughter about the Grisha. He can see it in her eyes, though her face remains calmly impassive, that Madam Starkov is reluctant to accept his offer. She is distrustful of the infamous Darling and concerned about what price he will extract from them later. He can see her weighing up her next move and can see the moment the realisation sinks in that there no choice in the way she grips her daughter just that little bit tighter. With a shallow nod the deal is struck.

Once back in the Little Palace it takes only a few days to find a property that will do and to install mother and daughter in the residence. Gurin has given both mother and daughter a clean bill of health, although he remains concerned about the girl and the long-term impact suppressing her Grisha side will have on her health. Alina’s face is still gaunt and her body scrawny and frail, but as the days pass it seems as if at long last she is starting to recover, much to the surprise of Gurin and the Darkling. She is still a solemn child, traumatised by what she witnessed, but her body is growing stronger and a healthy bloom is returning to her cheeks.

It is inexplicable. A Grisha’s health is so intertwined with using their powers that in all his long years he has never seen a Grisha recover from the effects of suppression without using their gifts. The girl’s sudden recovery is another puzzle to add to the riddle that is Alina Starkov. She is a mystery the Darkling means to solve. A mystery he needs to solve.

Exactly a week after the Starkov’s moved into their new home, the General knocks on the front door for the first of many lessons.

 


 

Time passes

Weeks become months. Months become years and before Aleksander knows it four years have passed.

Four years. Such a short measure of time compared to the centuries he has lived.

Four years that have changed everything.

For the first time in decades he has a home outside the Little Palace. The tiny cottage where the Starkov’s live in the back streets of Os Alta has become home to him. A refuge. Somewhere, perhaps the only place, where he can truly let his guard down and be Aleksander Morozova rather than Moi General Kirigan, the Darkling, the most feared man in Ravka.

Here, in this little house, he is only Alina’s friend Alek. Her best friend. Her confidant. Her teacher.

He plays hide and seek with Alina and reassures her after her nightmares. He entertains her with his shadows and relishes her delight in the power that makes others fear him. His gift has always kept him separate from others - even to other Grisha he is an oddity - his uniqueness a cause for disquiet and distrust even as they cleave to the protection he provides.  Everyone is wary, but not his little Alina – she is fearless in her curiosity and delight – and, to his surprise, his shadows reciprocate. For the first time in his life, someone other than him can interact with his shadows, and they love her. Whenever he is near her he feels the pull of the darkness within him trying to get to her, to surround her, to protect her. It intrigues him as much as it unsettles him.

Every week that he is resident in the Little Palace he visits Madam Starkov’s house. It is his little secret.

It starts innocently as a nebulous desire to ensure that both Alina and her mother are safe and healing after the trauma they have suffered. Alina is hardly the first Grisha he has met over the course of his long life who has subconsciously blocked her power due to a harrowing experience. It is, in fact, why his officers go and test all children. Traumatic childhoods have been only too common for Grisha over the centuries and such pain often has long lasting consequences. It is why he is so fiercely protective of his people. His Grisha.

And yet…

These visits serve no purpose, no reason he can easily articulate, but still he continues them. Week after week. Year after year. And with each visit the bond between himself and the little girl gets stronger and stronger and it gets harder to stay away for any length of time.

She calls him her Alek and he is terrified that she is right.   

He tells her his name when she’s seven. His true name. The name he has all but forgotten through disuse. For the life of him, he can’t work out why, only that she asked in that curious way she has and his name just fell out of his mouth without any conscious thought on his part. It is not the last time this happens either. With her talent blocked it remains a mystery what gift Alina might have but with the ease she has of extracting private information from him he can’t help but wonder if she should consider a career in interrogation.

From that moment on though he is always Aleksander, or Alek, to her. Not even his mother calls him by that name anymore. It is a name reserved for Alina alone but the smile she gives him whenever she says it is blinding and soothes the ache he doesn’t understand that has taken up permanent residence deep inside his chest.

He reads Alina poetry and history. They discuss mathematics, philosophy and small science round the dinner table and far past Alina’s usual bedtime. He is her friend and partner in trouble who spins elaborate stories out of the shadows that cluster around him for Alina’s entertainment. Aleksander is Alina’s first model as clumsy, inexperienced fingers learn how to draw. She sketches his likeness a hundred times until Aleksander laughs that she must have had him memorised by now. There is no one alive who can make him smile and laugh like Alina. He told Madam Starkov once that Alina was joy incarnate. Alina’s mother had just smiled knowingly at him and said “No, General, she is our guiding star. I think we would both be lost in the darkness without her light.”

Slowly but surely he carves a life out for himself in this tiny house and for the first time in years he feels something approaching happiness.

Alina’s trust is a benediction. An absolution he doesn’t deserve but selfishly clings to and hoards. 

He should have remembered that nothing lasts forever.

 


 

Later Aleksander would blame the events of that evening on complacency born of a hundred unremarkable visits and a secret successfully kept for four years without anyone - including  lovers, the Tsar and his Oprichniki - knowing where he disappeared to on a regular basis.

Of course, he really ought to have remembered that there was no possibility of keeping something concealed from his mother. She had an unerring talent for sensing secrets and a horrible habit of appearing when least wanted – usually when most inconvenient just to make matters worse. Given this, it was a considerable achievement that it had taken his mother this long to find out.  

Even so, it was an unpleasant shock when Baghra burst into the main room of the Starkov’s cottage. Her fury a living, breathing beast as shadows spread from her to smother all the light in the little room where Alina had been quietly reading.

It was Alina’s terrified scream that first alerted him to the danger and brought him hurtling from the kitchen where he had been standing with Madam Starkov discussing a point on Shu-Hanese politics. In the shock of seeing his mother here, in this place that only he has been, Aleksander is torn between fury at her for scaring Alina and elation as the young girl turns to him in her fear, running to hide in the shadows that have risen around him like a vengeful cloak.

Like meets like as their shadows test each-other, and a stalemate is quickly established. While he has long been the stronger of the two, and could overpower his mother, residual sentiment towards her and his fierce desire that Alina is not scared further stays his hand.  At his back he can feel his shadows lick and curl protectively around the young girl like a loving caress, calming and soothing her until she settles.

Into this standoff Madam Starkov finally ventures from the kitchen where she has been hiding, trusting him to protect the one most precious to them both. Aleksander is impressed again by how serene Alina’s mother is when confronted by a situation that would terrify most people. It is Madam Starkov that de-escalates the situation further by offering his mother tea while she sooths Alina and tries to settle the girl for sleep.

Her plan is only half successful. His mother accepts the tea, but Alina is too scared to sleep. Terrified to go upstairs with the unfamiliar shadows still in the house and uncomfortable with the thick tension in the air the young girl refuses to leave the room or to relinquish the grip she has on Aleksander’s hand. Finally, a compromise is reached and his precious girl settles against him on his lap, her eyes already closing, as her mother sings her a familiar lullaby. At almost 10 years of age, Alina is no longer a small child, and it is not the easiest or the most comfortable thing to cradle her to him as she drifts off to sleep; one hand curled tightly around the sleeve of his black kefta, the other around his shadow holding it like a doll, and yet he would not move for the world. Through it all his mother watches silently, her sharp, perceptive gaze taking in every detail and Aleksander knows that this brief reprieve will be over as soon as his mother could be certain of privacy.

 


 

It is telling that the first question Baghra asks is whether Alina is his daughter. It makes Madam Starkov laugh for reasons he still can’t understand. Slowly, over their cooling tea, The older Starkov explains their history to his mother and tells of how they met. He can see the surprise in his mother’s eyes and smothers the stab of annoyance he feels with practiced ease at the familiar cynical disbelief. It has been many years since his mother looked at him with parental approval. He really should be inured to it now.

Throughout the tale his mother sits rigidly in her chair, her cane occasionally tapping the floor, but is otherwise silent. She lets out an annoyed harrumph when Madam Starkov describes Alina’s mystery illness as a child and how, although she is Grisha Alina cannot access her power, but refuses to comment when he quirks an eyebrow at her in silent question. That his mother knows something, or suspects something, is clear. Equally clear is that she will not discuss it while Madam Starkov is present.

The true interrogation starts not two minutes after Madam Starkov is called away by a neighbour who needs her help with her daughter’s labour.

“What is she to you?” Baghra barks as Madam Starkov’s footsteps gradually fade into the night.

“Everything,” Aleksander answers honestly, surprising himself with his unusual candour. “She’s my guiding light in the darkness. A reminder of what I need to do and why.” His mother’s disbelief would have hurt once, but he is used to it now.

“A traumatised child who has buried her gifts so deep she cannot call them?” Baghra snorted derisively, “don’t try your tricks with me boy! There’s always an angle with you, always a plan. I doubt you’ve ever cared about anyone or anything in your life.”

Aleksander shook his head as he stared down at the little girl curled safely in his arms and still fast asleep despite the increasingly heated discussion around her.

“Then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” he replies quietly, running a gentle finger down Alina’s brow. “I’ve never felt like this before,” he confides in an awe filled voice. “In all my long years I’ve never felt this. You believe I’m a monster beyond redemption, and perhaps I am. All I know is that I would move heaven and hell just to see her smile.” Aleksander let out a frustrated sigh, his habitual frown returning as he mulled over his mother’s comment.

“You’re right, it makes no sense. A poor little girl who is barely a Grisha – what is she to me? She isn’t powerful, or useful. She won’t win my wars or further my plans. She’s stubborn and persistent and far too compassionate for her own good. I devote time to training her and her mother that could be much better spent on other things. And yet… and yet I would let the Little Palace burn if it meant keeping her safe. I would walk away from everything – from all my plans – if she asked me too.” Aleksander tore his eyes away from the girl in his arms to look at his mother in desperation as words and deeply buried truths continued to tumble out of his mouth. “I have protected her, sheltered her, taught her for five years. Why, mother? Why when she serves no purpose. When all she can ever be to me is a weakness for others to exploit…?”

“Like calls to like,” Baghra murmurs thoughtfully, looking at her son.

“We are not alike… we are opposites! How can you say we are alike when she is so… so very pure and good,” Aleksander demands furiously, his voice low and anguished, as his hand gestures to the sleeping girl still curled around him. “She is everything that I am not. Everything you have wished for centuries that I was!”.

Baghra sat down with a thump, her legs giving way in shock at her son’s uncharacteristic outburst. Aleksander was always calm and collected, on the surface at least. Even as a child he was a thinker and not prone to the emotional turbulence she saw in others his age. To show your emotions was to show weakness, and it was a lesson they had both learnt well a very long time ago. To see her son so close to losing control reminded her of that night when everything had fallen apart, when his grief and anger had led him to commit the ultimate sin.

She had thought when she had followed her son that she would find him up to his usual tricks, elbow deep in some Machiavellian conspiracy. When she had realised that he was visiting a family and had been for months, she had feared he had found the Sun Summoner after all these years and that she would have to save the girl from him. Baghra had never considered even in her most fanciful imaginings that she would find this. It couldn’t be – not after all this time. Not now when she had long ago given up hope. And yet…

“That’s love, boy,” She said after a pause to collect her scattered wits, eyes carefully cataloguing the tableau before her. Tonight was shaping up to be a very surprising evening and for a woman who had lived as long as her few things had the power to surprise now. She stared at the girl thoughtfully. If her son could love someone, truly love someone, he might yet find his way back from the dark path he had been walking and Baghra might yet be spared the choice she had long foreseen and resigned herself to.

With a nod she decided. She would keep her son’s secret. She would help to keep this child safe. “Bring the girl to me once a month,” she commanded as she got to her feet. “Her power might be locked but there is much that girl will need to learn.” Without waiting for a response, Baghra left the small cottage as silently as she had entered, the shadows consuming her.

It was too soon to know how this would play out. Far too soon. So many things could yet go wrong. The child could die or her son lose interest. But this she knew deep in her bones – that girl would either be his salvation or his damnation.  

Likes always calls to like. In time they would understand what that kindred was and what it would mean for the world.

In the darkness Baghra smiled. Only time would tell and fortunately time was something Baghra had in abundance. For the first time in centuries something blossomed in her ribcage making her heart skip and dance.

It felt a lot like hope.

Chapter 2: The Parting of the Ways

Summary:

Where is the line between love and in love

Notes:

First off, thank you for all the amazing comments! As you can see, they’ve inspired me to continue – so keep them coming if you would like updates 😉.

Secondly, I’m so sorry. So very very sorry. You might want a box of tissues for this next bit.

I wrote this while listening to Murry Gold’s The Shepherd’s boy from Doctor Who Series 9 on repeat. It’s a beautiful song, I really recommend having it on while reading this chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Where is the line between love and being in love? It is a question that torments Aleksander.

The first time he dreams of Alina in his bed he awakes with a hammering heart and bile in his mouth. The sense of having defiled something so pure, even if just in his mind, leaves a leaden weight in his stomach, but he brushes it off. It is an aberration, a one off, a symptom of too much stress and pent-up desire. It had been many months since he had last enjoyed the release found in a lover and while half a millennium of practice has given him fine control over such base impulses, he is still a man.  

It happens again a week later and then a few days after that. The dreams become more detailed, more frequent, more graphic, until he could almost swear that they are real and not phantoms of his depraved imagination.

If it were not for the fact that he awakes each morning in his own bed, his body frustrated with want even as his mind revolts at the nocturnal imaginings of his sleeping brain, he might think they truly happened. It doesn’t help that Alina’s behaviour has changed either. She blushes when he touches her, no matter how slight or incidental, and there are moments where she unaccountably skittish and shy when he visits. In her letters she is the same as she has always been, bright and teasing and fearless but the contrast leaves him feeling uncomfortably off balance and unsure.  

After one particularly vivid dream in which his dream-self worshipped Alina’s body, making her gasp and writhe beneath him, he even checks with the guards stationed outside his door. They confirm what he already knows – that he spent the night in his quarters. Alone. No one in, no one out.  

There is an old Ravkan saying – we are each our own devil. We make our own hell.

He has never been a religious man, has never really believed in the nonsense around heaven and hell, but this? This might yet make him believe. His sleep has become his own personal hell. Guilt is an unfamiliar visitor. It had been centuries since he had truly felt guilt and now it is clawing at him, poisoning his blood and clouding his mind. He must truly be the monster history has branded him for him to be thinking about bedding a child, the girl he has watched grow for the past 11 years.

The dreams continue. It doesn’t matter what he does, if he exhausts himself or drinks himself into a stupor, the dreams always find him. Alina’s laughing eyes haunt his nights and the guilt plagues him during the day.

 


 

He thinks at first that it is just lust. The unfortunate side effect of his subconscious awakening him to the beauty of a girl on the cusp of womanhood - as if that makes it less terrible somehow, less of a perversion, less of a betrayal. He is no stranger to lust. There is no denying that Alina is turning into a pretty young woman, one who will have no problems drawing male attention.  Attraction is one thing. It is a natural, if unwelcome, physiological response, and one he can master. It doesn’t have to change anything between them. It doesn’t have to mean anything.  

At 544 years old, he has known many beautiful women throughout his many lives and various identities, and he has enjoyed what the world has to offer. No, he is no stranger to lust or the thrill of the chase and the tantalising discovery of hidden pleasures. He is no green boy or callow youth. Yet for reasons he cannot explain as the dreams continue that is exactly how he feels. Giddy and unsure, bumbling and inexperienced, fixated and foolish. The antithesis of who he is – of who he has worked to become.   

With that in mind, the next time Zoya appears at his door with a fabricated excuse and a sultry smile on her lips, he invites her in.

It helps.

The dreams have not stopped but with the Squaller’s presence in his bed they have at least started to abate. It can’t rewind the clock, however, and take his mind back to the time before the dreams started, so Aleksander starts to distance himself from the Starkov’s.

He stops visiting every week, or even every month, in the hope that absence will return his mind to normality, and he and Alina can continue on as they had before his subconscious started this nightmare. He knows this is distressing his young friend, her letters to him are filled with concern and pointed questions he cannot – will not – answer, but he can see no other way to evict these unwelcome thoughts.   

It would be so much easier if it was just lust. But it isn’t. It is so much more complicated than that. Far from helping him return to his normal tranquillity, however, enforcing this separation leaves him increasingly restless, fidgety and unfocused.

His distraction doesn’t go unnoticed. Ivan is concerned, so is Genya, but both are too well trained to comment or ask questions of their General. If Zoya suspects that the truth behind the nights they spend together she makes no mention and seems happy enough with the casual arrangement they have fallen into.  

When his mother summons him to her cottage he knows it has gone too far.

 


 

Thwack

“What did you expect, boy?” his mother says crossly once Aleksander finished explaining.

“Not this!” he retorts sharply, his ire rising to match his mother’s. This is why he avoids talking to his mother and they live at opposite ends of the Little Palace.

“She wasn’t going to stay a child forever, stupid boy, of course she was going to grow up!”

“I know that,” he protests angrily, “Do you think me that stupid? Of course she is going to grow up. I just didn’t expect… this,” gesturing to himself trying to capture his emotional turmoil without being forced to elucidate further.

“I thought we would remain as we were… I thought…” He had thought a lot of things. This had never been a factor in his plans.

“You’ve lost your distance, you’ve got too close and now you’re paying the price. She’s nearly 17, what will you do when she weds another? Or takes a lover?” Baghra asks sharply. “do you think you will be able to standby and watch her smile at another man and take him to her bed-”

Crashbangping

Staring at the chaos that had been her orderly little cottage, Baghra heaves an irritable sigh as she takes in the carnage her son has just caused.  

That ghastly vase one of her many students had made for her years before in a blatant and foolhardy attempt at bribery was now on the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces. Her favourite stool is decimated and the less said about the hole in the wall the better, but the devastation inside is nothing compared to the expression on her son’s face. Raw and wrecked. The desolation and the crushing realisation as he is finally confronted by the truth he has been trying so hard not to see.

“Oh, my boy. My poor, foolish, boy,” is all Baghra can say, as she strokes his hair in a rare expression of maternal feelings, watching the thoughts play out of Aleksander’s face as he comes to terms with what should have been obvious from the start.

He has loved Alina for over a decade. His love for the child he watched grow from a sickly, scrawny girl has a purity and simplicity that in all his years he has never felt before. It simply is. Like true north – and that is what Alina is to him, his north. His guiding light.

That feeling is gone now or, if not gone, then buried. It has been subsumed by the monster that has awoken in his chest. The companionship of before is not enough for this demon; it is greedy for her attention. It craves her presence, covets her affections and is passionately transfixed by her. There is no simplicity in what he feels now. It is a raging cacophony, a swirling maelstrom of emotion that rips through the self-control he has spent centuries honing.

For all his many faults he has never been a possessive lover, but Alina, as always, is the exception to every one of his rules. It is a visceral thing, this need to claim her, to possess her, to be the only man in her life and in her bed, to be the one she turns to before everyone else. Primal and fierce. He would tear down cities and crumble empires to dust, for her. He would re-write the universe and stretch small science to the extremes to keep her safe.

She is his and he is hers.  

Too late Aleksander understands what has happened. Too late he sees the line has unknowingly crossed. Too late. Too Late. Too Late.

He loves her.

He is in love with her.

When do you know where the line is between love and in love? – when it is too late to stop.

“What do I do?” he asks at last in a tone full of lost bewilderment, staring at his mother like he did as a child when he thought she had all the answers and could fix any hurt.   

“Bed her or move on, for you cannot stand still or go back,” his mother replies with her usual pragmatism, her voice as close to sympathetic as she ever gets, “even you, boy, cannot hold back the tide of time. One way or another, Alina will be lost to you. Just as I lost your father.” It is a pain Baghra had hoped her son, her only living child, would never have to know, but it seems it is true what they say – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. She can only hope it turns out better for him then it did for her. Can only hope that this doesn’t start her boy back onto the path to ruin he was walking before he met the girl who softened his sharp edges and gave him back hope.

He nods, eyes shining with tears his stubborn pride will not let fall no matter the pain he feels inside. He feels hollow, as if all the light has been sucked out of him, leaving his chest empty and aching. With a final jerk of his hand in a gesture of farewell, Aleksander leaves his mother’s cottage, head bowed.

Later he will remember the hole in the wall and send a Materialki to inspect and repair the damage. Later he will think on what this means. Later he will have to plan. Later he will have to decide how to act. But for now he mourns the loss of what was and cannot be again. Nothing lasts forever, he should have remembered that.

 


 

Settling himself in his favourite armchair with a glass of kvas, Aleksander watches the fire, the dancing flames soothing his tumultuous mind and calming his pounding heart. Fire gazing is a habit he shares with his mother. They both find the flames relaxing as well as a way to think through problems.

In the old days, when he was small and they were poor, the flames were the only stable element in their itinerant lives. It didn’t matter where they were, if they were in a house, a cave or a glen, they would have a fire and his mother would use it to tell stories with shadow puppets dancing amidst the flickering light. He has used the same tricks to entertain Alina and make her laugh, the same method to teach her stories and old lore that are now half forgotten by modern Ravka.

It is another part of himself that he has unknowingly shared with her. Another secret unthinkingly given. Another intimacy that erodes the careful distance he has cultivated and maintained from the mayfly like lives of mortals.

His mother is right, curse her shrivelled immortal soul, he has become dependent. He has lost his detachment and focus. He has let himself need. Let himself want. Let himself pretend.

No more.

His Grisha need him. They need him to do what is necessary to protect them. It is his duty - the purpose that has driven him for centuries - and he has let them down.

Alina is a distraction he can no longer afford. A weakness that has the power to destroy him and all he has worked towards for the last 500 years. He loves her. Oh, how he loves her.

He loves her warmth and stubborn nature. Loves the way she is fearless around him and the way she caresses his shadows. He loves her courageous heart and the sense of family she has given him. He loves her, totally, utterly, completely.

Walking away will be one of the hardest things he has ever had to do but he will do it for her, to save her, because his mother is right. The love of an immortal is a terrible burden to bear and the awful, horrible truth of their unequal life spans – that even if she could love him in return and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, he couldn’t spend the rest of his with her. He would have to live on. Alone.

He had thought himself broken by love once, but he knows deep in his soul that losing Alina will be unutterably worse. The damage, the destruction, so much greater. Last time his pain created the Fold. What would his anguish do this time?

Even if they were alike, even if she did want him, it wouldn’t change things. Alina deserved a life with a good man, a life with children and laughter and safety. He can offer her none of those things.

His mother is right, wanting makes you weak. Dreams are for children and it has been many years since he was a child.

He can give her so little, but he can give them both this – a final farewell to what could never be.

This visit is the hardest he has made in years. He almost turns back several times, unable to bear the thought of hurting her, of making her cry. Perhaps it would have been easier to leave a letter, to escape into the wilds like a coward, but it wouldn’t have been right. It is the thought that spurs him on when his footsteps falter along the familiar route to the Starkov’s house. It is the thought that gives him the strength to do what must be done.

Both mother and daughter know something is wrong the moment he enters the house - they have known him too long and too well to be fooled by the calm mask he fights to keep in place. He had known this would be painful and difficult, but the reality is so much worse. Alina’s face is tear stained as he explains to her in short, clipped tones so unlike the ones she is used to, that he is needed elsewhere and that this is goodbye. She has always been intuitive, his Alina, and he can see in her frown and the way her eyes flit searchingly over his face that she senses there is more to what he is saying. He has gone away before, but it is different this time, there is a finality to his actions that his darling girl is struggling to understand or accept.   

It is a final indulgence, but one he cannot resist, as he sweeps her up into his arms for a final embrace. Burying his face in her neck, he takes this last chance to memorise her scent and how she feels pressed against him, as he fights to retain control of the shadows that want to swaddle them both and bind them together in one being for all eternity.

He can feel her desperation and grief in the ferocity with which she grips him, her arms are bruisingly tight around his shoulders and he knows that his are just as tight around her. “Be safe”, she whispers fiercely in his ear and his heart tears that little bit more at her anxious “promise me you’ll come back safe, promise me!”  Her mother’s face is far too knowing at his silence. Her sad watchful eyes full of compassion he doesn’t deserve when he bids them farewell, citing his imminent departure, so he can escape before he does something foolish. Like tell Alina he loves her.

It’s not even a lie, not really. Within a few short days he will be leaving for the frontlines. The war is getting worse. Fjerdan and Shu incursions are happening more often and both the First and Second Armies are seeing greater losses. Hope is dwindling across Ravka and there are worrying mutterings in the West of secession. Meanwhile in Os Alta, the King grows ever more corpulent, belligerent and lazy and the position of the Grisha grows increasingly uncertain.

What they need is a miracle. What they have is a tired immortal who is losing patience with the latest in a long line of bad kings and the constant drudgery of a war he cannot win. It is a long, lonely walk back to the Little Palace and with every step he takes his heart feels heavier and the ache in his chest grows just that bit stronger.

For the sake of the war, for his Grisha, he has to let her go.

Even if it breaks his heart.

Notes:

This wasn’t the chapter I sat down to write at the start of the week. Originally Aleksander’s angst was meant to be just a few hundred words and then we’d be off to the start of the series and the whole story would be wrapped up in three chapters. 3000 words later and here we are. I blame Doctor Who and Murry Gold for writing evocative soundtracks, I’ve been re-watching some of the old series and this is what came out (hides behind the sofa). Extra kudos to anyone who got the DW references littered throughout this chapter or spotted the Oscar Wilde reference.

On the plus side this is going to be a longer story than I thought – probably five or six chapters – and it will get better and more cheerful. It is also 100% Darklina! Aleksander just has quite a bit of growing up and character development to do before he gets his HEA. This is the start as I just can’t see control freak Darkling coping well either with Alina growing up or how that will change their relationship.

Next chapter: secrets are revealed, Aleksander's best laid plans get overturned and Baghra is reluctantly forced into relationship coaching.

Chapter 3: Best Laid Plans

Summary:

The best laid plans of mice and men do often go awry.

Notes:

I'm so sorry for the delay, folks, this chapter took a lot longer to write then I thought (hoped) it would. On the plus side it is also a bumper long chapter that covers a lot of ground. I'm still not entirely happy with it, for which I blame Mal, but it was getting to the point of either post or scrap and go back to the drawing board, so here it is.

Hold on to your hats though because things are about to get interesting...

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Time passes, bringing with it first Alina’s 17th then her 18th birthdays. It is the longest time she has been without a visit from her Shadow Man since she was five years old. It has dragged by, marked only by the usual events of the year, the common milestones in growing up and his letters.

It is not that Alina is miserable, or has a poor life, spent pining for the man who went away and has not returned. It isn’t. For the most part Alina is happy. She does well in her exams and finishes with honours, securing a coveted apprenticeship at the same medical clinic her mother works at. While he mixed heritage always sets her apart, she does have some friends, close friends, and she has her beloved mama, who is still after all this time her closest confidant. However happy she is though, she still misses him – her oldest friend, the man she dreams about. The man she associates with safety, with belonging, with something more.

When she is 17, Grigor Zolotov, the baker’s son, asks her to a public dance. She goes and enjoys herself – Grigori is an amusing sort with wide youthful eyes, a ready smile and engaging manners. He takes to walking her to her lessons and meeting her after apprenticeship training. It is sweet, but there is something missing. When he smiles at her, she feels no instinctive need to smile back and her heart remains stubbornly constant and unphased when he stoops to kiss her. The experience is not at all like how she has heard attraction and loved talked about by her older colleagues or her mama, on the rare occasions she talks about papa, and quite different to her dreams.

In the end, Alina gently but firmly sends Griori away. The same happens again with Pyotyr and David. They are nice boys. Sweet boys. The sort of boy any mother would approve of if you brought him home and yet they fail to illicit any reaction in her. There is nothing where she should feel her blood burn. They are pleasant company for a few hours, but when they are gone she does not miss them. Her friends don’t understand. Anya and Katrina are both eager to experience the rush and heady decent into love even if they both protest that they are too young to consider marriage yet. Her mama watches with tired, concerned eyes, but says nothing other than it is better to wait for the right man than to settle for a wrong one.

Baghra just hurrumphs in her usual grumpy way but is otherwise silent on the matter, for which Alina is eternally grateful. She has no desire to hear what the old woman would have to say if she knew about who visited her nightly in her dreams.

Things start changing two months before her 18th birthday. It starts with a persisting malaise, a lethargy so at odds with her usually energetic nature. Then comes a cold she can’t shake, fever and chills keeping her in bed for nearly two weeks before she is strong enough to manage the stairs in their cottage.

As the moon wanes, so to does Alina’s strength and vitality. Her face grows gaunt, her skin unhealthily pale and waxy, even her hair looses its sheen, changing from luxurious ebony to a dull matt black. By the day of her 18th birthday she is unable to continue with the lessons she has so loved and faithfully kept to with Baghra for the last decade.

Her dreams have changes as well. Gone is Aleksander and those vivid dreams that seemed so lifelike  and in their place is listless tossing and turning in a grey void where horrors lurk waiting to pounce.

The change in Alina worries Baghra enough to stir her from her hut for the first time in years. She and Madam Starkov huddle around the fire brewing concoction after concoction to try, but always with the same result.

With each failure Alina’s mother grows more desperate as her mind draws her back to those terrible months when her daughter was five. In whispered fits and starts, Madam Starkov slowly tells Baghra about that dreadful time, the fear and desperation that led them to start out on that fateful journey, and of Alina’s sudden and miraculous recovery. The old woman listens silently, eyes closed in thought, as she ruminates on an idea, a last-ditch effort to save the girl wasting away in front of them.

It is not easy convincing a worried parent to part with their beloved child, even if it for their own good. It is even harder when that is child is desperately ill and the only cure is an implausible leap of faith. Baghra has seen much in her millennia of existence but she has never seen the connection that ties her son to Alina or its like before. If she didn’t know better, she would be inclined to think that the girl was the fabled Sun Summoner, but that was most unlikely, after all Grisha gifts run in families. With an Inferni for a mother and an otkazat’sya for a father it was almost certain that Alina would be like her mother. Besides, if Alina is the long-awaited Sun Summoner, Aleksander would have known, and her son would never have willingly left the treasure he had spent centuries searching for.

It is not easy but eventually Baghra carries the day. Five weeks after her 18th birthday, Alina leaves her home in Os Alta for Kribirsk, accompanied by two of Baghra’s most trusted students.   

 


 

The journey to Kribirsk is more challenging and takes longer than usual due to Alina’s ill health, so it is with great relief to both herself and her companions when she started to feel better as they leave Balakirev. It almost seems that with each mile they cover her strength returns that little bit more. By the time their reach the recruitment tent of the First Army, on the outskirts of Kribirsk, Alina is looking a hundred times better than the sickly girl she was in Os Alta. She still has some way to go before she is completely returned to her previous vitality, but given the usual state of First Army recruits and their desperate need for those trained in medicine, her appearance barely warrants a second glance from the officer noting down her name and details. With a few strikes of a pen and a dismissive wave of the hand, Alina is now a fully signed up member of the Imperial army.

 


 

It takes Alina some time to adapt to life in the First Army. The food is dreadful, for a start, and the accommodations deplorable, but it is the lack of privacy and blatant hostility from her fellow soldiers that takes the most getting used too. And then there are the petty power games. It isn’t that Alina led a particularly sheltered life in Os Alta, but the First Army could be a foreign country for how different the people in it are to the cultured citizens of the capital city.  She is unused to people openly sneering at her for Shu heritage, unused to being treated as either invisible or as if she was only good for one thing, unused to the casual cruelty with which she is treated.  

The first week is the worst, as it always is when settling into a new place. It is like she has a giant target painted on her back inviting people to line up and kick her. Soldiers in the food tent spit in her meals or make her return to the back of the line, sometimes multiple times. There are lewd comments, followed often by handsy boys who think they have some saint’s given right to her person and don’t, or won’t, understand what ‘no’ means. It is lonely and isolating in ways she has never known and it makes her miss the safety of home all the more. If it wasn’t for how much better she feels, she would be tempted, oh so very tempted, to jack it all in and run away.

Things get better once she gets to know her new unit. The Herbalist division is a small but valued part of the Royal Medical Corps. They are the botany experts who know how to make the lifesaving medicines and poultices that the First Army relies on to stitch their soldiers back together and keep fatalities to a minimum. Slowly Alina makes friends and starts to feel at home with her fellows in the Medical Corps. Her letters home become happier and return to their usual liveliness as she regales her mother with stories of army life. In her letters to Aleksander though she makes no mention of her change in address or her new occupation. It would only worry him, and as she doesn’t know exactly where he is at the moment or what he is having to deal with, she is keen to avoid any unnecessary distress such news might cause him. Instead, Alina does as she has for years and encloses them with her regular correspondence with Baghra, who even hundreds of miles away is still setting her homework, to be sent on by his mother with her own letters to Aleksander.

As she becomes comfortable in her new surroundings Alina discovers the steel spine her mother said all the women in her family line possess. She starts arguing with the prejudiced arses in charge of the food line, she refuses to duck her head and look away when she hears slurs and insults aimed at her and the next time a soldier puts his hand on her bottom she punches him so hard it breaks his nose in two places. It gains her a reputation, but it is her encounter with the trackers that cements it and gives her a new nickname.       

Afterwards, Alina is never quite sure how she came to be accepted as an honorary member of the fifth Tracker unit. It certainly wasn’t an auspicious introduction and yet, somehow, out of her telling them off Alina has been adopted by the flirty tracker and his two sidekicks. From that moment on they are a regular presence in her life, albeit a not entirely welcome one.

Malyen – just call me Mal – Oretsev is an outrageous flirt and Alina is never entirely sure whether he is actually interested in her or that he just can’t conceive that he might meet someone who doesn’t fall for the blue eyed boy routine he spends hours a day perfecting and views her as a challenge. Either way, she learns to ignore his innuendo laden comments, suggestive winks and total inability to respect her personal space. The girls in the Medical Corps think she is bonkers for turning down “dreamy Mal”, but she only has to think of how many beds he jumps in and out of on a regular – nightly – basis to know it is the right decision.

It doesn’t stop him, Mikhael or Dubrov from occasionally stepping over the line she has drawn in their interactions, but a firm whack to the back of the head quickly sorts them out and reminds them of the rules. It is Dubrov who first calls her Firecracker, following one such incident which resulted in itching powder being liberally applied to the offending tacker’s uniform, but it quickly catches on and soon they refuse to call her anything else. It is a name that unfortunately sticks and soon that is what everyone calls Alina – she is the Firecracker Herbalist, a tiny woman with a terrifying temper and a wicked sense of retribution.

Between her new reputation and her new friends, life in the army improves and becomes easier. She still misses her home, her mother and Aleksander, of course, but it is no longer a fiercely aching wound. Sometimes, usually after one of his letters arrive, she can’t help but wonder what Aleksander would think of her new nickname and the life she has made here in the First Army. She rather doubts that he would approve.

 


 

He must be mad, that is the only explanation. Or, if not totally mad, then definitely well on the way. How else could Aleksander explain seeing Alina around camp other than by his brain conjuring a facsimile of the girl he still missed. It is fast getting ridiculous. At first it had just been the odd moment, a laugh which sounded familiar or a voice which in passing sounded like hers. Now though his tortured mind it seemed had gone a step further – two nights ago he could swear that he had seen her there outside his tent arguing with his Oprichniki to be allowed to see the Black General, yet when he finally convinced his stupefied feet to move, she was nowhere to be seen.  

His mind is clearly degenerating. Alina is safe and sound in Os Alta, as the monthly letters he receives from her, Madam Starkov and his mother all affirm, progressing with her apprenticeship and pestering Baghra with her insatiable curiosity.  

His mother had told him for years that he was destined for hell. He should write to the old bat and let her know that on this matter at least she was right, and that his damnation had already arrived.

Thankfully, for Aleksander’s piece of mind, it only takes a few weeks for the mystery to be solved – albeit in a way which gives him a whole new problem to worry about.

As with many important events in life it is a total accident. Stressed and sleep deprived from a combination of reports of an unexpected encounter with an elite squadron of Shu soldiers 5 miles into Ravkan territory and the resurgence of those dreams, Aleksander goes for a walk, determined to find somewhere he can brood in peace without Ivan’s apprehensive hovering. Allowing his mind to wander, his feet take him out of the camp and along the banks of the Unsea, where he eventually settles against a convenient tree that commands an uninterrupted view of his unwitting creation. He is far enough away now from Kribirsk that the noise and bustle is just a droning hum in the background – this is the closest he’s had to solitary reflection for months.

He has just got himself comfortably settled for a good long brood – not moping, thank you Genya, Darkling’s don’t mope – when his much-prized solitude is shattered by a familiar happy voice singing. To begin with he thinks this is yet another hallucination, sent by his personal devil to torment him further, and so pays the singer no mind, merely shifting into a more comfortable position and closing his eyes. This proves to be a tactical mistake as less than two minutes later he finds himself knocked sideways by the force of a body colliding with his accompanied by a delighted salutation.

With Alina clearly flesh and blood and babbling in his arms, three things become apparent: firstly, that she really is here and not a shade conjured by his diseased mind. Secondly, that the saints must have a twisted sense of humour, and thirdly, that for Alina to be here either she has just arrived, unexpectedly and without warning, or she has been here for a while and their mother’s (and Alina herself) have conspired to keep him ignorant of this fact. Given the dreadful uniform Alina is wearing, he is willing to bet money on it being the latter.  

Their happy reunion goes down hill spectacularly fast from that point and the ensuing discussion is loud, unpleasant and results in both parties storming off in opposite directions, albeit for different reasons: Alina because she is sorely tempted to throttle the Darkling, and Aleksander because he is having trouble controlling his hormones.

It takes three days and twice as many grovelling notes before Alina agrees to meet him again. It is hard to tell who is more put out by the frequent communiques; Aleksander who has the fun of finding new, and ever more creative, ways to apologise with using the S word, Alina who has displeasure of reading them, or Ivan who has the unmitigated joy of trekking through rows of First Army tents for hours on end trying to find the erstwhile recipient who had decided to maturely deal with his lovelorn boss by hiding in unusual locations.

Their second conversation goes better, aided no doubt by the spectral presence of their mothers, which keeps both parties focused and civil, for the most part at least. Until, that is, Aleksander gets onto the topic of Alina’s unexpected presence in Kribirsk.   

“Your mother sent me here for health reasons,” Alina replies tartly, bristling pre-emptively at the introduction of a subject that is bound to ignite her friend’s more annoying characteristics.

“Health reasons?” Aleksander raises a derogatory eyebrow, “clearly mother has lost her mind. What utter garbage. If you’re unwell you go to a healer or one of those health resorts our revered Tsarina loves so much. No one in their right mind would send someone in ill health to the First Army and actually expect them to get better. The food would prohibit it, for a start, not to mention the lack of hygiene that most otkazat’syas demonstrate.”

Alina crossed her arms moodily, “well it worked. I started feeling better not long before we reached Kribirsk and since we’ve been here I’m completely back to normal: not one cold or sniffle, no more lethargy and not one stupid headache, not in the two months I’ve been in the camp.”

Apart from that one contentious moment, however, it is otherwise a much calmer and more productive meeting than their last one. Aleksander will never support, or be happy about, Alina joining the First Army, but in the face of her evident happiness and visibly good health it is a situation he is forced to reluctantly accept. He might not understand why his mother’s mad plan worked, but the evidence that it has is indisputable, despite his best efforts, and he will not risk Alina’s wellbeing by sending her back to Os Alta until he understands the risks to her.  

 


 

It might be assumed that the knowledge that the girl he has been trying to forget was here in Kribirsk – the very place he strategically retreated too trying to avoid her – would have a life changing effect on the recalcitrant General. Ivan certainly feared that it would be so and spent many long hours with Fedyor worrying over the havoc that the girl’s presence might have on their normally staid and unflappable commander.

He needn’t have worried.

Weeks slowly pass into months without Alina’s presence have much, if any, discernible impact on the status quo. The only change is that the letters between the two now have a much shorter journey time as they no longer have a scenic detour via Os Alta before reaching their intended recipient. This change has the benefit of pleasing the dispatch riders, who no longer have to deal with an anxious Darkling looming up as soon as they arrive in Kribirsk, but it isn’t one that wins universal acclaim and support.  Ivan, in particular, is not in favour of this development as he increasingly finds himself seconded from his usual activities and responsibilities (unwillingly and with a great deal of frowning) to play courier in the dispatch rider’s stead.  

It is a precariously balanced house of cards that Aleksander has built, glued together through a combination of careful avoidance and strategic ignorance. So long as Aleksander can pretend that Alina is still safely miles away from the dangerous stupidity of the otkazat’syas in charge of the First Army, the delicate balance in maintained.

As time passes and nothing happens, he slowly starts to relax his hyper vigilance and complacency sneaks in.

Things come to a head just before Alina’s 19th birthday, and with it the whole house of cards comes crashing down. For Aleksander it is a nightmare made real. There, in the cheap black ink of the First Army, is Alina’s name on a list of the latest blood sacrifice the Tsar has ordered to cross the Fold. He barely glances at the mission parameters – they don’t matter – nothing is worth this price.

The crack of his pen breaking brings Aleksander back from the dark, panic driven path his thoughts had been flying down. In his mind he sees Alina’s lifeless body lying on a volcra torn skiff, or abandoned on a strange field somewhere in West Ravka, just another statistic to the otkazat’syas, but a loss of unimaginable magnitude to her mother… and to him.

Staring at the puddle of ink spreading across his immaculately organised desk, the Darkling picks up a new pen and marshals his thoughts, ruthlessly supressing the incipient panic that threatens to take over. With a stroke of his pen Alina Starkov, Senior Assistant Herbalist, is removed from the mission document. With a pleased smile, Aleksander relaxes back into the welcoming embrace of his chair, relief soothing the perpetual ache in his chest that had been his constant friend the long years since that night.  Alina is safe. He might not be able to send her home, to the safety of Os Alta and the watchful eyes of her mother, but this he can do.

Was it an abuse of his power – definitely.

Should he be interfering with Frist Army decision – certainly not.

Would he do it again – in a heartbeat.

He will always act to keep this precious girl safe from harm. He has no doubt that Alina will be cross with his involvement, but she will come around soon enough, and he is a patient man. He thought of the way her beautiful eyes, always so expressive, will flash with ire when she finds out. He could almost hear her complaints, her cries of how she didn’t want favours and how she should be treated like everyone else. Even as a young child his Alina had had a strong sense of justice and he couldn’t imagine that had changed much in the intervening years. She wouldn’t like this, would no doubt rail against it, but she would accept his decision, just as she always had. He could wait out any tantrum. He could wait for her temper to cool. One day she would understand and be grateful for his intervention.  He was willing to wait for that day, secure in the certainty that this was the right thing to do, that he has her best interests at heart.

There is an old saying that his mother is particularly fond of trotting out – usually accompanied by an unhealthy dose of gleeful gloating - that even the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Why mice would be making plans, or need them, has always confused him, but he takes the point of the aphorism. It is advice he would have done well to heed in this situation but unfortunately, for all concerned, he doesn’t.   

It never crosses his mind that the Alina he remembered had grown into the strong, capable woman he had glimpsed all those years ago standing over her father’s grave. He never thinks that Alina might disagree with his carefully considered plan. It never occurs to him that Alina as an adult might take matters into her own hands and put herself back on that bloody list.

Which is why it is such a shock when two days later he sees her name on the passenger manifest for the skiff due to cross the Fold that afternoon and realises she has done the unthinkable.  

Terror, true terror, is an unfamiliar foe to the Darkling. When you get to his age, most things lose any fear they once held over you: after all, death and time have different meanings to an immortal.

Alina, as ever, is the exception.

Now twice in the space of a week this one girl had caused him to feel that unwelcome sensation of heart stopping, mind paralysing terror – and that wasn’t him succumbing to a bout of melodramatic hyperbole either, whatever his mother might say. The shock is sufficient to warrant Ivan entering his tent unbidden at a run, hands outstretched, and panic etched on his usually impassive face as he searches for the unknown danger that has caused his General’s heart rate to skyrocket.   

It takes 10 – frustratingannoyingwasted – minutes for him to reassure Ivan to the point where he can escape from his tent to search for Alina and beat some sense into her. Even then he has to send the loyal heartrender off on a spurious mission to track down some lost paperwork so that he can conduct his search without a minder.

 

It is only once he starts his search that he realises just how foolish an endeavour it is. The encampment at Kribirsk is huge and while he can find almost any member of the Second Army with little difficulty, the same could not be said for the First. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, rendered more difficult by the need for discretion and secrecy, he is verging on total panic. Time is running out.

It is in this panic driven mindset that Aleksander finally spots his quarry. There she is standing around with a group of young officers, laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she hadn’t turned his world upside down and then given it a shake for good measure.

If he thought it had been difficult before while trying to find her, it was nothing to the torture he feels waiting for her to leave those accursed otkazat’syas. Each minute seems to take an eternity. He could have wept with relief when the group’s commanding officer suddenly appeared and started bellowing instructions. It was almost amusing watching the youths who had previously been so relaxed and jovial snap to attention and start scurrying like rats to obey their Sergeant. Making sure to keep a careful eye on Alina, Aleksander slips through the shadowy paths between the rows of tents in search of the perfect spot to ambush the girl. It takes only a matter of moments for the Black General to find what he is looking for and then to put his plan into action. In the space between one breath and the next Corporal Alina Starkov is no longer visible to any interested eyes that might have been watching.

 

Had Aleksander been less angry he would know that this is not the best way to approach either Alina or her imminent trip across the Fold. Angry people, however, are rarely sensible. Nor are those consumed by a potent mix of panic driven terror. Unfortunately for all concerned, the Darkling is both.

“What do you think you’re doing,” Aleksander hisses furiously as he grabs her shoulders in a crushing grip, giving her a shake with each word, “volunteering for the mission to cross the Fold. What in the name of every damned saint were you thinking?”

The bright smile that had lit up Alina’s face at the site of her abductor dims once his angry tone registers. By the end of his speech a stony expression has taken its place as she growls out “Wha-how did you… that was you? You had my name removed from the mission?”

“Of course, you little fool, and you should be thanking me on bended knees that I did!”

“Thank you? Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get this assignment. The honour of it? I’m being sent-“

“To your death,” Aleksander erupts, his grip tightening on her shoulders. “The Fold is dangerous enough but with everything that is going on in the West this expedition is suicide.”

“You don’t know that,” Alina shakes her head, “this is a great honour. I’m the youngest herbalist to be selected to lead the medical part of an expedition across the Fold.”

“And you think that’s an honour, do you? – that the First Army has grown so desperate that they will send children to their deaths.”

“I’m not a child, Aleksander,” Alina cries in outrage, “it may have escaped your notice but I’m 19 now. The same age as many of the soldiers fighting in both the First and your precious Second Army. If I was an ordinary village girl I’d almost certainly be married by now…”

“And that makes it okay, does it!” he demands desperately, “Alina, please, I’m trying to protect you…”

“Well, no,” Alina quietly agrees, voice so soft he almost misses it, “it’s not right that so many young men and women are dying, but that’s war, Alek, and I won’t shirk my duty just because I’m scared I might die.” She looks at her oldest friend, seeing the poorly disguised panic written across his beloved features, “I know you’re just trying to look after me, but I won’t let you wrap me up in swaddling cloths out of some misguided sense of obligation.”

Alina watches as the Darkling paces up and down between the tents, fists clenching and releasing over and over, before he spins round with a dark glare.

“I could take your name off the list again,” he threatens.

“No point. I’ll just volunteer again.” Alina sighs, already weary of this game.

“I could forbid the Commander of the Skiff to leave with you onboard.”

“I’ll just stowaway on another,” Alina replies, unwillingly amused by the dark scowl on Aleksander’s face that gets blacker with each of her retorts.

“I’ll write your mother, I doubt you’ve told her of this hairbrained scheme,” the Darkling announces suddenly, playing his trump card.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alina pales rapidly at the thought of what her mother would say to that information. “Please, Alek,” she says desperately, “please… just let me go. It’s not worth all this bother, it really isn’t, certainly not to you. This is a First Army issue - I’m little better than an otkazat’sya – and I know how you feel about them. This doesn’t concern you, so just let it go.”

“Of course it concerns me,” Aleksander cries in aguish, looking like he can’t believe what she just said. “You’re not just some otkazat’sya cannon fodder. You’re Alina. My Alina. Of course I care. How can you ask me to stand back and do nothing when those idiots in the First Army are willing to throw your life away and for what? Nothing!”

“Oh, so it’s okay for someone else to die in my stead then, is that what you’re saying?” Alina asks snidely.

“Yes, damn it, if that’s what it takes, then it a price I will gladly pay,” Aleksander replies earnestly, one gloved hand tugging at his hair, disarranging the normally immaculate styling, as the shadows around him grow thicker, darker and more ominous. It is a sight that normally has people bowing and scraping in terror before him.   

Alina, however, is unmoved, patiently waiting out the fit of temper with the experience of one long familiar with it and blithely unconcerned.    

“There’s nothing I can say, is there,” Aleksander reaslises sadly once he has regained control of his shadows.

Alina smiles softly at her old friend, lifting a land to cup his cheek – “’afraid not. This is goodbye – again - at least for the time being, and who knows, maybe I’ll be one of those who get to come back,” she finishes with a bright smile and jovial tone that are both patently false.

“Do I get a farewell hug?” she asks uncertainly, after several long moments of uneasy silence.

There is no conscious thought on his part as Aleksander sweeps his precious girl into a tight embrace, eyes once again glassy with tears he will not let fall. How long they sand there, intertwined in the shadows, he cannot say but eventually the moment is broken as Alina steps back, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with the corner of the hideous First Army uniform she wears.

With a last nod, Alina picks up her forgotten papers and leaves their sanctuary, quickly disappearing among the other grey uniforms milling about the camp. Silently, Aleksander curses first himself, then Alina before moving on to the idiots in charge of the First Army. There is only one thing remaining for him to do now, one option left, one that would be unthinkable if it was for anyone else. It is a decision that should be unthinkable for him to even consider, let alone take. He is discovering, however, that in truth there is very little he is not willing to do or sacrifice if it keeps her safe.

“Oh Alina, my precious girl,” he whispers brokenly, the knowledge of what he is going to do is like lead in his stomach as he watches her leave, “you’re stubbornness will kill us all.”  

 


 

Certainty is a fickle friend. She had been certain she was doing the right thing when she turned Aleksander’s assistance away. Certain when she boarded the sandskiff. Certain as she watched her fellow officers march aboard, her team among them. Certain as the accompanying Grisha took up positions. Certain, even, as the tall imposing figure of the Black General appeared unexpectedly on deck – clearly surprising both First and Second Army officers alike – before informing the Commander of his intention to join them on the trip with a dismissive and vaguely contemptuous “I have business with General Zlatan.”

The certainty is a warm buzz in her stomach, insulating her from the freezing niggle of doubt and the familiar searing gaze that kept sweeping over her. Certainty keeps her warm and calm right up until the moment the skiff starts with a jerk that nearly knocks her off her feet and then realisation hits as the Fold looms larger and larger in front of her.

Gripping the rail tightly, Alina felt the first bubbles of panic start to rise, her thoughts racing in a stream of nonsense babble as the reality of her decision sunk in. It is stupid really, here she is about to cross the Unsea, one of the most dangerous voyages anyone could make and all her brain could focus on was wondering why it was called the Fold.

Something of her anxiety must have showed on her face as Mal turns to her with his signature cocky grin, putting his arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his chest with a jovial “Don’t you worry, Firecracker. You stick with me – I’ll protect you from any pesky volcra that might be hanging around.”

“Thanks,” Alina mutters without much enthusiasm., trying to duck out of the embrace. It isn’t that she doesn’t appreciate the spirit behind the gesture, she does, but there is something inherently annoying about a man just assuming that because she is a woman she needs him to protect her that always provokes her rebellious, cantankerous side.

Had she thought he would welcome her presence, she would have happily gone to stand by Aleksander and allow his thunderous scowl to keep her flirty stalker away. As it is, however, her brooding friend is giving off such strong don’t come near me vibes that there is over a metre of clear space around him as he engages in a one-sided glare-off with the fuzzy edges of the Fold. Given the less than spacious proportions of the skiff and the number of people crammed onto its deck, the circle of space around him and the way officers of both armies are skirting around him, is quite an accomplishment.  With a sigh, Alina resigns herself to her current company and her designated spot uncomfortably squished against the skiff railings.

 


 

For a journey into the Fold it started surprisingly well. They passed the first, then the second and even the third marker volcra free and unmolested until, that is, some idiot gets scared and lights one of the few kerosene lamps.

The attack happens in seconds. High overhead there is an unhuman screech, followed by another and then another and the sound of flapping wings, as the flying monsters appear out of the gloom and start grabbing at the captive victims on the deck of the skiff.  

Ducking down out of the way, Alina crouches half hidden in the shadows of the balustrade, hands covering her ears in a futile attempt to block out the anguished cries of her fellow soldiers and the rapid, explosive sound of rifles being fired in close quarters.  

The attack however is soon a distant second on Alina’s priority list as all her attention, all her focus, is taken up with the smoky darkness enclosing them. Tears start falling down her cheeks unhindered as the maelstrom of emotion hits her. The grief and anguish is overwhelming, suffocating, smothering in its intensity. She has felt this before during those hours she had sat watching the Fold, but those were like embers spat from a fire - short lived and dulled - compared to the raging inferno she feels now that she is entombed within the unnatural darkness.   

The pain, the desolation, the desperation and helpless fury which called it into creation. Alina feels it all, feels it cry and scream and claw at the intruders in its midst. Feels its escalating fury at the incursion as the skiff travels further and further into the heart of the darkness.  It wants them out. It wants them gone. It wants vengeance. It wants…

it wants…

it wants to be heard.

It’s heart breaking. Here in the void tearing Ravka apart is sorrow more than the human heart can bear, calling to her, tugging at something deep inside her. Alina knows this pain, recognises this grief.

Like calls to like and with a cry Alina answers.

The power roars out of her like a tsunami, flooding outwards in roiling waves, blinding in its intensity.  It obliterates the circling volcra, incinerating them in seconds, their screams echoing in her ears.   

Through the golden haze she dispassionately takes in what is happening on the skiff. She watches the panicked First Army Officers firing at the second wave of volcra who have appeared out of the darkness and the flash fire of the Inferni trying to ward them off.  She sees the bloodied bodies littering the deck and the faces of fallen friends. She sees it all, but it is like she is viewing it through a pane of glass, or in a picture, she feels nothing but a vacant interest until, that is, her eyes land on Aleksander. He is in the thick of the fighting, a shadowy beacon at the epicentre of the chaos, shadows lashing out at the attacking volcra. She feels it then, the ominous focus the dark has, the way it is rushing towards him, trying to swallow him whole.

Too late she understands why it is the Black General never ventures into the Fold.

Too late she understands the fear on the faces of those who did know when he boarded the skiff.

Too late she understands why the most powerful Grisha in the world is powerless in this place.

Too late she sees what her certainty has wrought. The sacrifice he willingly, knowingly made.

Because in that one endless second she understands so much more than she did before, than she ought to as a human, she sees and she understands what will happen, what the Fold is trying to do and here - in this moment suspended in time - she makes a stand.

 

‘Take it,’ she screams into the grasping fingers of the Fold, pushing more and more of the thing burning inside her outwards, ‘Take it all!

It cannot have him! It will not! She will not lose her him. She will not allow it.  Confronted by her determination the darkness buckles and gives ground, retreating from her presence as if hurt. The golden dome surrounding her grows, surrounding the skiff in protective light.

No more.

No more death.

The darkness surrounding her will bow to her. It will obey her.

With a sigh Alina gives herself over to the warmth flowing hot through her veins.

 

It could be seconds or minutes or hours since the attack started, since Alina entered this ethereal world, but distantly she becomes aware of a familiar voice calling to her. It is screaming, pleading with her, telling her to let it go, to let the power go before she burns. The naked grief in that voice is almost enough to pull her from her trance, tugging on something, some connection deep in her mind, a need to soothe the distress, to make the caller smile and banish his pain.

It is almost enough -

But how can she let this go when it is her – this is her, her true self, and it is glorious. It is blazing, scorching, scarifying her from the inside out, purifying her. She is the light and the light is her. In this place she sees everything – all that she was, all that she is, all that she could be.

She is flying high on a tidal wave of light, so completely consumed she no longer feels connected to her earthly body. Blood drips unnoticed from her nose as the last threads anchoring her to corporeal form pull tight and threaten to snap.  

A hand grasps her wrist yanking her attention away from the mesmeric ecstasy of the power within her.

It is a familiar touch, a welcome touch, a touch associated with protection, with safety and calm. But it’s wrong. Instead of soothing, instead of calming the raging torrent, it makes it worse. It pulls the power out of her faster and faster until it is too much, too much, too much, and Alina wants to cry at the pain of it.

This is how it ends, with a bang not a whimper, as the light explodes out of Alina in one final, destructive blast, throwing both her and her protector in opposite directions.    

The last thing Alina sees is the top of the skiff flying past her and then she feels the impact as she hits the deck with bruising speed. The Sun is smiling at her, warming her aching body, and Alina knows no more.

Notes:

As ever, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments. They are the inspiration that keeps me writing even after an appallingly stressful week.

Next up, we find out a bit more of what happened on the skiff and we have a different POV, just to shake things up a bit.

Chapter 4: An Interlude for Ivan

Summary:

In which Ivan has a bad day that only gets worse

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Today is a bad day. A very bad day. Arguably the worst in a long line of not good days Ivan had had to live through and it was all because of her. The Girl. The one who has turned his orderly world upside-down, inside out and then spun it round just for good measure.

It all started going down hill three months ago when the General started acting oddly, like he was distracted by something. As the days passed, the General’s distraction increased. For a normally calm and collected man whose self-control was legendary he seemed inexplicably nervous and on edge. And it wasn’t just him who noticed. The Oprichniki guards were concerned about the aberrant behaviour as well, they whispered about similar behaviour several years before when he spent most of the year at the Little Palace, they muttered about odd questions and mood swings, they talked about his strange disappearances into the lower streets of Os Alta.

As the days turned into months, more people started to notice and comment. There were whispers of stress, that the endless war was taking its toll on him, and a burgeoning worry that he might be going mad – like his infamous ancestor. The General took to going for long walks and staring out at the Unsea, sometimes with his guards but most often without them, it seemed to calm him and when he returned he was usually more focussed and looked more like his usual self.

Then one day he came storming back in a towering rage, snapping at anyone who had the misfortune to be in the vicinity. Ominous black shadows rising around him like a vengeful cloak, as he secretes himself in the Command tent with a shouted order not to be disturbed.

Then the letters started. Multiple letters. Entrusted to Ivan by a clearly sleep deprived General who instructs him to find a girl, an Otkazat'sya girl, by the name of Starkov.  It takes hours to find the girl and when he does Ivan is decidedly unimpressed. She is a slight thing. Young, even by First Army standards, with a bold stare and a group of less than inspiring associates she doubtless calls her friends.

What interest the General of the Second Army could have in such a girl is a mystery to Ivan, one that plays on his mind as the number of letters from the General grow in frequency and length without so much as a response from the recipient. The girl herself is belligerent and disinclined to read the first few missives and Ivan thinks she would likely have cast them into the nearby fire if he had not refused to move until she had finished them.

The girl’s attitude does nothing to endear her to Ivan, particularly as after the first letter she takes to hiding in out of the way places, thereby making his job that much harder and far more time consuming.

Finally, after three interminable days – in which Army life appears to have stopped for the General – some sort of resolution is reached. How this came about, Ivan has no idea as he was not invited to that meeting (despite it being his actual job to attend all meetings with the General) and he hopes that life will now return to some semblance of normalcy.

It is not to be. If anything, things now get worse, for Ivan at least. While the General is now calmer – and saner - than he has been in months and Army life is as it usually is, those blasted letters have not stopped and for reasons that he can’t understand the General has decided that Ivan should be granted a starring role in the ensuing drama.

Instead of getting on with his important work, Ivan has somehow ended up playing messenger boy and now spends most of days running endless notes back and forwards between the pair, which has the added joy of meaning that Ivan’s usual paperwork is piling up. At the last measure, the stack of not-yet-got-to-papers was over three feet tall and had annexed the neighbouring desk as an overflow storage area.

It doesn’t help that Fedyor far from commiserating with Ivan instead finds the whole situation hilariously funny and seems to get some perverse satisfaction from speculating about what he claims is a burgeoning romance. Yesterday, Fedyor’s contribution to the ongoing insanity that had become life in Kribirsk, was to ask Ivan if the General sealed the letters with a loving kiss before swanning off, leaving a disgusted Ivan to stare in horror at the latest missive wondering if it was safe to touch or if he should be wearing a pair of those gloves Alkemi’s used when handling toxic substances.

After months of this, Ivan would be forgiven for thinking that at least he had hit rock bottom and his life was unlikely to get any worse.

He is about to be proved wrong.

 


 

Ivan’s bad day started the way most really-not-good-days start – with a lack of caffeine. Someone had misappropriated – stolen – his stash.

You would think that in an army encampment the size of Kribirsk that this would be an easy thing to rectify. Afterall, an army might march on its stomach, but caffeine is what gets it out of bed and facing the right direction.

You would be wrong.

Ivan is no mere supplicant at the caffeine alter. He is a high priest, a devoted acolyte, a connoisseur of the first order. General Kirigan himself signs the requisition orders for Ivan’s preferred blend. Whilst this might seem unusually kind and considerate of the notoriously hard hearted Black General, it is in fact enlightened self-interest. Ivan without caffeine is like the Kirigan without his closely guarded sweet stash, a nightmare of unimaginable proportions that could result in the accidental destruction of a large percentage of Ravka.

The last time Ivan was without his special blend bad things happened. Things that even now, six years later, are still talked about in whispers by First and Second Army officers lest Ivan the Terrible overhear and take umbrage. Since that day, no matter where he is, or what assignment he is on, Ivan always has a ready supply of his heavenly caffeinated nectar.

So it is for good reason that Kirigan allows his loyal Heartrender this one luxury. There are even rules around who can touch the cannister – for Ivan’s sanity and everyone’s protection - which are considered part of the mandatory survival training given to all new recruits.

And now it is missing and worse, it is missing at a crucial point of the day.

Ivan is a man of routine. Army life suits him – in fact, he prefers it to the unregimented chaos of civilian life. He likes knowing where everyone is supposed to be at any time of the day. He likes the regimented discipline and clear chain of command that take the stress out of social contact. He likes the uniforms and that there are no crazy old women with bad tempers and walking sticks lurking in dark corners waiting to give him a whack. He likes the food and living in a tent. He even likes his boss (most of the time anyway). But most of all he likes his routine.   

It came as a surprise to many that Ivan is the morning person of the pair, and not the perpetually cheerful Fedyor, for whom mornings would be more agreeable if they started after noon. He likes the quiet of early morning Kribirsk, the rare tranquillity that comes from being awake when few others are and the peace with which he can watch the sunrise.

His day starts the same way every morning. At 0500 hours he awakes, kicks Fedyor back to his side of the bedroll from where he has inevitably strayed in the night and gets up for morning practice. After honing his skills, terrifying any unfortunate bystanders in the process, he washes and then goes to find Fedyor, who by this time should have stumbled out of bed and be in the middle of arranging the accoutrement for the most sacred of morning rituals – the first pot of tea.

For some reason, that continues to elude him, people are surprised to discover that Ivan is a confirmed tea drinker. As Fedyor had once explained “dark, strong and bitter” basically described Ivan, so it is a great shock to the uninitiated that “Strong, dark and bitter” hates coffee and prefers a light blend of tea with milk and enough honey to make the stirring spoon stand on end. What is agreed upon, however, is that no one should approach Ivan, or attempt a conversation with him, before his first cup of tea.

On this particular morning, Ivan’s day starts like any other with no hint of the disaster it will shortly become. He wakes up at the correct time, enjoys his practice and a spectacular sunrise, and arrives back at his tent expecting to find his usual cup of tea and a bleary eyed Fedyor slurping the disgusting muck he calls coffee in an attempt to wake up.

What he expects to see as he rounds the corner to their area is the camp in its normal tidy state and his tea, if not ready and waiting for him, then only moments away from it.

What Ivan finds, however, is their section of the camp in chaos.

Total chaos.

It looks as though a small, localised tornado has passed through wreaking havoc on everything apart from the kettle, which is shrilly whistling as it hangs in its special frame above the fire. Every storage box, bag or bin has been ransacked with the contents strewn haphazardly across the area. It takes Ivan a few moments to process the astonishing sight before him and several more to realise that yes, this disaster zone is his camp site, that no, there is no tea waiting for him and that yes, that is Fedyor’s voice raised to panicked squeakiness that he can hear over the kettle.

It is only deeply ingrained instinct which supersedes his shock to make Ivan’s suddenly wooden legs stumble from his designated sleeping area to the supply tent several rows away following the raised voices.

It takes only a look at the Heartrender for those congregating in the main supply tent to suddenly remember they have urgent business elsewhere, anywhere else and preferably as far away from this scene as it is possible to be, leaving Ivan with Fedyor and the pale, sweaty face of the store clerk to find out what new madness has manifested in Kribirsk.

In halting words forced out of him by the glower on Fedyor face, the less than helpful clerk explains the problem to a horrified Ivan.

His tea is missing. Someone has stolen his tea. His. Tea.

His.

And now that useless Otkazat’sya clerk has the audacity to tell him in an irascible tone that despite this egregious theft the store will not authorise another allotment until his next ration is due three weeks from now.  

The scream that rips itself from Ivan can be heard at quite a distance, startling those in the vicinity and even summoning the fearsome Black General, still clad in his black velvet dressing gown to check what horror has occurred.

The situation is soon resolved with the General’s presence. Although the identity of the tea-thief remains unknown a new cannister is quickly provided by the hapless clerk who has sensibly dropped his belligerent Otkazat’sya pugnaciousness and instead is now tripping over himself to be helpful. It is a wise decision. While the denizens of the surrounding tents might have been enjoying the unexpected show, the Black General is not, as he quickly and efficiently makes clear.

Even in his dressing gown and slippers with his hair in disarray without its usual pomade, General Kirigan makes for an intimidating sight. A bastion of calm, dominating authority amid a sea of Otkazat’sya stupidity and Ivan has to suppress the pride that swells within him at the glaring disparity between his General and the scum in the First Army.

Best of all, Ivan once again has his tea.

 


 

Despite the appalling start, the next few hours pass by quietly and normally. The reports arrive on time, for once containing no bad news or problems which require the General’s immediate attention. After a light breakfast, Ivan has his usual meeting with the General to brief him on the latest reports before settling down to the next stack of paperwork.

The soothing normalcy and tedium calms Ivan’s jangled nerves better than a bottle of kvas and by 11 o’clock he is almost back to his usual serene state. With a fresh cup of tea, Ivan’s day is improving, which is when it promptly goes downhill.  Between one sip of life giving tea and the next the tranquillity is shattered as the General’s heartrate skyrockets and pounds loudly enough to give Ivan an instant migraine.

The suddenness and unusualness of the change has Ivan hurtling from his desk, past the confused Oprichniki standing guard and through the flaps of the command tent before his conscious mind has had a chance to catchup and suggest a more measured and cautious response to what can only be an attack on the General.

It is with some confusion then when he skids into the tent expecting to see carnage and instead finds it empty except for General Kirigan who appears to be frozen staring a piece of non-descript parchment that probably came with the morning reports.

Such is the state of the General that even when he finally raises his eyes to Ivan and the Oprichniki who followed him inside, he fails to issue his customary reprimand or react in any other way to an intrusion that would normally merit a severe dressing down.

Having ascertained that there is no immediate threat to the General’s existence and wellbeing, Ivan is at a loss as to explain the unusual experience. He is even more confused when in the middle of checking him over the General goes from resembling a living statue to jumping out of his chair before berating Ivan about a set of orders from the Tsar which appear to be missing. It is a baffling change and one made more so when the General insists that Ivan go find them immediately. In a state of bewildered confusion Ivan snaps off a typically smart salute and leaves the tent.

The next 40 minutes are spent haring around the camp trying to track down these lost documents only to discover that not only were they not missing, but that they had never existed in the first place. Why his General sent him on a wild goose chase is a mystery to Ivan.  One which is only solved hours later when he comes across the document responsible for this latest madness and sees her name on the otherwise ordinary and unremarkable skiff passenger list.

It is The Girl. Her. The one who responsible for demoting him to a glorified errand boy. The one who has turned his normally sane and rational General into a blithering, lovelorn fool.

He should have known that she would be behind this latest madness as well.

It is with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Ivan drops the paper on the desk before spinning on his heel and racing out of the tent towards the dry docks.

 


 

The Heartrender arrives at the dock to find the skiff has already departed, on time for once. At first, he breathes a deep sigh of relief as his pounding heart settles back into its usual steady rhythm. She is gone – and good riddance he thinks. The General is probably off somewhere licking his metaphorical wounds and brooding, probably in near that little grove he likes so much to the north of the camp by the bank of the Unsea.  

It is the whispers that alert to him to the terrible truth of the situation and reveals the level of madness that girl has driven his poor General too.

He is on the skiff that has just departed.

The Black General, the most feared– and currently a contender for the most insane – Grisha in Ravka has willingly entered the Fold. A place he has not entered in years because of the horrible consequences that always arise if he does, and he has done it for her. That blasted Girl.

Ivan suppresses an annoyed huff as he watches the smoky blackness of the Fold. It’s too late to do anything about the mess his besotted General has created now. What will be will be, as Fedyor would say. And who knows, maybe the gods will look favourably on this voyage, and they will pass unmolested. Maybe the journey will proceed unhindered and it will give the General an unlooked for opportunity to sort that traitor Zlatan out once and for all. Maybe the gods will be kind.

Maybe, just maybe everything will be okay.

With a snort Ivan looks up at the cloudy sky above him. The probability of those wishful thoughts coming true are about as great as pigs suddenly developing the gift of flight. Even in the incredibly unlikely event that it did happen it would just be a portent that there would soon be shit dropping on everyone from above.

Ivan has just resigned himself to the inevitable mess of dead bodies and paperwork that will shortly be his job to sort out, consoling himself with the cheerful thought that at least this situation can’t get worse, when it does.

Much worse.

Out from the inky blackness of the Fold bursts a beam of light so bright it turns the monstrosity charcoal grey, making Ivan’s eyes water at the intensity.

It doesn’t stop.

One. Two. Three. Four. The light changes direction, washing outwards like waves now rather than a pillar rising from the dark to meet the sky.  One. Two. Three. Four. It pulses like a heartbeat.

One. Two. Three. Four. Ivan can feel it as something washes over him.

One. Two. Three. Four. Something monumental. Something beyond this world. Something that makes him want to cower away even as it calls to him.   

It is one of the little-known facts about Grisha that Heartrender is actually a misnomer. A better and more accurate description would be life-render. It is not the heart a Heartrender senses, but the life force, the heart is merely the most expedient way of taking control.

In that moment Ivan knows two things; firstly, that it looks like the long-awaited Sun-Summoner has been found and secondly, that the Fold is alive. He can feel it now as if a dam has been released. He can feel the rhythmic beating of its life force. He can feel the roiling emotions flowing from it, even if he can’t distinguish between them. He can feel it. Not the volcra hiding within its shadowy walls which have always felt odd to him, slimy and corrupted. He can feel It, the Fold itself.   

One. Two. Three. Four. The Fold is vibrating, pulsing in time to the waves of light, like ripples in a pond.  

Ribbons of pure light are burning through the shadowy fog of the Fold, refracting to create a myriad of multi-coloured rainbows in a dazzling, mesmeric display.

The light show captures the attention of everyone in the vicinity, and Grisha and Otkazat’sya alike cram onto the walls of the dry dock trying to see the spectacle. Beside him, his fellow watchers stare open mouthed at the sight.

One. Two. Three. Four. The waves of light continue. Some start praying, while others drop to their knees, but all around him like a distorted echo Ivan hears one word repeated over and over again.

Sankta.

Sankta.

Sankta.

Just as Ivan thinks the light cannot possibly get any brighter, just as he starts to hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be the end of the Fold, that they might be witnessing its destruction, there is a boom and the light vanishes. The silence that follows is eerie, unnatural.

It is the stillness that follows a tsunami. The nothingness that follows death and destruction. It is an absence that rings in the mind. A void where there should be life.

And Ivan knows something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

 


Above them, unnoticed in the cerulean blue of a now cloudless sky, what should be the feeble autumn sun blazes fiercely, joyously, as its light dances, warming the assembled watchers with its delight.


 

For several painfilled heartbeats nothing happens, and the oppressive stillness remains, silencing any thought or action as the crowd remain trapped in horrified, awe filled confusion. Then at last he sees it.

There on the horizon, emerging out of the Fold is torn and battered skiff.

It is pandemonium as the skiff docks. Chaos reigns as First and Second Army officers alike try to board the skiff at the same time in a disordered, panic driven frenzy.

With the loud crack of a gun firing, the captain of the fourth division restores something approaching order as everyone freezes in place. For the first time in many years Ivan is grateful to an otkazat’sya officer as the distraction enables him to elbow his way through the assembled hoard of loiterers and idiots to the newly secured gangway.

Once aboard Ivan surveys the damage with the practiced ease of one only too familiar with the job. Overall, it is not as bad as first impressions might suggest. The skiff has sustained considerable damage, but thankfully it appears to be mostly cosmetic in nature and nothing that a team of Frabrikators wouldn’t be able to restore within a few days, or week at most.

The extent of the damage to human contingent, however, is less immediately apparent. From the mere fact that Ivan can move around the deck with ease, on what should – would – have been a crowded deck, it is clear that there have been losses. A quick count of the coloured keftas relieves Ivan’s frantic mind that the valuable deck space being used by the wounded has not been bought with the lives of more Grisha. By his count there is only one Inferni absent, which given the number of missing, almost certainly dead, soldiers is quite an achievement.

All in all, it is not a bad result for what could – should - have been a catastrophe. The gods have been unusually kind today, Ivan mused thoughtfully, hope stirring in his stomach that they might have been kinder still and dealt with the menace to his routine that was the girl.

It isn’t that Ivan is a cruel man or even that he is an unkind one who wishes death towards annoying otkazat’syas. Despite a deep-seated dislike of specific individuals, he can, in general, appreciate the roles that the otkazat’sya have in life’s great pageant and treat them if not fondly then with something approaching respect, if you squint. It’s just that Ivan did not join the Second Army to be a glorified messenger boy running love letters around an army encampment, and while it would, of course, be a great tragedy if Miss Starkov was among those missing, it would also make his life a lot easier.

And with every step as he made his way across the deck life was starting to look up.

The only dark spot on an otherwise joyous horizon for the Heartrender was that in addition to not finding evidence of the girl, he also could see no evidence of his General.

Which is a problem.

A big problem.

A potentially disastrous problem.

Before the panic really settles in, however, his eagle eyes spot a black blob partially hidden in the shadow cast by the main mast. In the space of seconds, Ivan has hurled himself across the deck, vaulting over the wounded and prostrate bodies littering the area and dodging around those lucky enough to still be standing, to drop to his knees beside the bundle of dark cloth.

With shaking hands he turns the body over, senses straining trying to pick up one lifeforce among many, as he confirms what he already knows. It is the General.

There is a bloody gash still oozing blood down the side of his ghostly white face, a contrast made starker by the pitch black of his kefta. It is clear from the way Kirigan is lying that there are likely to be more injuries, more serious ones, concealed beneath the fabric. In a hoarse voice, Ivan shouts for a healer, his voice one of many.

It is pure luck that he spots the familiar uniform of a Second Army healer out of the corner of his eye as Olena boards the skiff. With a sharp whistle, Ivan attracts her attention and watches with relief as one of the best healers available in Kribirsk sets to work with her usual calm efficiency as she checks the General over.

The initial results are not good. General Kirigan has several cracked vertebrae, three broken ribs, a severe concussion and a head wound that is still sluggishly bleeding. With careful hands they prepare him for transport, eager to get him back to the relative safety of the command tent where Olena and her assistant can properly care for him and start the healing process.

It is slow going, but eventually the unconscious General is safely ensconced in his makeshift bed in the command tent surrounded by healers and his usual guards who, it must be said, are less than impressed with his unscheduled journey, especially as they hadn’t been invited along.

Ivan has just settled himself at one side of the impromptu operating table, resolute in his determination to protect the General at all costs, when he finds himself unceremoniously kicked out and made to wait outside with the other gawkers and hangers on by Olena, the head healer, and her demonic assistant with the claim that his incessant fretting is distracting them from making sure that the General’s ribs don’t accidentally puncture anything important while they are fixing the broken bones.

With a dark scowl, Ivan reluctantly leaves the healers to their work, settling himself beside Fedyor with a huff to wait for news. There are many reasons for Ivan to take umbrage with such highhanded treatment. For one, he wasn’t fretting. Senior officers within the Second Army do not fret. He is simply, and understandably, concerned with the continued wellbeing of his boss, thank you very much.
Secondly, he is second in command of the Second Army. He outranks everyone in that tent, bar the General, who Ivan is sure would have wished him to stay had he actually been conscious. Thirdly, he is now at a loose end and in danger of experiencing that most dreaded of all things – boredom. Ivan hates boredom. To his mind boredom is the mark of an ill-disciplined mind, but without orders he is at a loss as to what he should be doing.

When he mentions this dilemma, Fedyor as usual has several suggestions, none of which would be practicable or, indeed, appropriate given the seriousness of the situation. Thankfully for all concerned it is only a short twenty minutes later that Ivan is told that the General is awake and asking for him.  

 


 

When Ivan enters the Second Army Command Tent he expects to see a bleary eyed General lying in his bed, perhaps propped up by pillows, as the healers continue to fuss around him. What he does not expect to be greeted by is the inexplicable sight of the General half out of his bed, his hands pushing against the concerned healers who are trying to wrestle him back between the sheets.

It is lunacy. Complete and total lunacy. Even Ivan, who’s understanding of anatomy is geared decidedly towards weaponizing and killing it, knows that it takes longer than the measly time that has passed to fully heal the injuries the General has sustained.

The lunacy of the moment is only increased once Ivan hears the hoarse commands his General is issuing and understands the reason driving him out of his sickbed. It is That Girl. Again.

Not only has the blasted girl survived, against all odds and expectations, she is only the saints forsaken Sun-Summoner. The very last person Ivan would have chosen for such an august and vital role.

15 minutes of continued madness later Ivan is finally dismissed. With a sharp salute, Ivan leaves the tent, the General’s instructions ringing in his ears and Olga the demonic apprentice healer trudging sullenly behind him. With anyone else, the frigid disapproval radiating from the healer would have been off putting. For Ivan, however, it is a comfort. At least one other person is of like mind and appreciates the insanity of trying to make a dash across Ravka, setting off not long before dusk, in the hope that they will be able to get the Sun-Summoner to the safety of the Little Palace before any of their enemies can kill her.  

Stalking across the camp like a particularly angry thunderstorm, Ivan makes a beeline to where Fedyor is loitering, laughing and gossiping with various Second Army officers. His arrival stops the laughter dead in its tracks as he starts barking orders at his partner to assemble an escort squad while he finds out where their errant Sun-Summoner is hiding.

 


It is nearly dark before he finally locates the girl, unconscious in one of the First Army medical tents.  

The surgeon allegedly in charge of her care is less than useful in both his diagnosis and prognosis for her recovery, so it is no surprise to Ivan when Olga elbows her way past him to assess the girl’s state for herself. It is a tense few minutes before Olga sighs and nods her approval that she can be moved. Her injuries are bad, but not life threatening, and the assistant healer is confident she can fix the broken collar bone, bruised ribs and mild concussion while enroute to the Little Palace.   

The original plan had been for the group to ride as it meant they could cut across country, avoiding the main roads, and making the journey as quick as possible. Unfortunately, the girl’s injuries make that plan impossible and so plan B is quickly cobbled together.  

It takes more time than they really have to organise a coach and, in the end, they have to take the General’s personal carriage as there are no others available at such short notice.


 

It has been a terrible, horrible day. The worst in a long run of bad days. It has been a day of never-ending unexpected shite and it just keeps coming, culminating in this moment - Ivan and Fedyor trapped in a coach hurtling at breakneck speed across the Ravkan landscape with a surly healer and a recumbent, semi-comatose Sun Summoner.

Staring morosely out of the window into the forbidding gloom of the Ravkan night Ivan consoles himself that at least his day can’t get any worse.

He’s right… in a way. With less than two hours left in the day even the gods would struggle to organise and put into place yet another twist in the story.

But there is always tomorrow.

Notes:

As ever, thank you to everyone who left comments. I love reading them and they really make my week :).

Sorry for the delay in posting this, real life has been getting in the way of writing recently. I hope you all enjoy this lighter interlude, don't worry we'll be back to the angst next time - poor Aleksander. This was originally meant to be a short chapter (around 1000 words) before we get into more action. As usual, however, its got away from me and turned into a much longer interlude.

Up next: the journey to the Little Palace doesn't really go to plan, Ivan has another bad day, Aleksander disobeys his healers, Alina wakes up and Baghra the reluctant relationship coach makes a reappearance.

Chapter 5: Of Troubled Journeys and Troublesome Truths (part 1)

Summary:

A gossiping healer, who won’t shut up, no tea (again) and a loopy Sun-Summoner with a concussion, just when Ivan thinks his day can’t get any worse the Drüskelle attack.

Notes:

Hi everyone, sorry for the long wait for this chapter. RL has been a really pain recently which has seriously put a dent in my writing time. As if recovering from a concussion wasn't enough medical drama for a year my mum and sister are currently in hospital with separate serious medical problems.

I hope you enjoy this next bit although apologies in advance, I've finally done what I always said I wouldn't and posted a two parter with a cliff hanger *hides behind the sofa*. Part two should be up soon, until then... enjoy :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“-and you’ll never guess what he said then…” Olga exclaims excitedly, oblivious to the blatant disinterest apparent on the face of at least one of her captive audience, as she continues with her gossiping undaunted and happily unaware. After four hours even Fedyor, who is a champion gossip, is starting to flag under the relentless stream of chatter that is emitting from the previously surly healer.

After what had been a promising introduction the previous afternoon - in which Olga had said barely two words and spent the majority of the time scowling at anyone who dared to breathe in her vicinity - Ivan had hoped that he had at long last met a kindred spirit. He was to be disappointed, for as soon as the healer had awoken that morning her mouth had opened and it had seldom been closed since.

Later, an exhausted Ivan would muse to Fedyor that it was if the healer had a solar powered gob – they had set off at dusk in glorious silence, silence which had continued uninterrupted until the sun had crested the horizon, then as soon as there was light to see the babble had started.

It was shaping up to be another not-good-very-bad morning and from the position of the sun through the dusty carriage window Ivan suspected they hadn’t even reached 10 o’clock yet.  

He, Fedyor, the incurably garrulous healer and the newly discovered Sun Summoner had been trapped in this saints forsaken carriage for well over 15 hours by this point with only two brief breaks to relieve themselves and avail themselves of some of the hastily packed food and water. His back hurt from the highly sprung carriage bouncing around on poorly maintained roads, the dust being kicked up was playing havoc with his hay fever and he had pins and needles in his legs from sitting still for so long in too small a space for legs as long as he had been cursed with. Needless to say, Ivan was not happy. In fact, all things considered, Ivan thought it would not be an exaggeration to say he was very not happy.

To make matters worse, Ivan was without his tea. Again. For the second time in as many days.

He had discovered this calamity on the second and most recent stop. Breakfast had been consumed, the facilities (such as they were) used and the horses checked, when Ivan had gone looking for his tea, only to find it missing.

An apologetic Fedyor had bravely gone where the other Grisha feared to tread and broached the topic with his irate partner. In the chaos of the previous afternoon, the bag containing his tea had accidentally been left behind - along with quite a few other essential supplies, but those weren’t uppermost in Ivan’s mind at the moment.  

With a scowl, Ivan had hauled himself back into the death trap that was the General’s favourite carriage, bracing himself for more skeletal trauma, as he morosely considered the probability of his beloved tea being snaffled by some thankless First Army bastard who probably wouldn’t know how to properly prepare it or even have the good sense to enjoy the boon.

The only Brightside to an otherwise awful start to the day was that she was still out cold, slumped against the velvet wall of the carriage in an awkward position Ivan gleefully hoped would give her a painful crick in her neck.

So of course, that’s when the accursed girl woke with a start and a curse that would make a sailor blush.

 


 

Someone had a headache.

No, Scratch that. Someone had the mother, father and grandfather of all headaches. It was as if an irritable and poorly trained percussion group had taken up residence nearby and were diligently practicing a particularly energetic piece on bits of her skull.

Raising one trembling hand and pressing it against her aching forehead, Alina let out a curse she remembered Alek using when he thought she couldn’t hear. The hammering and white-noise inside her head was reaching a crescendo when her stomach decided to make itself known. With the clumsy, vague thinking that comes with this sort of pain it belatedly dawned on her that she was about to be sick. Reacting on instinct long perfected through the inevitable consequences of many nights of First Army drinking games, Alina rolled, intending to lurch over the side of the bed before the contents of her stomach could make a reappearance. Instead with a jolt and sharp shock that forces her eyes open she finds herself on the floor, which appears to be inconveniently and inexplicably moving.

Forcing bleary eyes to focus, Alina sees four – or is that eight – shiny black boots that could only be army issue, before promptly throwing up over at least one of the boots, her head hitting the floor again with a solid thunk as she moans in discomfort. From above she hears a muttered curse as her fellow occupants react to the impressive amount of vomit now liberally coating the floor.

The brief interlude, while disgusting and unpleasant, has at least one positive – for Alina, that is – as she no longer feels sick and her thinking is slightly less fuzzy than before.

Firm hands pull her off the floor and get her back onto a seat in what she now recognises as a particularly expensive and luxurious carriage. While under normal circumstances Alina would object – vociferously – to such manhandling, on this occasion she is rather thankful as her legs seem temporarily disinclined to work. With an attempt at a grateful smile that she suspects is rather more a grimace than anything else, Alina settles herself more comfortably in the sumptuous cushions, using the opportunity to gaze around the interior of her prison? And the faces of her three would be kidnappers, unsure as to whether to be relieved or not that one of them appears to be Aleksander’s postman.

“Err, not to sound rude, but where are we, why have I been kidnapped by a postal worker, who are you two and what am I doing here?” Alina blurts out, still dazed from her unexpected fall and the bongo drums beating out an enthusiastic dance on bits of her brain.

“And why am I wearing a kefta?” she adds after four failed attempts at finding the handkerchief she always keeps in her left pocket alerts her to the unexpected wardrobe change.

“What do you remember?” the smiling Grisha in Heartrender red asks, voice and eyes kind as they meet Alina’s.

A frown pulls at Alina’s mouth as images flash across her mind’s eye, too fast and chaotic for her fuzzy brain to understand.

Flame red flashes. The cries of injured soldiers. Shouts in the dark. Wind rushing as dark shapes swoop down, the snick of clenching claws and angry shrieks. Sorrow and pain. Anger. So much Anger. ScreamingScreamingScreaming. Grief more than the human heart can bear, calling to her, tearing through her.   

“Screaming,” Alina says at last with a frown, fingers massaging and pushing at the escalating pain in her temples.

The smiling Heartrender lets out a chuckle that nearly covers the sour looking messenger boy harrumph in displeasure. “A perfectly understandable reaction to a volcra attack. I would scream too.” He says kindly, evidently trying to put the confused girl at ease.

“No… no, that’s not right. Not me. Someone… something else,” Alina murmurs, her fingers now pressing so hard against her forehead that they leave red marks. “Something. I can’t… why can’t I…” With a sigh, Alina gives up trying to remember and instead looks around the carriage. “That still doesn’t explain why I’m here though or who you lot are,” she points out distractedly as she spots a luminous yellow blob dancing above grumpy’s head.

“You’re the Sun Summoner!” Olga blurts out, after Fedyor has finished with the introductions, apparently unable to stay silent a moment longer despite the withering glare Ivan has fixed on her. “After the attack the skiff the General insisted you be taken to the Little Palace immediately to start your training to destroy the Fold. He handpicked us especially to be your escort.  Wouldn’t even let us properly heal him until the arrangements were made. It was soooo dramatic! Just wait, no one is going to believe me when I –“

“What do you mean, Sun-Summoner?” Alina interrupts, shock making her uncharacteristically rude. “I’m not a Sun-Summoner, don’t be daft.” She shakes her head causing more dark strands to pull free of the regulation bun she wound her hair in just prior to boarding the skiff. The motion is foolish one, as she quickly realises when the pounding in her head ratchets up a notch and her stomach makes itself known again, but one she can’t seem to stop as if the act alone can make the words untrue.

Whatever sanity Alina had hoped to cling to with her denial is quickly and efficiently dispelled under the onslaught of excited, almost fanatical babble from the newly introduced Olga. The Healer is in her element as she raves about the power Alina allegedly has and what she means to Grisha, the great destiny before her and what she will do.

It is insanity. Madness.   

“I mean, look at me,” Alina cries overwhelmed, the hysteria creeping into her voice making it go high and shrill after her new acolyte has finished swearing herself into Alina’s service in this life and the next, “I’m just a Herbalist in the First Army, I’m not… I’m not… I can’t be… there has to be some mistake. This. Has. To. Be. A. Mistake!

Panic claws at her throat, her thundering heart makes it hard to speak, hard to think, hard to even breathe. In the space of seconds her world has shrunk, condensed within her to the point where all her mind can focus on is the fear rapidly escalating inside her and the desperate denial she clings to – this isn’t - can’t - be happing. Not now, not to her. She isn’t a mythical hero or one of the fabled saints so revered in Ravkan culture. She’s Alina Starkov. She’s barely even Grisha. She’s not a – the – Sun Summoner.

From far away Aleksander’s voice floats through the chaos that is her mind telling her to breathe, telling her to control the panic and not to let it control her. But it’s too late, it has her tightly in its grip and she can’t breathe. Her lungs are frozen, pinned beneath an ever-constricting band as darkness dances at the edge of her vision.  She needs the world to stop, for the woman beside her to stop her fervent flow of words. Nothing makes sense in this strange new world she had awoken in. Nothing. She needs her mama, she needs to wake up from this nightmare, she needs Aleksander.

Just when she fears her heart is going to explode from the pressure of everything it slows, her lung gasping back air as the band suddenly relaxes. Alina’s last thought as unconsciousness greets her like an old friend is to think that they’re doomed if the fate of the world depends on her.

 


 

“Was that really necessary?” Fedyor asks as he rearranges the slumped slumbering figure into a more comfortable position.

“She was hyperventilating,” Ivan replies, calmly adjusting his rumpled kefta.

“Yes, but both of them?” Fedyor demands crossly.

Ivan looks at the two sleeping girls on opposite bench, lips twitching in what for anyone else would be termed a smile and raises a sardonic eyebrow, “oops.”  

 


 

Heart-sleep is a difficult and tricky skill to master. It requires the Heartrender to constantly control the rhythms of that person’s heart in order to keep them in an artificial sleep. Even a slight lapse in concentration could result in the target waking up… or the Heartrender accidentally killing them. While to Ivan’s mind it would be no great loss to the universe in this particular situation, the paperwork would be a nightmare and that’s before factoring in the General’s probable reaction. A trek through the Fjerdan tundra, naked, without tea and carrying an irate Baghra, would be more enjoyable.   

Ivan is a talented Heartrender, but even the best would struggle to keep two hearts forcibly asleep during an ambush, which is why only a few hours blessed silence later he reluctantly allows both Sun-Summoner and Healer to wake up as they enter the thick forest between the Petrazoi mountains and Balakirev.  This is the most dangerous part of the journey as they come perilously close to the Fjerdan border. Wolves, bears, treacherous weather conditions and the Drüskelle are all things they have to look forward to as they take the less known roads on their desperate flight to the Capital. Only the direst need for secrecy has sent this them this way and not along the Vy as normal. The route selected is a gamble and a desperate one at that - a forlorn hope that their enemies will assume they will use the Vy to whisk their new Sankta back to the safety of the Little Palace, acting as a distraction and so letting the convoy move unseen and unmolested cross country.

The ride is silent now, even the unstoppable Olga is quiet, staring pensively out into the heavy gloom of the forest.

Far from being restful, the silence now is oppressive and ominous, the clip-clops of the horses hooves the only sound echoing in the stillness. Beside him Fedyor is tense, his habitual smile missing as his brow furrows in concentration, ears and mind straining to sense any enemy that might be lurking nearby.  

 


 

Despite being prepared for – and expecting – an attack, the assault, when it finally happens, still takes them all by surprise.

It starts with a shiver running down Ivan’s spine as he hears the outriders shout about a tree in the road. There is no doubt in his mind that this is staged, but even he is taken aback by the sheer number of Drüskelle and the effectiveness of the ambush. While normally a complement of highly trained Grisha and Oprichniki would have no trouble eradicating a raiding party, they are hampered by the thick undergrowth in the wood and the presence of strategically hidden sharp shooters.  

With a firm glare he tells the girl to stay in the bullet proof carriage where she will be safe, while he, Fedyor and Olga hop out to help their comrades.

Within seconds their team of 16 is already down four officers, three certainly dead and one who probably wishes he was given the moans of pain and garbled calls for his mother. Bullets whiz past with dizzying speed, and then the smoke bombs arrive, choking them even as the Squallers try to diffuse the toxic air. It is chaotic and terrifying. Such is the speed of the assault that Ivan and the other Heartrenders cannot even be sure how many attackers there are let alone locate their hiding places.

Far from taking control of the battle, Ivan finds himself and his fellow Grisha being pushed back as they attempt to defend their position. Eventually they take cover in a small gully, large oak trees providing much needed cover from the terrifying accuracy of the sharpshooters, and regroup. They are down to 11 now. It would be folly to continue trying to push ahead in such conditions and their greatest hope of survival lies in changing from their usual tactics of confront and pursue to more guerrilla strategies.    

It works. The Fjerdans start to leave their cover and converge on the ditch. With the precision and ease of experience Ivan and Fedyor drop two of the Drüskelle as they attempt to flank the huddle of Grisha while one of the Inferni lights another on fire. With each Drüskelle killed, his unit gain ground and confidence.

It feels as if the battle is finally turning in their favour when shouts of “The girl! The girl!” make him look around, Through the orange smoky haze, Ivan can just make out Alina’s slight figure darting through the trees. Annoyance flashes through him at the evidence that the girl can’t even obey a simple instruction given to keep her safe when he realises the trap he and his fellow Grisha have unwittingly fallen into.

Fools.

The lot of them.

They thought they were ones laying the trap for the Drüskelle, but they weren’t. Because this was the Fjerdan’s plan all along and they had walked right into it.

They had left the carriage – and by extension the girl - unprotected.

With rising horror, Ivan realises the girl had good reason for her flight – the General’s carriage is burning, flames licking up the sides and along the roof line. This creates another problem though - does he take off after the Sun-Summoner and hope that he can protect her, or does he stay here with his fellow Grisha, and try to kill their ambushers in the hope that it will buy her time to get to safety.

Thankfully, before he is forced to decide, the decision is made for him as a familiar black horse thunders through, shadows racing behind in its wake.

 


 

Hidden in dark interior of the carriage Alina crouched in the footwell, arms over her head, covering her ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds of battle as they raged around her. While normally she would baulk at an unknown officer in the Second Army bossing her around, on this occasion she is more than happy to abide by the Heartrender’s hastily barked instruction. She has no intention of moving and is quite happy where she is, thank you very much. Even with her legs going painfully numb she stays in place, back to the door, trying to make herself as small and as unnoticeable as possible in the hope that whoever the other side are they won’t see her if they look into the carriage.

It is terrifying. Around her there are the sounds of bullets, of men dying. It tugs on a half-formed memory, soldiers screaming-crying-dying in a thick dark fog, bright light, ecstasy and fear intermingled, that is lurking at the edges of her mind, not yet ready to be remembered in full. With shuddering breaths, Alina buries her head further into her knees, desperately willing the last few hours to be nothing more than an horrendous nightmare, for what else could this be? The last time she was conscious she was nothing more than a medic in the First Army – she was no one special, no one important – and now she’s been labelled as some sort of mythical Sun-Saint, kidnapped by Aleksander’s Second Army and is very much afraid that this skirmish occurring outside is because of her. That she is the reason why Grisha are dying out there.

If this is what comes of having power then she wants no part of it.

 

Alina would be the first to say that she is far from perfect. Her mother has called her stubborn on more than one occasion, she takes tidiness from a virtue to a vice with the level of order she prefers in her home environs and the only way she could carry a tune is if one is handed to her gift wrapped in a drop proof bucket. If asked, however, Aleksander would say her greatest flaw is her total inability to multi-task while thinking. More than once he has lamented Alina’s lemming like lack of situational awareness, even to imminent danger, while puzzling over something. Growing up he frequently had to caution his young charge as to the dangerous ramifications that could arise from her casual disregard while thinking to what was going on around her. His concern was prophetic.  

Alina is so deep in thought that she fails to hear the sound of heavy footsteps outside the carriage or the squeak as the door handle turns. The first she is aware of the new danger is when the door which had been providing her back much needed support is suddenly yanked away causing her to overbalance and topple backwards with an alarming lurch.

It is pure luck that she lands on her attacker, winding him, as she knocks him to the dirty floor of the forest. The few seconds it takes to orient herself though are costly as the man grabs her, pulling her onto her feet with bruising strength, before hitting her painfully in the stomach with enough force it would have sent her to her knees if not for the tight grip he has on her arm. In the damp light she sees him reach for a silvery knife tucked into the thick belt around his waist.    

Luck, however, is on her side as a moment later a flaming arrow shoots past narrowly missing her assailant’s head before embedding itself in the plush interior of the sumptuous carriage, flames rapidly racing along the fine velvet. Bullet proof that carriage may well be, but it is evidently not fire retardant. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction caused by his near-death experience, Alina pulls herself out of the man’s grip and sprints into the forest, one arm wrapped around her aching ribs, hoping her luck holds and she can lose him in the undergrowth.

It is not to be.

Racing through the trees, ducking under branches, Alina runs on, some instinct driving her towards the light she can see flickering through the tree line. Just as she breaks through into the clearing something hits her back sending her flying towards the ground with tremendous force. Alina cries in pain as the rough landing jostles her bruised ribs and aching head. Dazed from shock she rolls over, desperately trying to catch her breath only to shout in surprised horror as her pursuer grabs her ankle and starts to drag her along the ground, stones and twigs catching and tearing at her now grubby kefta.

She kicks and thrashes as she is pulled further out into the too-bright sunlight, but it is to no avail. This man, different to the other one, has a good tight grip on her and with her ribs aching fiercely she cannot get enough purchase to escape. It is with horrifying, terrifying clarity that Alina realises she is about to die; that this is her end, in the middle of nowhere, afraid and alone – so alone – and for a reason she still doesn’t understand.

High in the sky the sun is shining, warming her face. For a moment to Alina’s dazed mind it almost looks like it burns brighter, just for second, in what could almost be a greeting and Alina smiles back, a sense of peace spreading through her.

The precious tranquillity is broken as the sun is suddenly blocked by the towering figure of the scruffy foreigner as he drops her legs only to straddle her waist before ploughing a gloved fist into her temple, making her ears ring and her body feel dull and useless.

This close she can smell his fetid breath and see the crooked, yellow teeth hiding behind the unkempt beard as he drawls something that is evidently an insult. With her ears still ringing and mind only hanging onto consciousness by a thread she has no idea what he said, or even what language it is, she knows only that he means to kill her.  

From the dim and distant past long buried and half-forgotten memories flash across her mind of another time, of blood spreading across the ground of another glade, of tears and terror, of screams and bodies lying where they fell, of another bearded filthy man leering down at her, his yellow teeth showing in a predatory smile. Lost in the memory, Alina acts on instinct, squirming and bucking as she tries to throw her assailant off. It is to no avail - he is so much bigger and stronger than she is – all she achieves is him dropping his axe to wrap a hand around her throat, squeezing so hard black spots dance across her vision.

She feels the change before she sees him. The air grows heavy and shivers run along her nerves as shadows race over the grass. The twinkling light in the glade grows dim and the birds are suddenly quiet.

It is the silence before the storm, the pause before the next wave crashes and, as her attacker looks up startled, she knows she is safe.

Notes:

As ever, thank you so much for all your comments. I'm blown away by the reception this fic has received and it has meant so much given everything going on in RL. Its comments like these that keep me writing (poor Ivan) :).

Next up: Of Troubled Journeys and Troublesome Truths (part 2) in which Aleksander pulls off a great escape, saves the girl and has an awkward conversation with Baghra, the reluctant relationship coach.

Chapter 6: Of Troubled Journeys and Troublesome Truths (part 2)

Summary:

In which Aleksander finally wakes up and jumps headfirst out of the frying pan and into the fire

Notes:

Hi folks, sorry for yet another wait in getting this chapter out but it is an extra long chapter :), which was also an absolute pain to write. As ever I'm bowled over by the reviews, which totally make my day.

The good news is that the story is (finally) moving along now and Baghra is back (yay!). The not so good news is that you might want a tissue handy for the end of the chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The first time Aleksander woke it was brief – barely a few seconds – just enough time for him to see a fuzzy figure leaning over his prone form before blissful darkness embraced him again.

The second time it was to darkness and a meagre flickering light from a guttering candle. Pushing himself upright on the makeshift bed, he took stock. His body ached fiercely where he could still feel his wounds healing and bones knitting themselves back together. His head ached as well, although at least it no longer hurt to think and his vision was only faintly fuzzy now.

It was only when he tried to stand that he realised he might not be as recovered as he’d hoped. Even Grisha healing had its limitations after all. With a strangled yelp, the feared commander of the Second Army found himself once again prone on the floor, this time with the added indignity of the bedclothes wrapped tightly around his legs, severely hampering his freedom to move and extricate himself from the situation.

A clatter outside and a stamped of boots on the hard compacted earth announced the arrival of his rescue party. With various shouts of Moi Soverenyi, which made the pounding in his head much worse, Aleksander felt himself manoeuvred back into bed in short order, the cursed bed clothes once again wrapped around him like a bizarre attempt at mummification. Sill slightly winded from his unexpected detour, it took several seconds for the General to get his bearings enough to start objecting to this treatment, by which time it was too late. The healer had arrived. Mid sentence Aleksander once again felt himself unceremoniously, and rather unwillingly, returned to Morpheus’s arms.  

The next time his eyes opened weak pre-dawn light was filtering into the tent and his stomach was making itself known. With bleary eyes, Aleksander sat up, the memory of phantom pain prompting him to run careful hands over his ribs and head. Mostly healed, thank the saints. Only his ribs twinged slightly as he extricated himself from the tightly wrapped swaddling, but his head was clear and with it the events of the day before returned, demanding attention.

The Sun Summoner had been found at long last. His half a millennia of waiting was finally over. His Alina was the Sun Summoner.

His Alina.

Crap, shit and bugger it all to hell!

With mounting panic his thoughts whirled.

In the pain driven panic of yesterday it had seemed like the best decision to send her off to the safety of the Little Palace. In the cold light of day, however, he could clearly see the flaws in his oh so brilliant plan. He had sent her away, away from him, away from the safety he could provide and into the wilds of Ravka with limited protection in a race she was certain to lose. Anyone from here to the Petrazoi mountains could have seen the light show and anyone with two brain cells would know what it meant.

Sun Summoner.

He had sent her into a trap. Everyone from the Fjerdans and Shu to greedy nobles and religious nutcases would want her, would strive to find and claim her and her power for themselves.  

And he had sent her away, unknowing of her condition. Was she hurt? Injured? His last memory was of them flying in opposite directions. Had she been injured, rendered unconscious, like him? Did she even know that she was Sun Summoner or was this another mistake for which he would have to atone. He could just imagine it – Ivan explaining her new status to a confused and disbelieving Alina and the ensuing argument that would inevitably result. He might lo-adore Alina, but he was not blind to her faults, and that girl could out stubborn a mule. Add in Ivan’s less than tactful or empathetic nature and the result was combustible.    

With a shudder, the Darkling stood, taking care to fold the blankets neatly and place them on the makeshift bed before moving to the chair holding his clothes and starting to dress, his shadows roiling restlessly around him. One day Alina would be a force of nature - the sort who could cause whole armies to turn and run away - as he did. But this was not that day. Today his precious girl was out there vulnerable and probably very confused. The room darkened as his shadows reacted to his fear. He needed to get to her now.

He had just shrugged into his kefta and was in the process of lacing his boots when the healer arrived. Not for the first time since he made the decision did Aleksander bitterly regret leaving Garin to a well earned rest at the Little Palace and instead allowed another to assume the position of head healer in Kribirsk. Garin knew his General well, well enough to know when he could enforce something and when he needed to get out of the General’s way.

Olena was young. Talented, very talented, but so young. At 26 she was a seasoned officer and had already served in the Second Army for almost eight years. This, however, was her first command post and her first time healing the revered and mysterious Darkling, and unfortunately it showed. Where Garin would have known to back off, to work with or around his General, Olena was stubbornly committed to process and by-the-book, which in this case meant enforced bedrest and restricted duties for several days, not a desperate gallop across Ravka. For someone like Aleksander such an approach was maddening at the best of times – and now most certainly did not fall into that category. Time was of the essence.

With every minute that passed the danger towards Alina increased; with every new delay the knot in his chest grew tighter and his patience grew thinner. Garin would have known to back off before the resultant explosion, unfortunately for Olena she did not. With shadows licking around him like furious inky flames Aleksander snarled, his impatient, desperate fury sending his attendants scattering and skittering away from him, as he summarily dismissed the healer and barked out instructions at the waiting Oprichniki.

With the dispassionate ease of many years of command he watched as one set off at a run for the stable to bring his horse while another disappeared into the supply tent to fill his saddle bags with provisions. He would need to travel light if he wanted to catch up with the convoy, but it would be folly to set off in pursuit without basic field rations and medical supplies, especially if what he feared came to pass and they were attacked.

Foot tapping impatiently as he awaited their return Aleksander crossed his arms, the cloying need to be with Alina decimating his usually patient nature, making him jittery and anxious. He needed to be on the road, he needed to be with her, and he needed it NOW. He was conscious of every slow sluggish second that ticked past, every painful heartbeat that took her farther away from him and his protection.

It was in this maelstrom of emotion that Zoya found him. With worried eyes and the deliberate touch of a lover she ran her hand down his arm, demanding to know if he was alright, if he was healed, and railing against the healer and guards who had kept her from his side since last night.

Zoya’s presence was an irritant, an inconvenience, and one which he barely had the time or patience to deal with. To make it worse, his skin crawled and itched, a faint burning sensation spread down his arm following the path of her hand. In surprise he stepped back to put more distance between them. Had he looked then he would have seen the flash of hurt that crossed her face, a bright pain that flared brighter still as he deliberately turned his back to her with casual coldness to hide his discomfort at the strange sensation his once lover had engendered. Had he looked he looked he would have known, would have recognised the look on Zoya’s face, would have realised the problem heading his way, but he didn’t.

With practiced discipline Aleksander reined in his chaotic thoughts. He needed to think, to plan, not have his reactions controlled by emotion. The situation was precarious, dangerous. The game had changed and with it all the rules that had kept the shaky peace between Grisha and Otkazat’syas had flown out of the window. One false step and this house of cards would come tumbling down around him. For decades beyond memory Grisha had been feared, hunted and slaughtered for their gifts. It was only since the creation of the Fold that they had gained the limited acceptance they currently enjoyed. The discovery of Sun Summoner changed everything. She was at once the greatest boon and the greatest threat to the tentative safety he had carved out for the Grisha in Ravka and he had no idea whether the Sun Summoner being Alina would make matters better or worse.

Over the centuries he had planned meticulously for the emergence of the Sun Summoner, how to teach them, how to mould them, how to woo them and win their loyalty so that they would be his. He had plotted out the stories he would tell, the half truths he would use, the careful seductive dance which would pull the Sun Summoner ever closer to him, tangling them in his web until they had no desire or will to escape. Those plans were now in tatters, torn to shreds by a young girl with mirth filled eyes, a girl who owned him body and soul. Oh, if only his mother could see him now, how she would laugh at his hubris. What he needed now was to re-plan, regroup, to adapt, but first he had to find Alina and he had only a vague idea where to start.  

Deep in thought he was peripherally aware of Zoya’s continued presence behind him, her stream of meaningless chatter fading into white noise as he sought order in the chaos that was this situation. Staring thoughtfully at the map before him, Aleksander realised with a sinking feeling that more Grisha would be needed, both to assist Alina’s escort and provide back-up if necessary but also to protect the Little Palace. Alina presence there would be like a flame, it would draw every insect for hundreds of miles and some of them would have stings.   

Waiting for a team now would create an unacceptable, and potentially devastating, delay, but in this Zoya might be of some use. Not even bothering to face her, he gave the girl her orders, his voice cool and detached, as he pulled on his riding gloves. Without waiting for her response, he turned and walked through the tent flaps.

 


 

With the knot in his stomach growing to painful proportions, Aleksander was unsure whether to be pleased or not to see his favourite mount coming towards him led by his personal groom. The tall black Trakehner was an elegant and imposing creature, one of the fastest horses in the stable with stamina to spare and wonderfully loyal. Like many of his breed, he was a handsome horse, tall and proud. In addition to these wonderful traits he also possessed, however, a few others less virtuous ones - not the least was a sometimes truculent temperament, obduracy in spades and a nasty hind kick if he felt annoyed or slighted.

He also only responded to the name ‘Beauty’. This hadn't always been the case. As with many of the unexpected things in Aleksander’s life the root cause was Alina.

The horse had originally had been called Achilles; a suitably impressive name, as befitted the mount of the infamous Darkling until, that is, Aleksander introduced his horse to an awe-struck Alina. She had always loved horses and had spent weeks pleading with him and pestering him to bring his newest equine acquisition to visit and, unable to deny his little Alina for long, the Black General had promptly caved. The next time he visited the Starkov’s it was not on foot as was normal but with his new horse. Thirteen-year-old Alina had been immediately besotted and had promptly christened the horse Beauty. Unfortunately, the name stuck and now the bloody beast wouldn’t answer to anything else despite, or more likely, because of the embarrassment it caused.

With time very much against them, Beauty had - theoretically at least - been a good choice for the mission despite some of his less-than-ideal traits. It was merely off putting to the lauded General of the Second Army that he would be mounting his rescue on a horse with such an embarrassing name and one he knew would make him use it repeatedly, and most likely at the most embarrassing moment, just from sheer devilment. But he knew if there was any creature alive who could speed him to Alina’s side it would be this one, Beauty adored the girl and was like a bloody homing pigeon whenever he was within thirty leagues of her.     

With a nod to the groom, Aleksander swung into the saddle, before taking the reins and spurring him into a quick trot.

 


 

The hours passed by in a headlong rush across the Ravkan countryside marked only by the changing position of the sun and the sound of pounding hoof beats on the dry earth. It had been a gamble turning away from the Vy to instead gallop across fields but he knew Ivan, knew that his second would not want to risk the open expanse of the main road, even if it would make for a quicker journey. So across the fields, through woods and dells he rode, stopping only when necessary for Beauty to have a drink before setting off once more. By midday he was fast approaching the thick forests that stretched between the Petrazoi mountains and Balakirev and the anxiety was so thick it was almost choking him.

The journey was going well, too well in hindsight. Apart from a few farmers and peasants going about their business, Aleksander had seen no one - and no one at all, once he entered the forest. Where were the Drüskelle patrols? This close to the border they were so common you could usually throw a stone and hit one, particularly once you were on the woodland roads.  

Something was wrong, he knew it. Knew it in his bones, in his heart, his soul - Alina was in trouble. Through the thick upper canopy of leaves along the forest road the sun light blazed, creating patches of dappled illumination across the path. The throbbing knot in his chest was stretched taught like a bow string pushing him onwards, pushing him to find her.

Moments later gunshots sounded, quickly followed by screams, echoing through the trees and turning his blood cold in terror. With a kick to his sides, Beauty’s already fast pace increased from a gallop into a full out run, as they hurtled through the forest heedless of anything else but the need to get to Alina. In what felt like hours but was probably only a matter of minutes they came upon the fight. Aleksander barely paused to take in the carnage as he tore along the road, scattering Drüskelle and Grisha alike, passing the smouldering remains of a carriage that looked suspiciously like to his favourite travelling coach, as he followed the invisible thread urging him relentlessly on.

 


 

He sees them as they dash from the forest into a clearing, the sunlight momentarily dazzling his eyes. Time slows as his eyes fix on the sight before him, of the man on top of a struggling figure in a red kefta. At this distance it's too far to make out the Grisha’s identity, but he knows anyway - it's Alina. Before his mind has even consciously understood the situation his shadows have reacted, rising around him like a vengeful cloak they race before him dulling glare of the sun as they head for Alina.

With practiced ease he slides from Beauty’s back, his hands already forming the cut, it has never been easier to create the complicated form. The Drüskelle barely has time to turn, axe raised, before his end is upon him.

With a cold dispassionate gaze he watched the spray of blood as her attacker’s body is bisected but it does nothing to satisfy the cold rage that sings within him, the urge to rain down fire and destruction upon those who thought to take her from him. It's Beauty’s worried nicker as he nudges the crumbled figure that wakes him from the blood rage and sends him running across the glade to the unmoving body on the ground.

This close he can clearly make out Alina’s beloved face, but she’s too still, not even her chest seems to be rising and for one long horrifying moment Aleksander fears the worst, that he is too late. Desperation drove him to his knees as he checked his precious girl with shaking fingers, his grief filled eyes taking stock of the injuries marring her features. Relief rocks through him like a tsunami as his fingers find a pulse in her neck but it's only a brief reprieve; she's been hurt, badly hurt by the brute who attacked her and these are just the visible injuries, who knows what might lie beneath the kefta.

Voice shaking slightly he bellows for a healer.      

The stampede of booted feet beating against the earth announced the appearance of Ivan, Fedyor and Olga.

Through the thick fog Alina hears Aleksander’s voice, hoarse with panic, as he demands to know what's wrong with her. It's a question Alina herself would like an answer too. It's like she is a captive in her own body, she's vaguely aware of what's going on around her, of who is there, but other than that she is a prisoner – a watcher rather than a participant in her own life.

Gentle hands settle on her body, soothing coolness spreading from where they sit, numbing her aches and pains.

Vaguely, Alina feels her body picked up. Quiet cursing and fuzzy discomfort as unfamiliar hands struggle to settle her uncooperative body across what can only be a horse, her head falling forwards like a puppet whose strings have been cut. A familiar scent surrounds her, soothing her, as warm arms wrap around her drawing her back to rest against a firm chest.

Around her there is a gentle burble as her rescuers talk, but her tired mind no longer has the strength or desire to even try to follow what is being said. She's safe and, for the first time since she awoke in that dratted carriage, she feels it deep within her bones.  With a jolt the horse carrying her starts trotting, drawing a pained moan from her as it jostles her aching body. Through the rapidly darkening fog, Alina hears Aleksander’s soft apology and feels a ghost like kiss brushed against her hair, so light and gentle she half thinks she imagined it. Warm and safe she finally lets go, floating away into the comfort of unconsciousness.

The last coherent thought Alina has before the shadows drag her under is that her tail bone is going to hurt like anything when she wakes up.

 


 

Within 10 minutes from setting off from that cursed glade, Aleksander could say with authority that contrary to what he had been led to believe by those romantic novels he occasionally had cause to confiscate from the younger inhabitants of the Little Palace, riding with another person on the same horse is comfortable neither for mount nor the passengers. It is, in fact, really quite torturous; made more so by the unlucky combination of factors which rendered what in other circumstances might – he stressed might – have been a semi-pleasurable if cumbersome experience torture of the highest degree. Here he is, a red blooded man, with the woman he lo… an attractive girl pressed tightly against his chest but this is over shadowed by the peril of the journey, the discomfort controlling both horse and holding an unconscious body upright had on his arms and the breakneck speed they were maintaining which is murdering his backside.

Quite frankly, if this is the sort of reward a hero could expect for rescuing his simpering bubble-headed lady-love from misadventure he would be tempted to leave the girl to save herself, it would be far less inconvenient and uncomfortable. Not that Alina could ever be accused of being either simpering or bubble-headed, a girl less impressed with wealth, rank or reputation would be hard to find. No, Alina isn’t the sort of girl who would be swept off her feet by some ego driven cad on a white horse, no matter how charismatic or heroic.

Unbidden an image came into his mind of that blue eyed boy who had been standing close to her on the skiff, a young man with the easy, charming smile of a practiced seducer. He shook his head. No, whatever that boy might think, Alina surely had more sense than to be taken in by his charm and affable persona. A shudder raced down his spine. The sun was setting and the warmth, such as it was, was rapidly cooling, it would be night soon and too dangerous to continue travelling at such speed. Beauty was tiring too, his breath becoming more laboured and his steps more sluggish.

They had made good progress over the last few hours and were now out of the forest. Balakirev was less than an hour away and if they could keep up this progress tomorrow they would be at the Little Palace by dusk at the latest. As they had travelled east, away from the mountains, the land had become flatter, large fields taking the place of rolling hills and dense forests. In the distance he spotted a small stone building that memory told him would likely be one of the many shepherd’s huts dotted around this area.

It's a definite boon, with Alina still unconscious and the weather in Ravka ever uncertain, a place to rest overnight out of the elements is fortuitous. Steering the visibly tired horse towards the building he's delighted to see that not only was it empty but that it's in a good state of repair with blankets and hay in plentiful quantity.

Dismounting is much harder with the added burden of Alina but eventually it's achieved, although not with anything like his usual grace and elegance and he's quite pleased not to have audience for it. Once inside the hut, Aleksander makes quick work of laying his precious burden down in the corner furthest from the draughty entrance, tucking a thick blanket around her to ward off the chill. With that job completed, his next is to see to the exhausted Beauty, rubbing him down briskly and rooting out the feed his groom had thoughtfully packed into the saddle bags. As the last vestiges of light disappeared, Aleksander settled himself into the hay beside Alina, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself and gave into the fatigue that had been nagging at him for hours, reassured with the knowledge of his shadows cloaking the hut from prying eyes.

 


 

It's rather poetic that Alina started to stir as dawn stretched across the horizon, turning the midnight blue sky a stunning vista of reds and oranges, snuffling into Aleksander’s side and waking him abruptly from the doze he had been enjoying. For the second time in as many days, Aleksander’s awakening is both sudden and entirely unexpected. Sometime during the night he and Alina had moved, with the result of him waking up to find Alina comfortably settled with her head on his chest and his arms firmly wrapped around her, encasing her in the warmth of his cloak.

Gazing down into Alina’s sleepy eyes, Aleksander felt an unusual peace settle over the hut, even Beauty awake and restive after a night’s rest is quiet and still. A long moment later Alina, now more awake, pushed herself up a pink tinge to her cheeks as her hands patted at her hair, sweeping several strands away from her face.

Blushing slightly, Alina accepts the flask of water gratefully, taking several long sips as she tried to make sense of the situation she had somehow woken up in. “What happened back there?” she asks after several moments.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Aleksander asks softly as he takes the flagon back and instead passed her one of the trail bars used by the Second Army.

“I was… there was a carriage, smoke, explosions… I was running, I think, from a man…”

For a long moment he's silent, just watching her, before he finally answers; “Drüskelle. Elite members of the Fjerdan military trained to infiltrate deep behind our lines and kill or kidnap Grisha.”

“They were… this has happened before, that man, I… I thought… it was all so familiar.”

Gentle hands reach forward to grasp Alina’s own as she looked up into the concerned dark eyes of her friend. “You have,” he said softly, “many years ago… it is how we met.”

Blinking back tears, Alina nods, dropping her aching head into her hands, “the attack that killed Papa, that was the Drüskelle?”

“Yes.”

Alina nods again. What more could be said. Later, when she had the benefit of safety and the space to think she would deal with the emotions and memories of the last day, the anger that even now is thrumming through her, but for now she has to put them away as her mother had taught her and focus on survival.”

Quietly she listens as Aleksander explains about the events of the last day, how he had come upon the ambush in time to save her, but not before she had been injured, and the decision for him to carry on with her to get her to safety of the Little Palace as soon as possible.

“Ivan and Fedyor?” She asks quietly,

“Safe. There were losses, at least two of the Oprichniki, but it's not as bad as it could have been. Reinforcements are on the way, but with the need to get you to the Little Palace it wasn't possible for us to remain with them. Ivan and the others will regroup with the others and then join us in Os Alta.”

Alina nods again, her attention flitting to a memory that had just appeared, of her attacker’s body falling apart in front of her.

“how did you slice one of them in half from a dozen paces?” she asks curiously.

Aleksander smiles at the resurgence of Alina’s omni-present curiosity. “You remember your lessons? There is matter to everything, even air, or shadow, too small to see. The Cut is something a Summoner can do, but it requires tremendous skill. And I would only use it as a last resort. Like that ambush.”

“Saints…” Alina murmurs, hands massaging her temples, “Is this my life now? Hunted wherever I go.” She asks desperately.

“You get used to it.”

“But how did they even know about me?” she demands.

“Your little light show in the Fold was visible from miles away. Whatever their original mission was, they must have diverted to find you. That’s why I came as soon as I was able.”

“They’re that scared of you?” she asks incredulously, trying to reconcile the image of the man who used to play tea parties with her with someone who could inspire such fear.

Letting out a brief laugh, Aleksander said with a chuckle, “I think they’re more scared of you.”

Alina looks sick as she asks the question she in’t sure she wanted an answer too: “Why?”

Aleksander smiles again, but this wasn’t one of his genuine happy smiles that started in his eyes, it was a dangerous, dark smile, one that promised vengeance. “Because of your power - what your power means to us. You may well be the first of your kind, but we’ve always had a name for you. For what we hope you can do.” He paused a moment, raising a mocking eyebrow, as if testing her, “the Sun Summoner will be expected to enter the Fold and destroy it from within. With proper training, some amplification, you could be the…”

“No!” Alina blurts out in horror as panic makes her chest seize. It's too much. This is too much. Ivan had started to say this in the carriage, but to hear it from Aleksander, from her dearest friend…

“No?” Aleksander queries, voice smooth and dark like the wisps of shadow that curled around his shoulders, “No, what?”

“It’s too much… I don’t want any of this” Alina cries, “Why can’t you get rid of it?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried, Alina? If I enter the Fold, I’m a beacon for the volcra, as you had ample evidence of only yesterday. All I can do is make it worse.”

“Then just… Can’t you use some Grisha science to transfer this power to someone who can use it?”

Horrified, Aleksander rears back, “You would give up your gift?” he demands hoarsely, a hollow ache in his chest at the inferred rejection of their people, of him.

“Gift?” a dark mocking laugh escapes Alina. “In the last 24 hours I’ve been set upon by volcra, knocked unconscious, kidnapped only to awake in an uncomfortable carriage with three strangers who thought they knew more about me then I do, attacked, chased, beaten, nearly killed, knocked unconscious again… and now, according to you, I’ll be a target for the rest of my life.”

But it isn’t just the horrific experiences of the last day, it's the glee, the delight, the fervent light she saw in his eyes as he had told her of her altered state, of the life and expectation that now awaited her. Seeing such emotions from the one she trusted almost above everyone else was a betrayal.

Pain makes her cruel and cold as she locks eyes with the man she had thought she knew. “You know why you’ve never found someone with this power?” she demands angrily, “maybe it’s because they don’t want to be found.”

Desperately, Aleksander reaches out in an attempt to provide comfort to the trembling girl in front of him only to watch as she flinches from him and turns away.

Recoiling from the familiar hand that had brought her so much reassurance over the years, Alina turns her back to her old friend, desperate to calm the rioting emotions rocking through her and the whirlwind of her thoughts. She feels betrayed – had he known what she is? Had he known what power ran through her veins? Was that the reason for his continued interest over the years, had the friendship she had so cherished been nothing but a lie, a means to an end for the General of the Second Army? Just the thought of it brings tears to her eyes that she had to fight to repress. Once she would have turned to Aleksander for comfort and have no fear in him seeing her pain, but now the game had changed and everything is uncertain. Is he still her Alek or is he, as Mal had said, the Darkling known for his mendaciousness and cunning, who would use her for his own plans with no thought to her wellbeing? Until she knew the answer she could no more turn to him that she could turn back time to before she boarded that ill fated skiff.

With her back turned to him Alina couldn't see the heartache writ clear across Aleksander’s face, the naked pain he could not supress, before the cold mask was once again in place. With a detachment he fought to keep in place, Aleksander saddled Beauty with quick efficiency before mounting. Without the comforting cover of darkness it was folly to remain in the open like this – they needed to get to the palace, the sooner the better.

“Come,” he commands, voice cool and emotionless, as he stretches a hand down to the girl before him. He supposed he should take it as a success that in this at least Alina did not fight him, instead grabbing his hand and allowing him to haul her up before him. Carefully he wraps one arm around her to keep her steady as the other pulls at the horse’s reins and they once again set off.

The ride to Os Alta is finished as it had started the day before, in silence - only this time instead of it being caused by worry and fear this is a sullen, resentful silence. Any thoughts as to the intimacy of holding a now very much awake Alina in such a close fashion had dissipated like the morning mist under the icy aura emitting from the girl. This is hardly the way he had imagined introducing Alina to his home those rare times he indulged in fantasising. In those, Alina is excited, happy, glowing with love for him and joy at sharing the home he had built, not studiously ignoring him. The worst of it is, he has no idea how to fix this situation. In all the years he has known Alina they may have argued but never like this. That he has hurt her is obvious, but he has no idea how, no idea why she has reacted the way she has. Alina has long wished that her power was unblocked so she could join the other Grisha in the Little Palace, so it's a mystery to him that having been given her heart’s desire she should be so upset and pained by it.

Deep in thought, the hours tick by until at last the grand, shining towers of the Imperial Palace arose in the distance, the late afternoon sun glinting off the gold paint and making it shine like a beacon. In what seemed like the blink of an eye they are soon trotting through one of the less popular gates to the palace complex, guards saluting and getting out of his way as they recognise the Darkling as they follow the familiar paths to the Little Palace.    

It's with a nicker of relief that Beauty finally stops at the grand doors to the entrance of the Little Palace. Dismounting Aleksander holds out his hand to assist Alina only to be disappointed as the girl feigned blindness and slid off the tall horse, landing with a thump and a wince on the gravel. Clenching his fist to hide the sudden flare of grief that arose from her rejection, Aleksander turns, accepting the welcoming salutes from the four Oprichniki guards waiting for them, before leading a suddenly resistant Sun-Summoner into the entrance hall.

Vaguely he hears a sharp intake of breath and a soft whistle as Alina stares at the luxurious room. Though nothing to the grandeur of the Imperial Palace, the Little Palace is far more opulent than any other building Alina had been in before with polished marble floors, gleaming candelabra and rich mahogany doors leading off to the other, hidden parts of the palace.

Voice still retaining its cool detachment he introduces Alina to the Oprichniki before instructing two of the guards to take her up to the Vesta suite. If the guards are shocked by the instruction they had the good sense not to show it, instead snapping off two text-book sharp salutes as they wheel around, each taking one of the girl’s arms to guide her through a doorway and up the east staircase. His last sight of his precious girl is of her complaining irritably that she knew how to walk, thank you very much. With a deep sigh, Aleksander forces his reluctant feet to move from the spot they had rooted themselves to in the vestibule, desperately trying to squash the fierce desire to follow Alina to her newly appointed room.  

There is so much to be done. His Imperial Uselessness, the Tsar, would need to be informed of the Sun-Summoner’s discovery and subsequent presence in the Little Palace. He also needed to introduce Genya to Alina, assign a healer to check her over and start organising a training schedule. The Tsar, and nobles, would be impatient for results, never mind that it usually took years to train a Grisha, they would expect for her to tackle the Fold almost immediately, which in turn meant that he needed time to think, to plan, to prepare.

But first, right now, he needs someone to help make sense of the insanity that had been the last 48 hours. Rubbing his forehead tiredly, he turns and makes his way across the grounds towards his mother’s cottage.

 


 

The inferno that greets him as he slips through the door helps to calm the jittery feeling that started as soon as Alina left his sight. It's familiar. Normal. Expected. All the things that have been missing since he first realised his precious girl was in Kribirsk.

 “What in the name of all the Saint’s are you doing back here, boy?” his mother barks as she spots him.

With a strangled laugh, Aleksander drops gracelessly into a chair near his mother, exhaustion rapidly taking over as he unclasps the heavy cloak still around his shoulders.

“I have news,” he says quietly, staring at the fire, half wishing the flames could swallow him whole.

Baghra harrumphs, her displeasure clear at the unexpected interruption and her son’s intrusion into her sanctuary. “Well then, what is it?” she demands crossly.

“Oh, nothing much,” Aleksander mutters nonchalantly, “only that the Sun Summoner has been found at last.”

“W-what?” Baghra splutters, the mouthful of tea she had just taken making a surprise reappearance.

With the forbearance instilled by many years of exposure to his mother and other, even more uncouth, otkazat’syas Aleksander pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at the tea splatters now decorating his kefta.

“You heard what I said,” he replies distractedly, still trying to clean the damp areas.

“The Sun Summoner…” his mother murmurs, reaching over to place her cup on the table. That was a shock. She had not expected news of the Sun Summoner so soon, indeed with how long it had taken for one to appear she had almost given it up as a bad bet and decided that they were nothing more than a myth created to help a hopeless people. But now one had appeared. Interesting.

“I take it you’ve brought the poor soul back to trap them in that Palace of yours,” she comments drily.

Aleksander laughs darkly, “you would think that of me, wouldn’t you mother. Never mind that this is safest place for Grisha or that every Shu or Fjerdan soldier will be after her.”

“So it is a girl?” his mother demands, “young or old?”

Aleksander laughs again, “young, though old enough to be useful. She will be 19 within a few weeks.”

Baghra frowns at the stress her son placed on the age, uncertain as to the significance he was trying to convey until a thought occurred to her. “Alina?” she raised an eyebrow.

Aleksander sighs and nods before launching into a summary of events: from how he had come across her in Kribirsk, to their argument and his decision to accompany her on the skiff, to the subsequent discovery of her powers and the frantic race to get her to the safety of the Little Palace.

“What a mess,” Baghra comments wryly after a moment, Aleksander can only nod in agreement.

 

 

“Why did you send her to Kribirsk, mother?” he asks at last, breaking the silence that has descended over the cottage. It's something he has often wondered over the past few weeks, but in light of recent events it seemed almost prescient, and the mystery is niggling at him.

Baghra looks at her son for a long moment, weighing her words in a careful way that immediately sets his teeth on edge. “Kill or cure,” she says at last. “She was ill and nothing we tried was working. Every bit of lore, every technique, every medicine failed, your girl just got sicker and sicker. Her mother remembered the girl having a similar illness before they came to Os Alta and the miraculous recovery. It made me think. But even so, I didn’t know and truthfully I had little expectation that it would work.”

“But then… why?”

“So you could say goodbye,” his mother replies evenly, voice calm even as he reels backwards in shock.

“WHAT?”

“I knew you wouldn’t come back… not before it was too late,” she adds, seeing the way her son’s eyes go pitch black, the shadows coalescing around him like a malevolent halo. “So I sent her to you.”

Aleksander stares speechless at his mother unable to comprehend

“The danger…”

“Death isn’t much of a danger to someone already knocking at its door,” is her acerbic reply, “last time your pain and anger created the Fold. What would it have done this time if she had died and we had concealed it from you…”

It's a valid point and one that hits with the accuracy only a long relationship provides. Aleksander flinched, his mother’s comment striking at his already turbulent and vulnerable heart. It had been one thing to hear it from a living, breathing, obviously healthy Alina, it was quite another to hear it from his plain speaking mother. Where Alina downplayed, Baghra was brutally honest, and it shook him to his core how close he had come to losing his precious girl without even realising it.

One question remains though, circling around his head like an annoying fly. “Why did it work?” he murmurs at last, eyes gazing at the fire in the vague hope that they had the answer.

Thwack went Baghra’s walking stick, “speak up – don’t mumble. Some of us aren’t as young as we used to be.”   

One hand nursing his now bruised leg, Aleksander sent a baleful glare at his mother, wishing not for the first time that he hadn’t bought that cane for her as a joke all those years ago.

“I SAID,” he repeats in a mockingly loud voice, “Why. Did. It. Work? Even with Alina being the Sun-Summoner, it doesn’t make any sense why being near me would cure her.”

Baghra twirled her cane menacingly, eyeing her son with ominous intent, before settling back in her favourite chair and resuming her fire gazing, deliberating goading her guest with feigned disinterest.

“Hmm,” she hums at last when the silence starts to annoy even her, “a good question. One I think that will answer itself soon enough. A better question is why did you leave?”

Aleksander raised an eyebrow at his mother’s blatant attempt at fishing.

“you knew she was the Sun Summoner.” It isn’t a question.

“I suspected,” it’s all the response he can give at that moment. His mother lifted her gaze from the fire to watch her son, her shrewd ancient eyes weighing and judging him.

“Why continue to hide her if you knew she’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time?” This was the question that had been pestering Baghra for years, the missing piece to the puzzle of understanding the unprecedented hold the girl has over her boy. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought Aleksander might know and willingly – freely – give up the Sun-Summoner he had waited for, whose power he had lusted after, for the better part of half a millennium. It was a gross miscalculation on her part and one that could presage unimaginable consequences. 

Aleksander sighs sadly, one gloved hand running through his hair, ruffling it into a disorderly mess in a clear sign of mounting anxiety. “Because I wished to all the Saints I’ve never believed in that she wasn’t. I didn’t want this curse for her, not Alina.”

“Curse, boy? She’s the Sun Summoner. She’s a gift – the gift you’ve been waiting for, for four hundred years!”

“Once, perhaps.” Her son replies impassively, “but not if Alina is the one who must pay the price.” And that was the truth. Aleksander had wondered in those fleeting moments he let himself, but he had dismissed such thoughts as flights of fancy, hoping instead that his little Alina would be safe. Safe from those who would use and abuse her… safe from him.

Baghra changed tack. “How did you know?” she asks as she stands to poke the slowly dying fire back into life.

“Something her mother said. Mei-Xing told me once that no matter how bad the weather was there the sun always shone when I visited Alina. It made me wonder, but I didn’t know, not for certain, and as time went on and nothing happened it seemed less and less likely that she was the Sun-Summoner.”

Aleksander raised a gloved hand to rub his forehead. “As long as I didn’t know, then I could pretend.”

Baghra sat back down with a thump that made her bones rattle and ache, “That’s not how it works, boy, and you know it. I taught you better than that. Things don’t just stop existing if you ignore them. That girl is as she has always been – she has always been the Sun Summoner.”

“Why did you leave?” she asks, half dreading what her son will say. It's the question that keeps nagging at her – why, given the way he felt, had he left? It had made sense at the time, her son leaving to avoid the pain of watching the girl he loved grow old and die in front of him, but why leave if he suspected that this wasn’t the case. “Why leave when you could have had the future with her that you wanted – she is your equal, your opposite, the one person who could walk with you through eternity…”

“Because,” Aleksander cries hoarsely, “because knowing would have been worse. It Is worse”.

“Do you remember, mother, that conversation before I left for Kribirsk, the one about father?” his mother frowns as she tries to recall that day.

“You told me I had two choices – either wed her knowing I will outlive her or move on and try to forget. At the time I thought that moving on was the only option, that distance would dull the pain. But you were wrong, there was a third option, a worst one. Everything I want is there, within my grasp, there for the taking”.

With sudden, horrid clarity, Baghra understands.

“I don’t deserve her,” he whispers brokenly. “She's so young and naïve, so innocent, it would be so easy, so very easy, to trick her into believing she is in love with me, to take what I long for and bind her to me.” But it would be an empty bond – one forged on lies and deceit, the antithesis of what he and Alina had shared for so many years.  

With a tortured sigh, Aleksander drops his head into his hands, fingers clawing at his hair. The terrible truth laid bare at last. She is everything he wanted, everything he needed, everything he had ever wished for, but he didn’t deserve her and the knowledge ate at him of what he would have done to his beloved Alina without a second thought had he not seen her grow up, had he not loved her before the revelation of her powers. The irony that he would have had no hesitation of doing exactly what he desperately wanted too over a nameless stranger left a bitter taste in his mouth. In truth he would have had no compunction of using every trick in the book had it been anyone other than Alina.

“Oh, my boy,” Baghra says sadly.

For one glorious moment on that skiff everything he had ever wanted had been within his grasp, then reality had come calling. Any affection Alina might have held for him would surely die a swift death once she learnt who he truly was and the truth of what he had planned. Already she had turned from him, rejected him. She would never accept him, the monster from Ravkan fairy tales. No one could love the fearsome Black Heretic, not even his mother.

Hope is such a cruel emotion.

For the first time in centuries Aleksander let go and cried.

Notes:

So what did you think?

For those who spotted the discrepancy in what Aleksander said, don't worry - there is a very good reason for it, which comes out later :).

Chapter 7: The Ecstasy of Gold

Summary:

No one said being the Sun Summoner would be easy

Notes:

Hi folks :).

First things first, to everyone in the UK - happy August bank holiday. The weather has been predictably miserable this week but it has had the benefit of giving me lots of time to write - almost 20,000 words this week which is a new record for me :).

Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I really love hearing your thoughts - so keep them coming :). The mystery around Alina's powers starts to get a bit thicker in this chapter and I can't wait to see if anyone guesses where its going (dun dun dun...).

Inspiration for the title of this chapter came from the eponymous piece of music by Ennio Morricone.

vibinwithfanfictions_11, Elliesmeow , Lichoisa , NorthernLights025 , MaskedKait, and spirknshit will be pleased to know that there's no tissue warning in this chapter. This is a surprisingly low angst chapter given the events of the previous one. All that's left is to enjoy :).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Alina’s composure lasts only as long as it takes for her to be left alone in the lavish suite she has been escorted too. Stumbling over to the bed, she drops into the soft covers and cries as the pain and shock from the last few days finally overwhelms her. It feels like her heart is breaking as her mind torturously insists on replaying in glorious technicolour the ambush and her argument with Aleksander. It is the latter which, rightly or wrongly, is uppermost in her mind and prompts a fresh wave of tears.

It hurts. Everything hurts. Her body aches from the punishing ride, her head is pounding from her tears and the injuries it has taken and her bruises throb with every sob, just to add to her woes.

Its in this state that the healer finds her. The man who enters the room after knocking is tall, with a mess of dark blond hair and a very familiar face. With a gentle voice he introduces himself as Garin, head healer at the Little Palace, and personal healer to General Kirigan. It’s with surprise that she finally places the familiar voice as the healer who helped her mother all those years ago. It helps. Where she might have been tempted to send an unknown person away, Garin is someone she knows, even if mostly through Aleksander’s letters, and he is a comfort in this unfamiliar place.

It takes the healer time to check each of injuries. He sighs over the bruises and tuts over the various scrapes and cuts she sustained in her flight from the carriage, but its her head that elicits a hiss of displeasure from him. With gentle hands he prods at her swollen cheek and the knot that throbs on the back of her skull. This is where he concentrates his healing, as he explains to her. The lesser bruises he will leave as he needs to retain some power in case of any emergencies that might arise, but her head wounds are too serious not to mend and he worries about possible long-term damage. He leaves her an hour later with strict instructions to rest, eat and to come to him if there is any sign of dizziness of headaches. With perfect timing as he leaves a maid comes in bearing a tray with covered dishes and a large pitcher of water.

The food is a good, hearty casserole and despite the emotional trauma of the day she eats with gusto, realising that she’s surprisingly hungry. Eating helps distract her from the dark thoughts circling her mind but, soon after her meal is finished, they return with greater force and persistency, making new tears sting her eyes as she settles back into the pillows on the bed.

The loneliness of the next hour is crippling as she tries desperately to reassure herself that she is mistaken in what she saw yesterday, that she is wrong about Aleksander, and that despite the bleak outlook now things will get better. There is paper on the gilt desk across the room from her, and she briefly thinks of writing to her mother, before reality reminds her that she has no way to get a missive to her mother – and that even if she did, how could she hope to explain the events of the past 48 hours?

It's as she is considering this problem that there’s another knock on the door. With trembling legs Alina crosses across the room to open the door, shaky with exhaustion, only to stumble back in shock as she sees who her visitor is. There before her, as if summoned by the desperate wishing of Alina’s tired mind, is her mother.

With a soft cry she finds herself pulled into the loving familiar embrace of her mother, who guides her now sobbing daughter to sit on the bed, stroking her hair soothingly as she hums a lullaby under her breath while she rocks them both. It’s an emotional half hour as Alina haltingly tells her mama what has happened to her and the discovery that she is the Sun Summoner.

With a frown Mei-Xing considers what her daughter has told her, her agile mind turning the facts over and over while she thinks of what to say to her distraught child. Alina’s fears are not unreasonable. In fact she has sometimes wondered the same, and while she has come to respect General Kirigan and cherish the company he has provided over the years, she has never been under any illusion as to who he came to their cottage for, or the reason for his benevolence. Right from the start, from the first moment she had seen them together there had been a connection between them, an invisible tether tying them together, and over the years she had only seen it grow stronger. That connection, she has no doubt is genuine. Whether or not he knew of her daughter’s power, and whether that influenced his behaviour, now that’s the question.

Part of her, the romantic part that had been dormant since that terrible day 14 years before, thought he had no idea, that his love was that of an innocent. She thought of his sudden departure some years ago and the reason she had thought then as to what had driven him from Alina’s side. The other part, the larger and more world weary part, mocked such romantic thoughts, shouting about the unlikely coincidence of it all, of the man’s unnatural fixation with her child. What man would show such interest in a power bound child unless he knew what she would become? Especially when the man is a General in the middle of a long and taxing war. A war in which her daughter’s newly discovered power will play a pivotal part.  

So no, Alina’s fears are entirely understandable, natural even, but there was little Mei-Xing could counsel in this situation. Given Alina’s affection for this man whatever she said had the risk of being wrong and driving her away. Finally, after a long moment, she says gently – “you must let his behaviour be your guide, Alinochka. Men may hide behind pretty words, but truth is told through their actions. So you watch him, my love, that will show you if it is as you fear. But first you must apologise.” She looks sternly at her daughter.

“Whatever the truth of his intentions it was wrong to act as you did – to deliberately try to cause someone you have called friend for so long pain in such a way is wrong, and I did not raise you to be a cruel or unkind person.”

Alina nods tearfully as she gratefully accepts another hug from her mother. Guilt is horrid emotion and one which had been, up to the point, mostly unfamiliar to Alina, who was by neither nature nor inclination prone to unkindness, especially to those she held dear.

“I love him, mama,” she cries softly into her mother’s arms, “I love him, but can I trust him?”

“Oh my darling,” her mother says softly as she presses a gentle kiss to her daughter’s hair, “that is something only you can decide.”

It is hard to part after so long apart, but eventually Alina can stop her yawns no longer, and with a loving smile her mother tucks her into the sumptuous bed as she bids her goodnight. She is so tired and worn out that she is only vaguely away of her mother dousing the lights before leaving.

 


 

When Aleksander had sent a note with her breakfast tray warning her that Genya would be by to make her ready to meet the Tsar she hadn’t really known what to expect. In her worst moments she thought she would be like one of the strict matrons in the medical corps, distant and unkind, or else like those girls who teased her for her Shu heritage.

Genya is beautiful. That’s Alina’s first thought. Her bright red hair gleams in the light and looks striking against the white kefta she wears. That she is also kind and considerate rapidly becomes apparent as she spots Alina’s discomfort and proceeds to shoo the officious maids out the door.

Seeing her mother has helped settle Alina’s nerves a bit, but she still feels overwhelmed by the whole situation and out of place in these opulent rooms. Genya’s presence is soothing, reassuring, calming, as she explains what she is there to do and her upcoming presentation to the Imperial court, and Alina takes an immediate liking to the other woman.

With a smile, the tailor sets to work, and within only a few minutes Alina no longer recognises the tired careworn girl she had seen in the mirror that morning. She still looks like herself – thank the saints – but like her best self, as if she has had enough to eat and sleep over the past few years. Her skin glows with a health and vitality at odds with the bone deep weariness she feels. Her hair is no longer tangled but instead flows down her back in glossy dark waves and the bruises she had been so self-conscious of on her face have disappeared.   

With gentle hands, Genya helps Alina pull on the finest made First Army uniform she has ever seen. While it may look similar to the uniform she has worn for over a year, there is where the similarities end. The cloth is much finer, the buttons gold rather than the pewter ones she is familiar with, and the leather of the boots is thicker and much better quality. It’s a costly uniform and Alina can’t help the scowl that forms at both the expense and the pantomime aspect of this. If the Tsar wishes to see her in the uniform of the Imperial army then why shouldn’t she simply wear the one she arrived in? The cost of the clothes she’s wearing now could fund medicine, new boots or thicker blankets for her fellow soldiers to keep them warm in the fast approaching winter.

The First Army is starving and the Tsar wastes money on dressing her up like a doll.  The wave of anger that washes over her at the thought makes her hands shake as the Tailor fixes the ridiculous hat to her head and gently arranges the heavy gold veil to cover her face. For a moment all Alina can see is gold as she is led out of her room and down the grand marble staircase to her awaiting escort.

 


 

Her nerves have finally kicked in by the time she reaches the vestibule, shouting that she cannot do this, that she has no idea how to prove or call the sun, so it is a relief to see Aleksander standing calm, collected and self-assured as he takes her arm from Genya and leads her out of the door. Something of her nerves must have been apparent to the man though as he watches her carefully for a moment.

“Please don’t worry, Alina,” Aleksander says softly as he positions her hand on his arm in what she recognises as a courtly gesture. “I would not embarrass you. If you believe nothing else, you must believe that.” The look he is giving her would melt harder hearts than hers and she can do little more than nod as he leads her across the stunning gardens and up to the Grand Palace itself.

Inside the palace is even worse than the outside, a feat Alina had been sure was impossible only a few moments before. How a place where so much money has been spent could look so gaudy and horrible was a mystery to her, but it managed it. The dark marble of the floors gave the palace a cold uninviting feel while the gold decorations and accenting just made her eyes hurt.

Trying not to stumble down the steps she can barely see through the heavy gold veil, Alina stares around her. With a chuckle she felt Aleksander lean down to whisper softly, “it’s hideous, isn’t it. It’s a wonder to me how awful the Lantsov’s have managed to make the Grand Palace. We may be the ‘little’ palace, but I would rather live there any day than in this monument to bad taste and utter selfishness. I suppose it must be true what they say – if you want to know what the saints think of money just look at who they give it too.”

Alina smiles, gripping his sleeve tighter as she tries to repress her laughter at Aleksander’s irreverent comment. It is familiar, this rapport, and she feels it relax her as she is led down another hall. Any sense of calm, however, disappears as she is led through a door expecting another hall only to find herself in an enormous, almost cavernous, room filled to the brim with expensively dressed people and a dais at one end with who can only be the Tsar, Tsarina and the Tsarevitch.

It is not an auspicious introduction and she quickly understands both Aleksander’s and Baghra’s antipathy towards the ruling family. They are rude! Rude, dismissive and just to add to the fun, casually racist and sexist as well. Why shouldn’t she be a girl? Why does it matter what height she is or that her mother came from Shu Han.

When the Tsarina asks the ambassador to greet her in Shu she can’t help but retort crossly that while she has Shu heritage she doesn’t actually speak the language. Beside her she feels Aleksander tense and fears she has gone too far before she spots a smile flash over his face in amusement at her ornery mistruth. She actually speaks and writes Shu fluently, with such a mother as Mei-Xing of course she does, but that doesn’t mean she appreciates being spoken at rather than too by presumptuous monarchs.

Things don’t improve over the next 10 minutes as she listens in annoyed silence to first the pontifications of the Tsar and then has to extend her hand to the slimy Tsarevitch and let him paw at her. She is should be grateful that Aleksander decides that is the moment to prove she is who he claims she is as it gives her an escape except that this feels very much like jumping out of the frying pan and landing in the fire.

Right on schedule her nerves kick up a notch as familiar shadows shroud the room in darkness. She is visibly shaking by the time Aleksander turns to her, offering her a pale un-gloved hand and a reassuring smile. Taking a deep breath she reaches out and grasps his hand.  

Light erupts out of her in a sparkling ball, dazzling the spectators who gasp, but she is notices none of this. Instead, all she sees is the soft awe filled look in Aleksander’s eyes, which have turned molten and dark as they gaze at her.

Looking at her like this, all her fears and doubts melt away, swallowed by the heat in his eyes.

The moment is soon over though and as the shadows give way to daylight so her doubts rush back into the space where peace had reigned only seconds before.

Thunderous clapping shocks her out of her stillness and with a blush she lets go of Aleksander’s hand, ducking her head to avoid the hundreds of people staring at her. Eyes fixed on the floor she hears Aleksander’s assured voice as he proclaims her the long-awaited Sun Summoner before starting to discuss her training with the Tsar. If more is discussed she doesn’t hear it as with a raucous din the waiting Grisha swarm around her, hugging and touching her; some are crying, others laughing but all are determined to express their delight.  

 


 

The journey back to the Little Palace is far more chaotic and noisy than her walk there had been. Some of the Grisha around her are singing or laughing but this doesn’t stop others from also bombarding her with questions. It seems like everyone wants to know everything about her, and all at once. She barely has time to start responding to one question before another is asked and she forgets what she had been going to say. It’s exhausting and it’s a huge relief when they reach the confines of her new home and many of the younger, and louder, Grisha are hurried away back to the nursery and junior wing.

The celebration dinner, in what she learns is the senior dining room, is a wonderful teat and rarely has she tasted such mouth-watering food. The luxury of the dinner is almost enough to make her agree with one of Mal’s favourite complaints about the Second Army until Fedyor comments that this is in her honour and she should enjoy it as the normal fare is not at all like this.

By the third course Alina is starting to flag and all she wants is to lie down somewhere and sleep off the nagging exhaustion she has felt since she woke up in the carriage. She finally escapes just as a terribly drunk Fedyor drags a comically resistant Ivan onto the Corporalki table and starts dancing. She manages to make it to the staircase she thinks will lead her to her room unnoticed and unescorted, but there her luck runs out. With a bow one of Aleksander’s oprinichki materialises next to her and takes her arm, escorting her to what he says is the General’s study.

In contrast to the War Room - which is windowless and oddly small and intimate - Aleksander’s study is huge; with large windows on two sides through which the twilight glitters, offsetting the heavy oak panelling and oversized marble fireplace. This is an imposing room designed to impress and in this it doesn’t fail as Alina looks around with wide eyes.

Near the windows are comfortable looking chairs, but it is the side opposite her which captures her attention. Along the wall are floor to ceiling bookcases, stuffed to the brim with books, scrolls, rolls and what looks like maps. It is not bookshelves which catch her attention, however, as there before them in the middle of the room is a large oak desk behind which Aleksander is sat, scribbling something on a piece of parchment.

With a thin smile he stands and greets her, asking her how she is and whether she liked dinner. His manner is stiff and formal even after the guard leaves alone and it sets Alina on edge as she tries to answer. The comforting presence he had exuded that morning is long gone and in its place is the familiar stranger from yesterday. Despite her mother’s advice, Alina feels her back stiffen and has to fight the urge to respond defensively. Taking a deep breath she answers as calmly as she can and is rewarded by a fuller, more genuine smile from her old friend and he visibly relaxes.

The conversation gets better from there as Aleksander talks to her about the plans he is putting in place for her training and what she can expect for the next few days. By the time Alina leaves 15 minutes later she is feeling more relaxed and hopeful that they can come through this, that her fears are unfounded, particularly after his offer to courier any letters she has for her mother via Ivan. She understands why it isn’t a good idea for her mother to come often to the Little Palace, as much for her own protection as anything else, but the ability to regularly communicate, even if just by letter, is a balm to her worried mind and she goes to bed that night much happier than the last.   

 


 

Going from living in a tent in an army camp, surrounded every minute of every day by noise and people, to waking up wrapped in luxurious bedding on a plush bed, in a silent room, completely by yourself, takes getting used too. For Alina it’s like living in a particularly comfortably prison with gold accents; it’s pretty, it’s comfortable, it’s the nicest room she has ever been in, but it is still a prison. She is escorted to it, she is escorted from it, and for those first few days at least, she is strongly discouraged from going off exploring by the ferocious scowl that seems to have taken up permanent residence on Ivan’s face.

Four days of this is enough to drive Alina mad with frustration, especially as in this time she’s only seen Aleksander twice; once during her presentation and then again that evening when they finally had a chance to talk. Since then she has seen neither hide nor hair of him. It’s a distance that makes her feel jittery and lost in this foreign world she has suddenly found herself in. For all her lessons with him on the small science and Grisha, Alina can’t help but feel abandoned, alone, frightened and confused.

Everything is different here in the Little Palace. Even eating is full of politics and fraught with the possibility for error – as Marie and Nadia had been kind enough to explain that first evening. As an Etherealki she now wears a blue kefta and is expected to sit with her order. As the Sun Summoner though, she technically outranks everyone - with the exception of the Black General himself - so she can sit on the top table, the one reserved for the General, his personal guests and important visitors. The thought of sitting on the black and gold dressed table, isolated and on display, sends a frisson of dread racing down Alina’s spine and she had quickly but firmly refused when Genya had tried to lead her there the first morning.

The fourth morning of her new life dawns and she expects it to follow the same dreaded format as the previous two: Genya would shortly appear to ready her for the day before escorting her to breakfast. After enduring stilted, uncomfortable conversation and a dreadful meal of something no doubt disgusting but good for her, Alina would then be taken back to her room by a sour faced Ivan for dress fittings; apparently the Sun Summoner needs a lot more clothes than Alina ever did. So it’s with delight the Tailor informs her that Aleksander has asked if she would like a ride with him that morning. An impatient 20 minutes later sees Alina trotting down the marble staircase at top speed as she makes for the door she remembers as leading towards the stable block.

She can’t help but let out a laugh of joy when she spots Beauty standing patiently by the mounting block and she rushes over to greet her equine friend with kisses and nuzzles as she strokes his nose. Aleksander’s indulgent tone reminds her of her environs, and she regretfully takes a step back as she turns to smile at her old friend.

With a relaxed, friendly smile, Aleksander offers to let her ride Beauty while he takes the pretty dappled grey standing two posts down from the temperamental Trakehner, and she laughs as he helps her up onto the saddle for her first solo ride.

In moments they are off, racing along the path and then off across the Ravkan countryside.

The glade they arrive in is a pretty sort of wilderness she would never have expected so close to the perfectly manicured gardens of the Imperial Palace.  This close to winter there are few flowers and the trees are rapidly losing their leaves but she thinks this would be a riot of colour and really quite stunning during the spring and summer when the wild flowers are in bloom.

Tying the horses to a nearby tree, the pair walk over to a finely carved stone well, and Alina watches as Aleksander starts to clear it of twigs and detritus from the trees overhanging it. Once or twice she thinks he is going to speak but each time he seems to change him mind at the last moment, shaking his head and resuming his self-appointed task of gardener.

With a frown Alina watches him as he finishes his task and joins her to view it. With a sigh he stares at the carvings for a long moment before he asks her how she is settling into her new rooms. Casting a glance over the familiar story, Alina turns her attention to her companion, allowing him to distract her and change the topic.

He will tell her when he’s ready.  

 


 

They arrive back at the Little Palace in time for lunch and then, almost before she knows it, its time for her first lesson with Baghra.

With some trepidation she knocks on the door to the cottage she has been told is Baghra’s. The door opens and there before her is the familiar white haired woman she came to know so well during her childhood.

“Hmm, so it you, girl,” is all Baghra says as she walks back to her chair.

And that is the end of the expected interrogation. From that point on Baghra makes no mention or even allusion to their previous lessons and familiarity with each other. For Alina this is both an unlooked for bonus and unexpected pain and she is undecided even weeks later as to which out weighs the other.

Her sessions with Baghra are gruelling and exhausting and she leaves each one annoyed and increasingly dispirited at her lack of progress. It seems like no matter what she tries she can’t do more than summon sparks of light that fizz across a room in pretty rainbows but which are otherwise useless. She longs for the ease she felt when Aleksander held her hand in front of the Imperial court, but Baghra whacks her leg when suggests using this as a teaching aid, telling her that no good will come from using an amplifier as a short cut to learning how to call her power.

“Power is earnt,” Baghra says to her with a frown, “you must learn how to call your sun yourself or else you’ll always be beholden to an amplifier to use what is yours!” and Alina hears the warning in those words, the hidden trap she knows she must not fall into. There is a certainty in her heart that this power might be for others, but it must be her and only her who controls it.

 


 

And so life continues in the Little Palace. Slowly but surely Alina starts to feel more comfortable in the luxurious environs and with her fellow Grisha. She has never found it easy to make friends, and now with her status as the only Sun Summoner it seems even harder to know who really likes her and who is merely after something, but as the days pass she comes to find her place. Unlike the others who tend to socialise only with the others in their order, she decides to ignore that convention and instead flows freely betwixt and between Etherealki, Materialki and Corporalki, talking to anyone who will sit with her as she learns more about her new people. The group of friends she eventually gathers reflect this and she wonders is Aleksander is pleased that she is slowly but surely breaking down the barriers and ridiculous snobbery that exists between the different orders.

Despite the closeness of her new found friends and her mother’s anchoring presence, Alina misses the Aleksander of her youth, the one she had been certain of and never had cause to question. The new Aleksander she is coming to know here is subtly different to her old friend; here he is more guarded and smiles less. When she sees him at dinner he sits at the top table and despite what she had assumed from his behaviour with her as a child he rarely visits the nursery or junior dining rooms.  She watches him deal with nobles, army officials and even other Grisha. He is as courteous as ever, but it feels like every word is weighed and tested before he utters it, the consummate politician not the cheeky young man who teased her about the ugliness of the Imperial Palace.

With her, when they are alone, he is more at ease and laughs as he used too, but that stops as soon as they are in public. The two personas create a discordant image in Alina’s brain that is hard to reconcile and it makes her feel jittery and awkward as if she has forgotten a dance she once knew well.    

 


 

If Alina’s days are exhausting then she finds little rest at night. In the dark she dreams, the same dream for weeks now, of snowy mountains and the search for something lost. In some she wanders for hours around the barren tundra searching for something, in others she follows a ghost like shape darting away from her, always just out of sight. Each morning she wakes to the sensation of hot breath puffing against her neck and whispers tickling her cheek, but when she opens her eyes its to an empty room and the pale dawn light flickering through the shutters.

Confused and annoyed by the repetitive dream and the anxious state it leaves her in, she eventually confides to a worried Genya her dreams and the incomprehensible feeling she has that she’s meant to be looking for something precious that she needs to find. Her friend smiles at her and pats her shoulder sympathetically as she dismisses it as a symptom of stress and recommends talking to Garin for a tonic to help give her dreamless sleep. It’s a sensible suggestion, but in the privacy of her own mind, Alina wonders.

The dreams aren’t the only thing praying on the new Sun Summoner’s mind, however, but the others are thoughts she can confide to no one – not even her beloved mother. The Fold troubles her, its nature and its creation; she knows what she felt in that dark place, and it gnaws at her, worrying her, the secrets it’s already told her and the secrets she knows Aleksander is keeping from her.

For all his talk of honesty, he might not be technically lying but he is certainly withholding things from her. Is it still a lie if it is an omission rather than an untruth? She wants to trust him again, the way she had scant weeks ago. How she feels for him has not changed but her mind remains troubled and distrustful. It’s a pain she knows both of them feel yet has no idea how to resolve.

It’s these thoughts that drive her away from the entertainments taking place in the ballroom to instead find somewhere she can be alone to think things through. She spots Fedyor distracted by one of the hoop games and quickly ducks out of the nearest door before he can see her and follow. Much to everyone’s satisfaction, Aleksander has relented on the number of guards that need to follow her around the confines of the Little Palace and agreed to substitute Ivan for Fedyor as her chief of security. It is a change that suits them all and even managed to bring a relieved smile to Ivan’s face when he heard the news. As much as she likes Fedyor, however, and prefers him to her other guards, she craves this time alone.

Half lost in thought she starts slightly upon the realisation that her feet, left to their own devices, have brought her to the library. It’s a room she has longed to explore in depth but has not yet found the opportunity too. Pulling open the heavy mahogany door she takes a deep breath, breathing in the calming scent of old parchment and well cared for leather.

Alina has always loved books and been drawn to libraries. She loves the smell, the peace that pervades these room and the rich stories and knowledge she can lose herself in for hours at a time.

Browsing down the stacks, her eye lands on an incongruous volume that is visibly out of place amongst its larger cousins, who are dressed in deep brown leather with golden gilding down their spines. She pulls the book out, careful fingers running down the battered red cloth cover. This isn’t a noble’s book but a children’s one, and one she knows well: Lore of Old Ravka is taught in all schools across the capital. Indeed, Alina learnt to read using this book and it has remained a firm favourite of hers ever since.

She has scarcely had time to settle herself by the window and crack open the book, however, when the door opens with a bang and Aleksander appears, glancing around her sanctuary with a worried frown. The mystery of his appearance is solved as his eyes alight upon her and a relieved smile spreads across his face, chasing away the dark shadows that had been lurking behind his eyes.

“There you are,” he says with a smile as he walks towards her hiding spot, “I might have known you would sneak off here rather than enjoy playing games with the others.”

Alina laughs as she nods her agreement, she would much prefer a book any day. That Aleksander recognises this soothes any feathers that may have been ruffled with his discovery of her hiding place.

Sliding to her feet, Alina sets her treasured find on the table as she reaches for the gloved hand stretched out to her entreatingly. That her absence has worried him is clear and it’s second nature to want to reassure him that she is safe and well.   

“Alinochka,” he murmurs hoarsely, eyes full of unspoken emotion as he touches her cheek with two exquisitely gentle fingers, and for the first time Alina wonders if maybe he loves her the way she does him. Embarrassed by such thoughts and his closeness, she looks away, eyes catching on the reflection in the window with a frown as she spots someone being pulled away down the stacks by a man in Heartrender red. Squinting she can just make out that the other is a man wearing dark brown robes, the absence of a kefta catching her off guard and rousing her curiosity, before her attention is recaptured by the man beside her. The man who’s hand is shaking where it touches her.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the hall breaks the spell between them and with a lurch Aleksander steps back breathing hard, one hand running through his hair in distress. The silence now is awkward and strained and one Alina has no idea how to broach.

When Aleksander leaves a few moments later, Alina presses a hand to her thundering heart, feeling it flutter faster than a hummingbird’s wings within her chest.

 


 

Time moves on and slowly Alina settles into a routine. In the morning she is awoken by Genya and the maids at 07:00 sharp. After being hustled through a bath and being made presentable it is then time for breakfast and 08:00, followed by dress fittings and etiquette lessons with Genya. At 10:00 she is escorted by Fedyor along the labyrinthine corridors of the Little Palace to Baghra’s cottage where she will spend the next three hours split between verbal fencing and desperately trying to conjure something more than sparks while avoiding the old woman’s walking stick. At 13:00 Fedyor returns to escort her to lunch after which she is then escorted to Botkin’s training yard for instruction in personal defence and physical combat.

The hours she spends with Botkin are probably her favourite in the day. It is time away from the constant gawping of the other Grisha, time away from the baffling politics of the Little Palace, time away from prying eyes weighing her and finding her wanting, time away from the suffocating expectations that she feels pressing down on her all the time. Perhaps most of all it is time away from Aleksander, time in which she can think without his presence hovering anxiously in the background.

Her mother’s advice as ever has proved prescient. Time has indeed helped, as her mama suggested it would. With every conversation, with each morning ride, with every warm look and familiar gesture she feels her confidence increase and her faith rebuild as it reaffirms to her distrustful heart that this is her Aleksander, her best and closest friend. He will not hurt her.    

 


 

Botkin is a good teacher, patient and encouraging, traits which Alina sorely need as it become clear in the first session just how little she actually knows. It has to be said that for an army, the Tsar’s Imperial forces leave a lot to be desired when it comes to training its soldiers to stay alive. Given the high mortality rate she rather suspects that their approach is more akin to win through numbers than any real thought or effort into making the army an efficient fighting force. It irks her. She had felt it at the time, but talking to Botkin she understands just how terrible the training is in First Army and it makes her mad to think of the friends she has lost, will continue to lose, because of the lack of care and attention from their Commander in Chief.

Despite her poor start Alina perseveres and it isn’t a total loss. She might be rubbish at fighting with her fists but thanks to her mother and Aleksander she has a surprisingly good foundation for sword fighting and is “competent” – which is high praise from Botkin – in the use of nun chucks and bo staffs. For the first two weeks it is these last three that the kindly instructor focuses on telling her he wishes to get to know her fighting style, to learn how her body wants to move, before deciding on which martial art he will start teaching her.

The practice is soothing and cathartic for her and she finds she enjoys not just her sparing matches with Botkin but in talking to another from Shu Han. It’s a comfort for her mother as well. The war with Shu Han has stretched on for so many years that they have seen few others with Shu heritage and Mei-Xing is quick to form a friendship with her daughter’s instructor.

Soon though, Botkin declares that it is time to move on to personal defence. Slowly he takes her through the motions, showing her the steps he wants her to follow, the pattern she needs to learn so thoroughly it becomes second nature. Rather than one of the more aggressive forms, Botkin has settled on Judo for Alina. Her small stature means she will find it hard to overpower an opponent through conventional means, but this form concentrates on turning that fact to their advantage. This is harder for Alina than learning to use the weapons, it requires confidence that she lacks to let another near her knowing that she can use their own strength against them, but slowly she grasps the basics.

After 10 days of training, Botkin declares that she is ready to join the group sessions and that from tomorrow she will no longer practice against the instructor but with her peers. It’s an announcement that fills her with dread.

 


 

The day starts like every other. She is poked and prodded by Genya who tuts over the shadows under eyes as she tailors them away. Breakfast is the same disgusting pickled herring as usual and she makes a mental note to talk to Aleksander about maybe mixing it up with porridge or something so that she doesn’t start everyday feeling sick. Then it is off to Baghra to give herself a headache trying to find the trigger for her abilities. With a sigh she plods through the motions, nodding but only half listening as the old woman repeats that this isn’t uncommon, and that she will find her own method for calling the light when she is good and ready. The words are reassuring but it does little to quell the nausea that clamps down on her stomach every time she thinks of the fast-approaching Winter Fete which is less than two months off now and the disappointment that will be writ clear across everyone’s faces as she shows just how useless she is.

She barely tastes her lunch as she worries over this and what the training session with Botkin will bring. Genya, bless her, tries to cheer her and Fedyor manages to draw a laugh out of her but she is otherwise quiet and withdrawn. The clock when it strikes 14:00 feels like a betrayal and with a sigh she heaves herself from her seat and makes her way to the training yard, her usual anticipation and happiness missing.

 

With a smile Alina allows Botkin to draw her forward and introduce her to the Squaller. She has seen Zoya before and been amazed by both her poise and her evident control of her abilities. That Aleksander rates her and even suggested her as someone who could help Alina with her current difficulty predisposes her to like the other girl and so, despite her usual reserve and he clawing feeling of inadequacy, she bows respectfully to her new partner, trying to make a good impression.

It doesn’t take long to realise that however much in awe of the Squaller she is the feeling is not reciprocated. Zoya’s expression is a mix of frustration, distaste and mocking amusement as Alina tries and fails to follow the moves Botkin showed them only a few minutes before. It makes her long for her nun chucks or a bow staff, then she could show Zoya what she can do.   

Within 10 minutes of practice Alina no longer has much hope that they will be friends. Her back is going to be black and blue by the end of the two hours and Alina, for the first time, finds herself looking longingly at the clock tower wishing that combat lessons could be shorter. Fed up with being tossed around, she at lasts makes up her mind to change things a bit, bringing in the Judo moves Botkin had showed her last week to help her evade Zoya’ attempts at throwing her. While not strictly part of the routine they are practicing at present it helps Alina’s confidence enormously that she successfully blocks the other girl’s punch, avoids her foot and drops her to one knees after kicking the other. Slightly out of breath, Alina laughs, one hand outstretched to help her partner back to her feet.

It all goes wrong from there.

Behind her she hears people start clapping as Botkin’s deep voice rumbles over the noise, explaining the move she had successfully pulled off, but Alina’s attention is fixed on Zoya’s face which has gone white and pinched. She has only a second’s warning before she finds herself being spun and flipped, her back hitting the floor with even more force than before, jarring her aching ribs and making the sky spin for a moment. Tight pressure on her wrists and pain at her sides jolts her back to the present to find Zoya kneeling over her, her knees pressing with bruising force into her hips as the girl’s fingers bite into her wrists, pinning them to the ground.

It hurts. Her back is aching, her head throbbing and she hates the feeling of being pinned as it reminds her forcefully of the events not long ago, of another larger body trapping hers against the ground. It’s the power of the flash back and the shock which quickly sets in that keeps her still and quiescent, but she can still hear even if moving is currently proving to be a problem, and as she lays there she listens to the poison that drips from Zoya’s mouth.

Alina is no stranger to taunts and cruel comments. Growing up half Shu in a country at war with half your heritage makes for uncomfortable situations at times. She’d grown up enduring comments like the Tsarina’s and had been further hardened to them by her time in the First Army. She’d learned to live with it and it seldom bothered her now – she knew who she was, knew she that was loved and that had a remarkably insulating effect. Had Zoya stuck to that well-trodden ground things would likely have been okay. Unfortunately, driven by anger and jealousy, the Squaller chose a different tack as her fury lashed out determined to make Alina see that the General was hers.

Such comments would have been unwelcome and impolitic at the best of times. But where before Alina would likely have laughed them away as little more the vituperative ramblings of a jealous girl, secure in her history with Aleksander, now this topic was akin to a field full of landmines and Zoya was stepping on them with unerring accuracy.

Each barbed comment hit Alina, making her heart twist and pound inside her chest, as she struggled to respond, to deny, what Zoya was saying. Aleksander wouldn’t… he hadn’t… he would have told her if he and Zoya were together. He didn’t think of her like that – she was more to him than just the Sun Summoner. He had promised her. Promised that his friendship was true, that he hadn’t known she was the long-awaited Sun Saint, that she wasn’t useless. But how else would the girl have known about Alina’s struggles to access her powers unless he or Baghra had told her and somehow she couldn’t see the Squaller dropping by Baghra’s cottage for a friendly chat and catchup over tea.  

Lies, these had to be lies, and yet they rang true as Zoya, with cruel irony, spat back at Alina all those fears and doubts she had been working so hard to repress and lock away.

Her heart aches. It is too much; all the changes, the secrets, the lies, the hidden agendas that seemed to be around every corner, it’s too much. With each twist of the dagger, Zoya chipped away at the faith she held so dear, that has been her bedrock throughout her life, her faith in Aleksander - in the man she loved. Tears sting Alina’s eyes as the Squaller digs her nails into her wrists but it’s welcome pain, helping to ground her, as with a rasping voice she finally responds.

Zoya laughing at her is another blow, but it’s her parting comment about Aleksander that’s the final straw

“just you wait,” Zoya says, “you’ll see, once he has what he wants from you he’ll toss you aside and come back to me. We have history he and I.”

The comment rings in Alina’s ears as she lays there stunned on the ground, watching as Zoya tosses her hair and turns away from her. She sees red.

With a shout she launches herself off the ground to grab the other girl, spinning her round before throwing a textbook perfect punch. In the distant part of the mind not currently controlled by her anger she thinks how pleased Mal would have been to have seen such a hit. The Tracker had spent hours trying to teach Alina how to throw a punch before finally giving it up as impossible. It was good to know that something had obviously sunk in, even if she doubted she would be able to repeat the move again.

Sparing only a brief glance at the girl on the ground, Alina shakes out her hand, before her attention is claimed by Nadia and Marie who rush to congratulate her. The Ice Queen, as Nadia calls her, has few friends at the Little Palace and this is made abundantly clear to Alina as applause breaks out, the other Grisha in the class stamping their feet and clapping their hands as they cheer Alina’s win. It is a sour victory though… and horrifying short lived.

She doesn’t see Zoya move but she certainly feels it as she is propelled by a wall of air across the courtyard and into the painted wall of the stable block. She hits with a bone cracking thud and slides gracelessly to the ground, head and chest throbbing in tandem. She feels something wet on her face and when she presses gently with shaking fingers, they come away crimson.   

For one blessed moment she feels numb, and her mind is wonderfully silent, then with a roar reality returns and with it she realises what the other girl has done. She has broken Botkin’s most important rule – no one, not even he, is allowed to use his gift within the training arena, and Zoya didn’t just use her powers, she used them on someone she knew was almost powerless. It was unjust. It was despicable. It. Was. Wrong!

Golden fire rages through her veins drowning out every other noise. She exists in a world of gold; her eyes, her skin, her very being glows with a golden light. It flows through her blood, it’s in the air she breathes, she is the light and the light is her. High in the sky the sun blazes and she feels it in her soul, talking to her, embracing her.

Shaking, Alina clambers to her feet, heedless of the blood that runs down her face, staining the bright blue of her kefta. Rage unlike anything she has every known lends her body strength as she pushes away the hands trying to help her stand. Eyes fixed on her target she stalks towards the other woman, the whispers in her mind growing louder with each step. She is beyond fury, beyond stopping, beyond remorse for what she is about to do, beyond even humanity, as she summons the light and flings it at her attacker.

Burning hot light streams from her open hand, hitting the still smirking Zoya with agonising force, throwing her off her feet. She lands over 20ft away, screaming, writhing on the ground as the light settles over her like a net.

How Alina makes it to the other girl’s side she will later have no recollection, in that one endless moment she is everywhere – both standing where she was and by her defeated opponent. It isn’t enough, she realises, as she stares down at the thrashing figure, feeling consciousness start to slip from her grasp. Her chest is aching, the pain growing with each breath, but these are distant concerns. It isn’t enough to simply beat Zoya at her own game, to prove her wrong. In that moment she wants to teach the other a lesson she will never forget. It’s the last thought in her mind as the familiar darkness descends.

Notes:

Wow, that was a marathon to write. So what do you think?? Anyone want to venture a guess as to what Alina's lesson might be...

You'll be pleased to know that the next chapter is already written and just needs a few minor tweaks before publishing :). If we get to 170 comments on this fic you might even get it before the end of bank holiday Monday (*hint* *hint* ;)).

Sorry for those who were hoping for more Alek in this chapter, I promise there is a really good reason for this as you'll see in Chapter 9. Hopefully the library scene made up for it a little bit though, that was my favourite scene to write in this whole chapter and I'm really looking forwards to a lot more romance fun in Chapter 9 onwards.

Next up: The Road to Hell... in which we get Zoya's pov of the last month and the plot starts picking up pace.

p.s. this should be the last time Alina ends or starts a chapter unconscious :D

Chapter 8: The Road to Hell

Summary:

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. For Zoya it’s miscommunication, misunderstanding and mistakes.

Notes:

Oh wow. Can I first say how overwhelmed I am at the reception to the last chapter :). I'm absolutely thrilled that people are loving this. As promised - we've hit 170 comments so here's the second part... from Zoya's pov.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The last few weeks had not been kind to the Squaller. It started with the aborted trip across the Unsea - and if she ever found out who had gone against her express instructions and lit that bloody lamp, she would flay them alive and use their skin as a hearth rug.

The worst thing was it had started so well. He had been on the skiff – her skiff. It was well known throughout Kribirsk that the Darkling seldom, if ever, ventured into the murky blackness of the Fold. Rumours abound in any army camp, but on this most people believed it was out of fear of the effect his ancestor’s creation might have on him lest the evil behind it infect him as it had the Black Heretic. So to find the General on her skiff was both a wonderful, if daunting, surprise and a point of pride for Zoya.  

Clearly, she thought, he was here for her. Of all the skiffs he could have chosen he had selected hers. It had to mean something, possibly it meant everything.

Crushes on General Kirigan were normal in the Little Palace. Indeed, it is almost a right of passage and one most of the inhabitant’s experience at one time or another. The General is tall, dark and very handsome, with the sort of voice that sent shivers racing down the spine. On top of this he’s fiercely intelligent, an excellent horseman, protective and powerful. It’s a heady combination to grow up around. For Zoya’s age group though the potency had been further increased by the unusual amount of time the General had spent at the Little Palace. He was a busy man and typically spent maybe one in every year in Os Alta. For over a decade, however, this time had grown substantially until he was maybe absent from the Court for less than a quarter of the year and never for longer than a few weeks at a time.  

To Zoya he represented the pinnacle of male perfection, the man to whom no other could compare. Although she had enjoyed other lovers, her mind and heart invariably returned to her General. So she did what she could to attract his notice: she excelled in combat, was at the top of all her classes, and was acclaimed as one of the strongest Squallers ever seen. When the time finally came for her to join the Second Army she did so gladly, volunteering for dangerous missions, quickly gaining a reputation as both an excellent officer and a fearsome adversary. But it was all to no avail. Though the General spoke of his pride in her, his eyes did not linger and his tone was always distant.

Then, shortly after her 20th birthday, everything changed. She had been on leave, recuperating at the Little Palace following a dangerous mission across the Fjerdan border to rescue a small group of Grisha who had been attempting to flee the persecution of the Drüskelle. This she and her team had successfully accomplished and upon escorting them to the safety of the Little Palace had been rewarded by being given several weeks leave in the luxuries of Os Alta to recover.

It had been some time since Zoya had last been in company with the Darkling. In the spring of that year when she had last been in the Capital he had been away dealing with an incursion near the border with Shu Han, so it was with delight that Zoya had discovered her idol was also in residences at the Little Palace. She quickly realised, however, that all was not well. The General was distracted, brooding and bad tempered to the point where even his guards were concerned. Rumours were starting to be whispered about his mental state and the strains the war was having on him.  

It was concern that drove her to his door that night. Concern for him, concern over his puzzling behaviour, concern over the rumours flying around. He had smiled at her that night. Smiled and kissed her and taken her to his bed.

It had been wonderful, far surpassing every other experience she had ever had. If she had been concerned at first that it was a once off, she needn’t have worried. By day life went on much the same but every night found her sneaking down to his quarters only to return before dawn to her own rooms. Few words were said during these nights, but for Zoya words were unnecessary – she knew what was within both their hearts.

As the days passed, the General improved and seemed like his usual self again; much to the relief of everyone at the Little Palace. Deep inside Zoya felt a delicious curl of satisfaction warm her as she listened to the relieved comments of her fellow Grisha. She had done this, righted this, helped restore the beloved General to his usual collected composure.

If he still tossed and turned at night with uncomfortable dreams, Zoya assumed it was normal for one in his position and rank.

Far too soon her leave was over and she was far too professional to ask her lover to extend it as a favour or ask for reassignment so that remain with him. Almost before she knew it, it was time to return to her duties and the real world outside the cloistered walls of the Little Palace. Her last night with him was a bittersweet pain and one she knew he felt too. There was a force and desperation to him that night that she had never seen before and which was at odds with the man she knew who was always in control. By first light of that cold autumnal day she was gone, once more on the road to Kribirsk, only this time with a heart heavy with the pain of separation. She knew it would be many months before she saw the General again, not with how much time he spent at the Little Palace.  

In this she was soon proved wrong as only a few weeks later, to her delighted astonishment, the General appeared in Kribirsk and her heart leapt within her – surely this was a sign. If there were no more touches, no more nights wrapped around each other, enjoying the flames of passion that seared between them, Zoya understood: such things were for the safety of the Little Palace, not here on the front lines. Here they had to be professional, distant. Gossip was endemic in any arm camp but here it could be ruinous for her – and the darling man clearly recognised the importance of protecting her position and talents from scurrilous rumours.

It wasn’t easy, but she managed, and within months she was rewarded with a prestigious promotion, becoming the youngest Senior Squaller to command a Skiff. It was a position of great responsibility and honour. She would be in control of setting the speed and guiding the skiff through the perilous waste that was the Unsea and she had earnt it on her own merit – no one could say it nepotism was behind her fast rise through the ranks. Best of all it meant she could continue to see her family in Novokribirsk on a regular basis. The day of the promotion was one of the happiest in her life so far although receiving the additional stripe on her kefta was in truth only a part of this – the larger part was the evident pride in her General’s smile and voice as he announced it before the assembled crowd, the warm smile on his face as he watched her be congratulated and welcomed by her fellow Senior officers.

 


 

Months passed in this way, stable and familiar, and Zoya was happy; proud of her success and proud of the Second Army she was fiercely loyal too. If her meteoric rise had garnered her few friends she didn’t let it bother her, it had been the same at the Little Palace. Those with more power would always be resented by those who wished they had been so blessed – and there was no doubt, Zoya was powerful. Only the week before she had been awarded a commendation for her assistance in a skirmish with the Shu. She was by nature a competitive person with a strong desire to win. On the battlefield this made her asset but in the social life of a place like Kribirsk it did little to help her peers warm to her. She had people’s respect, and that was enough.

If in the privacy of her tent she longed for a return of those nights in the Little Palace, and the comfort and companionship she had found there, no one knew. The war was growing more desperate by the day and she knew that with both their duties here in Kribirsk there would be precious little opportunity for leave or recuperation until they had beaten their enemies and secured peace for Ravka.

 


 

Things changed when she was 23. She had been away in Novokribirsk on a supply run when things got odd in Kribirsk and she returned to whispers of the General’s argument with some otkazat’sya girl in the First Army. Sitting around the campfire with other senior Grisha, Zoya had listened with astonished disbelief as Fedyor laughingly told his audience of his partner’s plight as unwilling postal worker. The tale brought a frown to her face before she dismissed it. Clearly Fedyor was mistaken. Her General writing to some unknown otkazat’sya girl? Preposterous.

From there the mystery only deepened. Ivan himself was frustratingly tight lipped about the whole thing and would complain about the mountain of paperwork he had to get through. Of the mysterious girl he said nothing, scowling whenever the topic was brought up. Meanwhile the wild rumours were flying around: some thought he had a secret lover, others a secret child recently discovered. Some thought he was negotiating for Captain Berzof’s prise stallion that the Darkling had been seen admiring some weeks before.

Annoyed and irritable, Zoya tried to see her lover, certain this was all some misunderstanding, only to be refused and sent away by his oprichniki. Seven times she tried and each time with the same result. After a month of this she was nearly ready to scream in frustration and anger.

It was several more weeks before fate finally smiled on Zoya and she found herself alone with the Darkling. In desperation she asked – demanded from him – an answer about this girl.

With a bemused frown her General had replied, “what girl?”

Such a simple answer and yet she felt relief wash through her erasing a tension and tightness in her chest she had not realised she was carrying until it was gone. Clearly this girl was a nothing, a non-entity. As usual the gossips had blown things out of proportion. She really ought to have a word with Fedyor, the General would not like such mendacious gossip being spread about him by his own officers. How First Army officers conducted themselves was their concern, but those in the Second Army should hold itself to higher standards – and that started with slanderous gossip.

With a happy smile, Zoya waved off the General’s question as to who she was referring and dismissed the matter, telling him it was of no importance. Relieved and happy to have sorted the mystery out, she turned to her actual – official - reason for meeting with the General, unrolling the map on the table before him and pointing out the way markers that would soon need to be replaced along the safe routes the skiffs used.

Despite her best efforts the gossip continued unabated, but Zoya took no notice of it. If she had, she might have been more prepared for what was to come.

 


 

The day of the next supply run dawned cloudy and overcast, the clouds heavy with the possibility of rain. There was nothing about this day that hinted at what would shortly occur. By midmorning the threatening rain had started in earnest, temporarily halting the loading of munition into the hold and sending everyone ducking for cover under the nearest shelter.

Ravkan rainstorms are legendary for both their force and their length and had been known to settle in for days at a time, causing devastating floods. Luck was with them today, however, as the rain was over quickly and with only minimal delay and soon the normal function of the port resumed.

Zoya was delighted that despite the weather and the unexpected arrival of the General aboard they left exactly on time.

It was an auspicious start.

The first three markers were passed without incident but then some idiot lit one of the kerosine lamps and everything promptly went to hell in a handbasket.

Zoya was a veteran of the Fold and had survived several volcra attacks. None had been caused by a lamp, however. The light drew the beasts like moths to a flame and they swarmed the skiff on mass their shrieks and the screams of their victims making her ears ring. She had never seen so many before – had never thought there could be this many and it took all her nerve to keep the skiff moving, desperately hoping against hope that they could somehow make it to the safety of daylight.

Before her frightened eyes she watched as people were grabbed off the deck, the horror illuminated by the flashes of fire from the Inferni. By the prow she could just make out the General, shadows swirling as he ripped apart volcra after volcra in what was clearly a losing battle.

What happened next, Zoya could never say with any certainty, only that a flicked of gold caught her attention. That flicker became a blazing pillar shooting upwards towards the hidden sky before collapsing back on itself to form a dome of pure golden light, so bright it hurt to look at it.

Through the painful haze, Zoya could just make out the faint humanoid figure at the centre standing with their arms partially raised, light rippling from them like the waves of the true sea.

A name reverberated around her mind. Sun Summoner. It had to be. They were real, and they were here.

Around them the volcra screamed everywhere the light touched them as they desperately tried to escape the golden waves.

Through the hubbub, Zoya saw the General push his way towards the epicentre of the lights, just hearing over the din his shouted command for her to turn the skiff around and make for Kribirsk. Rushing to obey the instruction, she missed what happened next, her attention briefly caught by what she could have sworn was blue sky above them as she called for the two other Squallers to help her rotate the damaged skiff.

The explosion of power was enough that enough high above on the top sail it brought all three Squallers to their knees. All Zoya knew was that one moment there was light and safety and the next she was winded on the floor of the crows nest, the suffocating darkness of the Fold once again enfolding them.

With supreme effort she and the others clambered to their feet and put their all into getting back to Kribirsk as quickly as possible. Usually, Squallers navigating the Fold took things slowly and carefully, prizing subtlety, discretion and accuracy above speed to try and avoid any unwanted attention. Now however in the midst an attack speed was of the essence as she unleashed far greater power than she had before on a skiff.

The skiff burst forth from the Fold into bright, glorious sunlight to a cry of relief from the surviving soldiers on the deck.

 


 

Initially, Zoya had been like everyone else at the encampment – amazed to be alive, giddy with relief and delighted at the discovery of the long-awaited Sun Summoner. For the first time in years, things were looking up. The only downside was finding out that her General had been injured. She had rushed to the Command tent when she heard, only to be informed by a grumpy looking healer that they were dealing with it and they had no need for gawkers or an audience. Even telling them of her special connection to the General had no more effect than a raised eyebrow.

With a sigh Zoya had left, no wiser than before as to her General’s condition, and returned to her own tent for some much needed rest. It was the next morning that things truly started to unravel. Upon hearing an irate healer complain about the General’s rude dismissal, Zoya had gleefully set off to find her General. She found him mostly dressed and frowning. With hurried words she asked after him, anxious for good news to set her mind at rest. Far from welcoming her though he had turned his back to her and moved away. This was not the reunion she had been imagining. They were alone but there was no smile, no kiss, no profession of regard and relief that they had both survived the terrible ordeal of the previous day.

Thinking at first that maybe it was embarrassed male pride at her seeing him in a weakened state that made him turn from her, she tried again. Only this time he interrupted her with a list of instructions issued in a cold, distant voice, so unlike the man she had come to know. Without even a farewell Zoya was left alone, eyes glassy with tears as she wondered what had gone so wrong.

 


 

Assembling sufficient supplies and suitable officers from the Second Army takes up most of the morning and provides Zoya with a welcome distraction. The events of the day have left her confused, worried and emotionally bruised. Her General was always unfailingly polite but this morning he had been cold, distant and rude. There had been no sign of the passionate, considerate lover she knew and she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Her confusion only gets worse once she and the relief battalion met up with Ivan’s team and learn of the ambush in the forest.

Ivan is his usual stoic, uncommunicative self, but the others are in shock and eager to talk of both the attack and the Sun Summoner. A Sun Summoner who appeared to be about as useful and as powerful as a mouse. That the General had left immediately to take her to the Little Palace was a logical decision, although it is one that sits uneasily in her stomach.

Their journey to the Little Palace is nowhere as quick as the General’s. Moving a large force always takes longer but in this case they are also slowed down by the presence of the injuries sustained in the attack and having to transport the five officers they lost in the ambush. It is a small consolation, but one they all agree is required; their fellow Grisha and Second Army officers will not be left to rot abandoned, but will be laid to rest in the mausoleum built by one of the previous Darklings for their people with all the respect they are due.

When they finally arrive two days later it is to harried demands from Genya as she corrals them out of the welcoming environs of the Little Palace. They have arrived just in time, the red head tells them, as she does what she can to neaten their appearances. The Sun Summoner is about to be presented to the Tsar and Tsarina and the General has ordered all Grisha to the Imperial Palace in order to present a united front before the Imperial court.

With a scowl of annoyance, Zoya turns her aching feet towards the Grand Palace. All she wanted at this moment in time is a warm bath to soothe her aches and to wash the smell of horse off her. At the very least she had hoped to be able to change into a clean, unwrinkled, Kefta. Instead, their weary company are expected to trundle over and paste false smiles on their faces while the Sun Summoner dazzles them with her prowess.

 


 

From her position at the very back of the throne room, Zoya can see frustratingly little apart from the finely tailored back of her fellow Grisha. She can hear just fine though and she listens with growing amusement as the Tsarina’s nasally voice drifts over. She can’t help but smile at the Tsarina’s lack of tact and diplomacy as she comments on their new Sun Summoner’s appearance. That she is half Shu is new knowledge to Zoya and one she turns over in her mind. She had never given much thought to what the legendary Sun Summoner would look like, if they designed to make an appearance during her lifetime, but she had always sort of assumed that she would be Ravkan as that was how they were portrayed in paintings. That she would hold dual nationality was interesting and unexpected.

The Tsar continues to demonstrate the idiocy endemic at the top of their society with a banal comment on how he had expected her to be taller. Their son, the unfortunately featured Vasily, at least manages not to say anything insulting, but then his tone does quite well enough on its own in that regard, and it is quite apparent that he is both terminally bored and disinterested in meeting a living legend, whatever his muttered greeting suggests.

Then the light show starts and Zoya is distracted from her thoughts, mesmerised by the sparkling ball of starlight that shimmers in the shadowed room. Seeing it with her own eyes, being witness to the definite proof of the Sun Summoner’s existence brings a joy to her heart that buoys her and finds herself forgetting her previous annoyance and instead enthusiastically joining in the jubilant celebration of their newest and longest awaited member.

It's a gloriously happy occasion and the celebration continues throughout the day and well into the night, culminating in a rare feast and dancing at the Little Palace. If she and the others barely see the Sun Summoner during the party, Zoya thinks nothing of it and when she finally gets to her bed that night she falls asleep happy and content with the world, sure in the knowledge that soon the Sun Summoner will be trained and she will no longer be separated from her beloved family by the evil that is the Fold.

 


 

The happiness doesn’t last for long.

It starts with an early morning ride a few days later. That the Sun Summoner is an early riser is not unexpected. As an officer in the First Army she would be used to being awake early and surviving on little sleep. What does surprise her, however, is what she sees as she passes through the vestibule on the way to the senior dining room: there is her General, standing tall and handsome next to a horse as he gallantly assists Alina into the saddle. Within moments they have set off at speed – racing across the grounds and out of sight.

With a frown, Zoya continues to the dining room, confusion eating away at her appetite. When she spots Ivan sitting with Fedyor in one corner it's an easy decision to forgo her normal place and instead place her plate down beside the Heartrenders. Ivan greets her with a scowl as he returns to his tea, determined not to speak. Used to such behaviour, Zoya instead turns a smile on the ever polite and chatty Fedyor as she asks in what she hopes is a nonchalant tone about Ivan’s evident displeasure.

Fedyor laughs as he spots Ivan’s scowl getting deeper and more ominous. “Never mind Ivan, Zoya. He’s in a hump this morning as the General’s disrupted his precious routine by daring to go for a ride with the Sun Summoner rather than keeping his normal 8 o’clock with Ivan.”

Determined not to be jollied out of his perfectly justified grievance, Ivan mutters something rude under his breath which unfortunately just makes his partner laugh even more.

With a friendly nudge of his elbow, Fedyor smiles at Zoya, “I imagine they have much to catch up on.”

“That girl!” Ivan grunts crossly, “she upends everything. Before it was letters, now mothers. It’s a joke to you now, Fedyor, but just you wait. Life here will not be the same now that she is here. It was bad enough in Kribirsk.”

Zoya nearly spits out the sip of coffee she has just taken as the words echo in her ears. “What do you mean?” she demands.

Fedyor smiles again, “she is The Girl,” he answers in a quiet voice as Ivan grunts again and pushes himself to his feet, fed up with the conversation, “you remember, the girl he was writing to in Kribirsk.”

It gets worse from there. Now she is alert to it, suddenly it’s all she can see. The more she watches the more she sees and the more the situation worries her, gnawing away at her confident contentment.

The morning rides continue, not everyday but enough that she is not the only one who has noticed them. The General starts joining them for dinner each night, an unexpected honour that initially pleases her until she spots the way he watches her, eyes following her, a dark inscrutable expression flitting across his face so fast she could almost reassure herself she imagined it if not for the fact that she sees it more and more as time goes by.

If this was all, she might have been able to put it from her mind, but then she overhears that conversation and it’s like she has swallowed a lead weight. She had dismissed Fedyor’s theories as nothing more than the romantic musings of one who has read too many novels and has too much time on his hands. The genial Heartrender is well known for his love of romantic tales, and it had seemed too incredulous to believe, as he did, that the General had fallen in love with some otkazat’sya girl in the First Army only to discover she was really the Sun Summoner. But then she heard them that day and it no longer seemed quite so impossible.

Looking back it isn’t just what was said that hurt so much – it’s the way he touched her face as he murmured “Alinochka,” in a voice that could only be described as pleading. It’s the quiet intimacy between them as they stood together in the library, a book forgotten on the table. It’s the unguarded look on his face as he spoke to her in hushed tones even though she was turned from him, deliberately facing away.

Backing away from the door, Zoya had fled the scene feeling like her heart was about to break into a thousand pieces.  

Why her, her mind screams as she hides on the roof of the Little Palace. He couldn’t love her. He couldn’t. He was Zoya’s. He had been hers and she his since that night almost three years ago when he took her to bed for the first time.

But was he? Her mind questions as tears roll down her face. They had made no promises to each other. Those words she had once thought so unnecessary felt essential right now. She needed that tangible proof that the world was as she thought it was.

The Sun Summoner she had been so excited over now appeared to be more of a curse than a blessing. She was everywhere. Everywhere Zoya went she saw her, everyone she spoke to wanted to talk about her, she was inescapable. Zoya’s former teachers were enthral to her, the students worshipped her, even Baghra supposedly liked her – and that old bat liked no one – and now she had taken the General as well. Zoya’s General.

The following days she moves about the familiar halls of the home she loves as if in a daze. Fedyor and even Genya both ask after her, patting her hands as if they know what’s wrong but out of deference to her feelings will not put it into words. She’s grateful for that unexpected kindness. She fears if she hears it spoken that it will make it more real and then her heart will really break.

It’s Genya who unwittingly makes her feel better in another overheard conversation she should not have listened too. Genya who speaks to Nadia of her worries about the attention the General is paying Alina, her concerns that he is using her, making her fall in love with him as part of some greater plan. It’s like a fog has been lifted. Of course, that must be it. He isn’t in love with her, but he does need her. Genya’s worries make perfect sense. It’s a ploy. An unpalatable one, surely, but a ploy nonetheless.  

It helps as well that the Sun Summoner is not exactly shaping up to be the paragon that everyone had expected. Alina is struggling, as Zoya finds out from the General himself. She is finding it hard to acclimatise to her new surroundings. More troubling, the General tells her with a slight frown marring his beautiful features, is that she has yet to find the key to unlocking her power without the aid of an amplifier. It’s enough to make Zoya feel warm with pride and pleasure when her General calls her into his War Room to tell her this and ask her to befriend the younger girl in the hope that she, Zoya, might be able to improve the less than useful sancta they have been lumbered with.

It's only after that she realises he made no mention of them or of her visiting his rooms as she did before. It's enough to dim the glow that has warmed her for the hours since their meeting and her previous fears and distrust comes back with a heart pounding rush.

Suspicion is a horrid thing to live with, but for Zoya it becomes a constant friend.

 


 

Training with Botkin is just another annoyance in Zoya’s life at present. It doesn’t matter how old she is or how often she proves her skills, every time she returns to the Little Palace, the Grisha combat instructor insists on testing her.  She had hoped, upon learning at breakfast that their sainted saviour was due to have a combat lesson today that today would be a rare day when she wouldn’t have to live in the glare of the Sun Summoner’s supposed brilliance and could instead happily ignore her existence for a few short hours before she starts the onerous task of trying to knock her into shape.

It is not to be.

At 10 o’clock, just as she had settled herself on her bed with a novel, there’s a knock on the door with a message informing her it’s assessment day and she is to attend the training yard within half an hour. Frustrated at her interrupted plans, she storms from the dormitory down towards the arena. Her day gets worse from there.

It turns out that Botkin, in all his affable madness, has decided that after a month of one-on-one tuition the Sun Summoner is ready to start practicing with her peers. Having impressed upon those watching the danger facing the Sun Summoner and the great need for them all to be at the top of fighting ability, he then began the class with a tedious introduction of the routine he wished them to practice that day.

It's mind numbingly dull. So dull, in fact, that she almost misses the start of the first spar she has zoned out so much. Her inattention costs her as she loses the chance to pair up with a decent partner and gives Botkin the opportunity to decide that she will make the perfect opponent for the precious little mouse beside him.

With a smile and a nod, Alina is brought forward and introduced to the annoyed Squaller. It doesn’t help that Botkin has taken to calling Alina ‘Daughter’ either. It may have been in reference to their shared heritage, but for Zoya it is yet another show of undeserved favouritism towards the interloper.

The bout goes pretty much as Zoya thought it would. The girl’s footwork is shoddy, her punches weak and her ability to spot an opening non-existent. Much to her satisfaction she has the girl on her back within 5 seconds. The second bout lasts about the same, but this time she takes delighted satisfaction in tossing her over her shoulder, smiling at the hard thud that sounds as her opponent’s back meets the ground with bruising force.

The third and fourth times follow much the same pattern. On the fifth, however, the girl shows some spirit at last - blocking her punch, pre-empting the swipe she goes to make with her left foot and actually succeeds in kicking Zoya hard in the knee, making pain race up her leg as it crumples to the floor.

In the normal way of things, Zoya would have nodded at her opponent for a successful and well executed manoeuvre and that would have been the end of it. This is far from normal though. It’s the excited clapping of the watching audience that really does it and before she has even thought it through she is up on her feet, grabbing the other girl’s arm, pulling her backwards and off balance as she flips her over her back, this time following the move through completely so that she ends crouching above the Sun Summoner, pinning her to the floor with her arms above her head.

 

In hindsight it’s a foolish thing to do, and she should have known at the outset that it would win her few friends, least of all the General, but jealous people are seldom wise and Zoya was hurting. She’s tried to dismiss the way they look at each other, the way he watches her covetously, the way he hovers around her protectively, the familiarity Alina is allowed that she has never been granted, but it hurts. She has never been given instant access to the General, she has never been invited to eat with him in his private rooms, she has never been taken for morning rides around the palace grounds. But what makes it worse is the applause from their peers, the popularity and status that she has automatically received that Zoya has had to work for, for years. The jealousy burns within her, bright and hot, making her want to lash out – and in that moment she wants nothing more than for the other girl to feel a fraction of the pain and anguish that she feels, to know how much better Zoya is than her, to know that she may be the Sun Summoner but she is nothing compared to the Squaller.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching,” Zoya snarls under her breath, tightening her grip on Alina’s wrists and making her wince.

“Do you really think he would be attracted to you, that he would give you the time of day if you weren’t the only Sun Summoner?” she taunts, smirking at the confused hurt that flashes across her opponent’s face. “You mean nothing to him – to anyone – other than for your power. And what good are you anyway? Useless, I’ve heard – barely even able to make sparks, a five year old Inferni could do better.”

The girl blushes, her embarrassment clear as her eyes flit away, unable to meet Zoya’s. The sight causes a dark thrill of satisfaction fizzes down Zoya’s spine.  

It’s cruel and definitely beneath her to say these things and yet Zoya can’t seem to stop herself from twisting the knife deeper and deeper. In the back of her mind is the thought that her relatives in Novokribirsk would be horrified if they could see her in this moment, but even that is not enough to give her more than a moment’s pause as she continues: “you might hold his attention, for now, with your bright shiny powers. You might even make it to his bed before he tires of you, but know this – I was there first. I had him first, and unlike you, I didn’t need to be the Sun Summoner to make him want me.”

The girl beneath her is stiff and unnaturally still, and for a moment Zoya fears that she has even stopped breathing. Alina’s eyes are as hard as diamonds as she stares up at her captor, embarrassment gone as anger takes its place.  In a voice so cold shivers run down her spine, Alina replies, “Then why aren’t you still there?”

With a hiss of anger, Zoya tightens her grip, enjoying the pain in the girl’s eyes. “You’re nothing but a mouse, a nothing, a no one.” Zoya chuckles darkly, “just you wait, you’ll see, once he has what he wants from you he’ll toss you aside and come back to me. We have history he and I.”

Behind her she can hear shouting and knows that her time is nearly up before someone intervenes. With a final toss of her hair and squeeze of her hands against Alina’s bruised wrists, Zoya stands, smoothing her tunic down as she turns to walk away, her victory buoying her mood. Her satisfaction doesn’t last long, however, as with a pained cry she finds herself spinning round, a forceful punch sending her sprawling on the ground, the sound of her peers’ claps and whistles ringing in her ears.  Blood rushes to her face as the humiliation sets in.

The rules of Botkin’s combat area are sacrosanct and one of the first things all Grisha learn upon starting instruction: under no circumstances is anyone to use their gift within the confines of the combat arena. It’s first and most important rule. The second, which in this case is equally important, is to never to attack in anger.

In that moment, Zoya forgets both rules as her fury erupts, and her temper snaps. Jumping to her feet she pulls on the air swirling in her mind, sending a frigid blast so powerful it sends the other girl flying into the wall 15ft away. The crack as she hits the wall is as satisfying as the silence that falls after as their audience stop clapping in shock.

Zoya barely notices as Botkin grabs her elbow, his face thunderous as he instructs her to go the General’s office immediately, she is too busy watching two of the younger etheralki check on the crumpled figure of the Sun Summoner. With a smile, Zoya thinks this is worth any punishment. She bested the Sun Summoner. Ha!

It is with some surprise, and a grudging respect, she observes Alina push herself up onto her knees before standing shakily as she brushes past the hands trying to help her. Zoya’s satisfaction dies a quick death as with horror she sees her nemesis’s eyes suddenly glow a bright vivid gold. For the first time it hits home to her just who – what – this girl is: Sun Summoner, a living saint.

Trapped in the other’s gaze, Zoya stands motionless as the Sun Summoner stalks towards her surrounded by a miasma of golden light. A bright scalding beam of shimmering gold shoots from Alina’s hand hitting Zoya in the chest, sending her flying back clear across the courtyard in a mocking parody of Zoya’s own action. Unlike hers though this burns. It’s like she’s been coated in a flammable oil and a match struck near her. It’s a conflagration, searing her skin and torching her nerve endings. Screaming in pain and terror, she tries to call on the soothing presence of the air knowing that fire can only burn if there is air to feed it. If she can control the air she can stop the fire.

She calls but nothing answers.

Vaguely she is aware of people around her, of rugs beating futilely against her and panicked shouts, and still it won’t come. In the space where it has always been there is a gaping nothingness, an emptiness that hurts more than the fire.   

High in the sky the sun blazes, triumphant and victorious. It is the last thing she sees as darkness takes her.

Notes:

So... what do you think??? When I first plotted out this story chapters 7, 8 and 9 were meant to be just the one chapter. Once I started writing it though the chapter didn't flow with three points of view - each of which is important in its own way, so I decided to split them up. Each one brings something a bit different to the narrative. Alina's is about her coming to terms with the immense changes she's suddenly had foisted on her and her starting to rebuild her relationship with Aleksander. Zoya's is a much needed (I think) view from an outsider for most of it and the spiralling issues that arise from miscommunication (or in this case no communication)... its also really important as she is the impetus for Alina discovering more about her powers (well, Alek's did ask her to help, although not quite in this way). And then we have darling Aleksander's - expect a lot of introspection, a bit of angst and a glorious argument between Botkin and Baghra.

I loved the comments on the last chapter and the speculation over what Alina was going to do to Zoya. Anyone want to have a guess, there are some pretty bit clues at the end ;). Speaking of Zoya - I can't stand her in the series. She's self-serving, unkind and completely one-dimensional. One of things I really wanted to do with this fic was the address the lack of character development in both the show and the books. Hopefully this chapter has helped address this a little. I felt quite sorry for Zoya by the end of this chapter and I can't wait to hear everyone's reactions :).

Next up: Of Black Hearts and Black Generals:
This chapter is mostly written, if we get to 200 comments It might inspire me to finish it and post it next weekend :).

Chapter 9: Black Heart and Black Generals

Summary:

Falling in love is easy. Living with it is much harder. Aleksander thought that things would get easier now Alina was safe in the Little Palace. He was wrong.

Notes:

Hey guys, sorry this has been a long time coming (hides behind the sofa). Thank you for much to everyone who commented on the last chapter, it meant so much to me and has really helped through what has been a really difficult couple of months. My mum died quiet unexpectedly a few weeks ago and it's been hard finding the time, or the desire to write, as a result. Still, it's done now and I hope an extra long update at 12,000 words makes up for my absence.

Music for this chapter is Black Heart by the amazing Two Steps from Hell.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The walk back from his talk with Baghra is as interminable as his journey there had been, and Aleksander returns to his rooms vexed and worn out. He is exhausted – mentally, physically and emotionally by the events of the past few days. Has it really only been three days since this debacle began? It feels like years, and has done more to distress him in days then decades of pointless wars and endless losses.

He is so close to having all that he has worked for, planned for, sacrificed for and yet it has never felt so far out of reach as it does at this moment. His manservant must see something of this in his master’s face for Gustave is more than usually solicitous of the General; stoking the fire in his rooms and pressing warm spiced wine into his hands while he draws Aleksander a bath.

The bath helps most, relieving the bone deep aches and pains from such a strenuous ride, although the spiced wine helps to mellow and settle his mind which has been left even more turbulent after his most recent discussion with his mother. Baghra is right. He should have paid more attention. He had dismissed the hints and signs of Alina’s true nature as only evidence of his foolish feelings and his desperation that there might be a future for him and Alina that need not end in death. He had been caught in the worst trap, made worse still because it is one of his own making; too scared to have hope destroyed if it was not true and yet terrified as to what it might mean if it was.  

He had made a muddle of this. Alina – she who had trusted him for years – is now wary of him, distrustful and distant. That he has hurt her is clear, and yet he still has no idea as to how he has done so or indeed how to fix it.

It is only after his restorative bath that it occurs to him that Alina should see a healer. It is a shameful oversight, and one that makes guilt curdle uncomfortably in his stomach, when he thinks of it. The last two days had been long and fraught for all those involved – but particularly for Alina, who has been injured at least once. Who knows what harm the Fjerdan fiend had inflicted on her before he arrived. The healer with Ivan had not been particularly concerned, but then Olga was not known for his sympathetic qualities,  and he could not rest easy until Garin had seen her. With that in mind, it is a matter of moments to write a note, seal it, and dispatch it via one of his guards to his head healer.

Garin arrives with a quarter of an hour, out of breath, and with a frown marring his normally jovial features. It takes a few minutes to reassure his old friend and to explain to him the discovery of the Sun Summoner. During the explanation, Aleksander is treated to a demonstration of Garin’s peculiar way of showing his regard, as he finds himself prodded and poked past the point of frustration, before the healer announces that he is in adequate health for someone who had nearly died only two days before.

That Garin is shocked by Aleksander’s news is clear. Everyone, Grisha and otkazat’syas alike, have been waiting so long for the Sun Summoner to appear that it is more legend than expectation now. But now, at last, the Sun Summoner had been found. The healer quickly recovers though as is back to his normal business like attitude before his examination of Aleksander is even finished and all his concern is directed at understanding Alina’s possible injuries. It doesn’t even require an order for Garin to declare his next stop will be the Vesta suite, although it does need a raised eyebrow to get the healer to volunteer that he will return and update his General after the examination.

It is only once Garin has left that Aleksander appreciates the flaw in his plan. If he was feeling guilty before, now is worse. Now he is not just feeling the increasingly familiar pain of guilt, but is also fretting about Alina’s continued state of health, his many possible (likely) mistakes, their argument, what he will do now and the quickly degenerating state of the plans he has spent hundreds of years perfecting. It is not an ideal situation to say the least and it is with mounting impatience that Aleksander is forced to wait for Garin’s return. Every minute that passes feels ten times as long and it is a torturously long hour that he paces the confines of his study like a caged wolf. At last there is a knock on the door and his healer returns.

Garin’s report is better than Aleksander’s tormented mind had expected. Alina has not suffered any permanent or long term harm. She is exhausted, frightened and confused, but her injuries are minor. With a grateful nod, he dismisses the healer, and settles in front of the fire to think, the flames soothing his agitated mind. Sitting his glass of kvas, he turns the events of the last few days over in his mind.

It shouldn’t be his first priority and yet Aleksander cannot help the desperate need to bring some comfort to the girl who is even now crying in the opulent rooms of the Vesta Suite. There are other, more important things he needs to get done – things like informing the Tsar of the discovery, like making plans to protect the Sun Summoner, or arranging a training schedule for Alina – but instead of doing any of these things Aleksander makes his way back down the path towards the stables.

The Head Groom, Isaac, greets him with his typical low bow and looks nervous as tells his master that Beauty is too tired after his fierce ride to be taken out again that day. With a nod Aleksander agrees and allows himself to be directed towards a dappled grey gelding. The grey is a tall, handsome creature, and while not so striking as his pitch black Trakehner, he has a steadier character - one less prone to fits of personality and far more biddable. He is saddled swiftly and within a few short minutes Aleksander is once again on the road, wind rushing through his hair as he passes through the city gate towards the south side of Os Alta.

Finding the house he is looking for is as easy as breathing. It might have been years, but his thoughts have never been far away from the occupants of this tiny dwelling and the route from the Little Palace to this place is indelibly etched in his mind. That Madam Starkov is surprised to see him is neither a mystery nor unexpected. The blood suddenly draining from her face as she sways dangerous where she stands, one hand raised to press against her heart as if it pains her, is unexpected.  It is instinct that allows Aleksander to catch Mei-Xing as she stumbles, her cheeks an unhealthy shade of white, as he guides her onto the sofa and hurries to make tea from the kettle hanging over the fire.

With stumbling words, Mei-Xing asks how her daughter died only to laugh tearily as Aleksander hastily explains that she is alive and well, if somewhat shaken and bad tempered after an unusual chase across the western fields of Ravka. There are few people in the world that can make Aleksander feel like a chastened child again, but Madam Starkov is one of them, and he shifts like a naughty school boy in his chair as he apologises for scaring her, before explaining his reason for turning up on her doorstep at a quarter past four and giving her a fright.

Mei-Xing listens with a growing frown as the General tells her about the events of the past three days. Her frown deepens when he gets to the part about the skiff and the revelation of Alina’s powers, and she looks troubled as she stirs her tea.

“You wish me to come to the Little Palace?” Mei-Xing queries as she refills Aleksander’s cup. He can only nod, the words he needs to say sticking in his throat.

“Alina…” he starts and trails off, looking lost, before he begins again. “My head healer as checked Alina over himself, she’s fine physically, nothing that a few days will not heal… but she is… that is to say…”

Mei-Xing nods and reaches over to place a calming hand over her guest’s, “but there are more types of pain than just physical hurts, and there are times when a Mother’s care is best. That is what you wish to say, yes?”

Aleksander nods. His stomach is churning at the thought of Alina crying in the bedroom he has long imagined her occupying. It is a cruel parody of his dream and one that hurts him all the more because of it.

Mei-Xing smiles at him, gentle and calm as she always is. “I will come,” she says firmly as she stands to collect her coat off the hook by the door. He had never thought she would do otherwise, but Madam Starkov’s confirmation reassures his fretful mind and he feels the tension in his muscles relax as he stands to assist her. The carriage he had ordered will be waiting for her a few streets away and he escorts her there, handing her into the conveyance with care, before giving instructions to the driver and guard. Mikhail is one of his most trusted Oprichniki and will ensure she taken where she needs to go. He follows the carriage out of Os Alta and into the safety of the stable yard of the Little Palace. It is here that he finally forces himself to part company with Alina’s mother and return to his study and the myriad of tasks he ought to be getting on with.

 


 

Informing the Tsar is a duty that unfortunately has to be undertaken and it is regret and a heavy sense of foreboding that Aleksander at last inks his quill and starts on the missive. The General is under no illusion as to what the response will be from their revered ruler, or how easily things could now go awry.

The corpulent idiot Ravka is currently lumbered with is merely the latest in a long line of bad monarchs. The Lantsov line is riddled with weak chins, weak wills and weak brains – the result, he suspects, of continuously marrying their cousins. The Lantsov family tree more resembles a tangled knot then it does a tree, and it is an annual headache for the Master of Ceremonies to keep track of who’who - and who’s married to who - in the tangled web that is the Lantsov family.

With a sigh, Aleksander signs his name with his usual flourish and sits back as he waits for the ink to dry. That the Tsar would be thrilled was a certainty. They had all been waiting for the Sun Summoner; commoner, lord and prince alike, with mounting impatience as each successive generation passed and there was no sign of the fabled Sun Saviour. So, yes, the Tsar would be pleased. It’s everything else that is up in the air. There was no guarantee that the Tsar would do the sensible thing and give Alina into his care. The Apparat would almost certainly look to get his greasy fingers on Alina and could well persuade the Tsar that she should live in the Imperial Palace under the protection and auspices of the Tsar and Tsarina. Such a move would be catastrophic; not just for his plans, and for the good of Grisha everywhere, but because he had no doubt what would happen if the Tsar turned his attentions on Alina – there likely wouldn’t be an Imperial Palace left, or a Tsar.

He shuddered. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, now he had that image in his mind. Alina is a pretty girl, and he’s sure she had admirers before – even if his heart burns resentfully at the thought – but he doubts any sane minded person would wish for the attentions of such a man as the Tsar.

And then there was the problem of Vasily. As if the Tsar wasn’t enough of a problem at least his lecherous attentions were limited. Vasily was a different animal and it had not escaped Aleksander’s notice that the young Tsarevich had moved on from molesting maids to trying it on with his Grisha. More than once he had had to redirect Vasily away from the Little Palace or distract him so that the unfortunate girl who had caught his attention could make a swift exit. It was why there was a blanket requirement that the girls in the Little Palace walk in the grounds in pairs or larger groups. Age was no protection from the Crown Prince, nor was saying no. The rape laws in Ravka were strict and punishment swift, but they were no help when the perpetrator was a member of the royal family.

Aleksander half hoped that Alina’s unusual heritage would protect her. To his eyes she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and her mixed heritage merely added to her allure, giving her an exotic edge that made her stand out against the pale eyes and hair so common in Ravka and Fjerda, but he was well aware of the racial prejudice only too present in their society, and the Imperial Court was worse.  He could already hear the whispers that would follow Alina’s appearance; the snipes and jibes, the casual cruelty directed unthinkingly at the one they expected to save them and yet had no problem disparaging.

It's no wonder why he hates the Imperial Court – all those useless, backstabbing, hypocrites – the people who resent his Grisha, who begrudge them every comfort and yet still expect them to create dazzling performances, to invent new technologies, to die in their wars and cater to their every whim. And into this nest of vipers he has no choice but to bring his Alina – his precious girl, who is honest and innocent and decent. His Alina who has no experience of the Royal Court, who he has kept far away from the secrets and intrigue, the sex and debauchery, the snobbery and scorn of their so called ruling class.

Aleksander’s fist clenches around the sealing wax, knuckles bleached white in his anger. He would protect her – even if it meant pulling down the Imperial Palace brick by horrendously ugly brick – he had to. Sun Summoner she may be, but she is also his Alina, and it would destroy him to see her changed because of this – because of them - to see her warm heart grow cold, her faith and innocence shattered.  Scowling, he presses his ring into the melted puddle of wax, sealing the letter, and trying desperately to shake the fear that he has sealed her fate along with the message. With quick strides he walks to the door, yanking it open and pressing the letter into the hands of the waiting guard with instructions that it’s to be delivered into the Tsar’s own hands immediately.

With a deep sigh he returns to his desk, desperate for the relief the distraction of work will bring to the torture of his thoughts.

Half an hour later there is another knock on his door.

 


 

Knocking on the imposing door, Mei-Xiang smiles as General Kirigan leaps from his chair to stand upon her entrance, offering her a deep courtly bow as she closes the door behind her.

“How is she?” he asks, voice hoarse with worry.

Mei-Xiang sighs, “Uncertain and overwhelmed by the speed and magnitude of the changes that have occurred, as anyone would be.” Her voice is deliberately mild but Aleksander hears and understands the gentle rebuke and grimaces as he invites the older woman to sit.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs as he hands Alina’s mother a large glass of kvas, “I have been beset with worry for her these last few days. So much has happened I can hardly comprehend…”

His guest sighs as she sips the strong alcohol. “She will recover her spirit and equilibrium in time,” she reassures the young man before her before fixing him with a firm, uncompromising stare, “did you know she was the Sun Summoner,” she asks, voice like steel.

Aleksander can’t stop the flinch as he reels back from his desk, the hidden dagger in what might seem an innocuous question piercing him, “No!” he said firmly, shaking his head.

Madam Starkov searched his eyes for a long moment before she finally nods.

“I do not know if you mean my daughter harm,” she says in her usual soft spoken way, “but my heart believes that you love her, maybe as much as I do, so I offer you this advice. Do not lie to my Alina or play games with her, General. Her trust is not broken, but it is fragile, and it would not take much to shatter it beyond repair.”

With that parting advice she stands and leaves as quietly as she entered, leaving behind her a man desperately trying to keep his rioting emotions under control.

Staring at the shut door thoughtfully, Aleksander ponders Madam Starkov’s advice, shame niggling at him as he considers how close it was to his original plan he’d had to mould the Sun Summoner. It’s remarkably similar to the advice his mother gave him earlier that day, although this was far less acerbic and much more straightforward than the words his mother had used. Baghra, in her usual gnomic fashion, had merely told that while peat bogs were great places to hide bodies they made for poor foundations when building a house.

He assumes the message is along similar lines, but who really knows when it comes to his mother.

What Mei-Xing has tasked him with is only easy in theory. Secrets have become a form of currency to him – his and other people’s. It’s a dirty trade, but it has kept him and his Grisha safe over the years. Knowledge is a perilous commodity in this world and he very much fears that in sharing it with Alina he will drive her from him.

One thing is clear to him. He cannot, will not, risk his relationship with Alina. But could she – would she – still claim him as her dearest friend if she knew he was the Black Heretic? If she knew his plans?

 


 

The response from the Tsar arrives at a typically late and inconsiderate hour. Gustave has only just succeeded in cajoling the General to leave his desk and retire to bed when there is a knock on the door. It’s one of the Tsar’s servants, dressed in the normal white uniform denoting them as staff at the Imperial Palace. Why the Royal family thought white a good colour for a servant’s uniform was a mystery to most people and had perplexed Aleksander for years. It was the most impractical colour and meant that in addition to their already gruelling jobs, the royal servants also had the extra burden of keeping their clothes immaculately clean while they undertook all manner of cleaning, carrying and serving related duties.

The note from the Tsar is much as Aleksander had expected. With little in the way of consideration as to the state or health of the newly found saviour, the Tsar commanded that the Sun Summoner be presented before the court at 11 hour the next morning where a demonstration of her powers would be required.

Along with the note was a uniform and veil for the Sun Summoner to wear for her presentation. Aleksander looked at the garment and immediately scowls in annoyance. There before him was a brand new, uselessly ornamented and idealised version of the First Army uniform, only made from far better cloth than the usual First Army officer warranted. The design was impractical, for a start, and made a mockery of Alina’s credentials as an actual member of the First Army. That this was brand new and specially made for this purpose is clear and only serves the stoke the fires of his annoyance more. The Imperial Army was perilously provisioned, poorly equipped and badly trained. Their losses were great, the health of the army appalling and here is the Tsar flittering away money, which could have gone to a much better purpose, on what could only be described as a farce. Alina wasn’t an officer, she was an NCO in the medical corps, and yet the epaulets clearly denote her as a lieutenant in the First Battalion.  

With a huff, Aleksander retakes his recently vacated seat and pens a response, before handing it to the waiting servant. Sighing he rubs his eyes tiredly. The Tsar’s pretentions and ridiculous requirements would create a lot of work tomorrow morning. Alina would have to made ready to meet the court – which was not a job he relished. The uniform would also need to be tailored to fit her. The Tsar’s tailor had evidently guessed at Alina’s size and judging by the excess material he had erred on the side of caution by basing it on the average dimensions of the court ladies. As much as he resented the need, Aleksander was too used to politics and court games not to understand and appreciate the need to create the right first impression on the gormless idiots at the Imperial Court. First impressions matter – and the impression Alina needed to make was one of unassailable power, one who demanded respect.

Pinching the brow of his nose, Aleksander tiredly put pen to paper once more, this time to the best Tailor in the Second Army. If anyone could prepare Alina, alter this ridiculous costume and achieve the unachievable in the ridiculously tight time scale they had, it would be Genya.

He had long wished to introduce the redhead to Alina. Genya’s calm, composed nature, experience and gentleness were traits which he had often thought would balance Alina’s happy, kind and sometimes naïve, disposition. It was a friendship which would benefit both girls who were both, through no fault or inclination of their own, in a different position to the rest of the Grisha.

The instructions to Genya finished, Aleksander can finally rest and it’s with relief that he at last climbs into his bed and allows sleep to claim him.

 


 

The morning dawns far too bright and far too early for someone as tired as Aleksander. It is only the immediate application of three cups of the strongest coffee available which succeeds in prising the General from his bed and saves Gustave from a severe tong lashing. Exhaustion is a weakness he can ill afford at the moment and Aleksander resents his body’s complaints as he shuffles through his morning routine.

By cup number four, the General is at long last feeling somewhat more human and is sat at his desk going through the voluminous overnight dispatches when one of the guards appears to inform him that Ivan and the escort division have arrived and are awaiting instruction. Distracted by a concerning report from one of his spies at the Fjerdan border, Aleksander scribbles a quick note to his Second-in-Command to have the newly arrived Grisha fed, bathed and dressed in their best keftas to report to the Imperial Palace at 11 o’clock when the Sun Summoner would be presented to the Imperial Court. That completed his attention returns to the reports. They were troubling, very troubling.

 


 

At fifteen minutes to the hour, a polite knock on the door alerts him to the time and with a final check of his appearance to make sure all was as Gustave had left it some hours before, Aleksander leaves his office to meet the Sun Summoner at the bottom of the great staircase so he could escort her to the Imperial Palace. The rest of the Grisha, with the exception of Genya, should have already assembled at the Imperial Palace and be waiting for their arrival.

Right on time Genya appears, leading a heavily veiled, yet visibly, nervous woman and it was only Aleksander’s long familiarity with Alina that allowed him to recognise her under the hideous gold embroidery. In his chest his heartbeat quickens, dancing in delight as his breath catches. Even dressed in that ridiculous outfit Alina is breath taking and the sight of her after the tumult of the last few days is a much needed balm he hadn’t realised he needed until that moment.

He is still trying to get his rebellious emotions back under control when Alina takes the final step off the staircase and appears beside him. Unable to speak for the moment, Aleksander instead offers her his elbow in courtly gesture. It thrills him more than it should when he feels Alina take his arm and start to walk beside him. Genya has melted into the background, no doubt intending to run ahead so she can be in position for their grand entrance, but of this he is only peripherally aware. All he sees, all he can think about, it the girl on his arm.

At last he finds his voice, helped in part by the trembling hand he can feel shaking as Alina clutches his arm. “Please don’t worry, Alina,” he murmurs to her. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the root of her nerves. There has been no time to discuss these plans with the poor girl or even to reassure her that he can help her call the sun.  “I would not embarrass you. If you believe nothing else, you must believe that.” The words are little more than whispers on the wind, but the emotion behind them bleeds out of him in a way that he is powerless to control. He would never let Alina be harmed or embarrassed and he hopes that if she doubts everything else, that she at least believes this of him.

As they make their way through the Imperial Palace he tries to joke with her, to distract her from what is coming. In this their location helps. The Imperial Palace is one of the ugliest buildings he has ever had the misfortune to see and it is clear that Alina feels the same. It is gaudy and ostentatious, with useless finery and a décor which makes him wish he was blind. This is not even the worst part of it. He dreads parties in the Green Salon, a room so called because of its lurid green wallpaper. If the assault on good taste had stopped there, things might have been okay, but the Tsarina, in what can only be described as in a moment of colour blindness, had decided to furnish the room with orange upholstery and gold accents. The result was a visual assault the likes of which he had still not recovered from three years later. The Tsarina called this a daring fashion statement. He – and he assumed most other people with eyes – thought this was an afront to good taste and that the Lantsov’s should be barred from any other architectural or decoration related projects.

It warms his heart to hear Alina’s snort as she tries desperately to supress her laughter. She is still shaking, but now it is with silent laughter instead of nerves, as he leads down a final corridor towards the Grand Ballroom. In less than a minute they are finally inside the room and Alina gets her first glimpse of the Imperial Court.

The room is much as he had expected, crowded with everyone and everyone who could wangle an invitation. At the far end, raised high on a dais sit the Tsar, Tsarina and the Tsarevitch.

It is not an auspicious start as introductions go. The Tsar is rude and uncouth, while the Tsarina is cruel and tactless, but Aleksander can’t help the smile that flits across his lips as Alina in her own inimitable way responds to the Tsarina’s snobbery. Her little fib that she doesn’t speak Shu is brilliantly played and makes him wonder if Alina, counter to his initial thoughts, would be an asset in the political arena. Before he can think about this, however, he is distracted by the Tsar introducing his weak chinned son to Alina. Vasily is an unpleasant, spoilt boy who, if had not been born into the royal family would likely have had little impact on life or history. His interest in Alina is immediately clear and Aleksander finds his muscles tensing and his shadows coiling in proactive readiness as he watches the introduction. Alina is unsettled by the crown prince and it makes the jealous beast in his mind purr with pleasure when she unthinkingly steps back, bumping against his chest, as she tries to distance herself from the boy. Vasily will not touch her, Aleksander will make sure of that. He can see the desire, the greed and ambition in the other’s eyes and he tries again the recapture her hand, but Alina is ahead of him and folds her hands behind her back, where they squeeze into fists in an attempt to hide her distress.

It is a troubling situation. Aleksander had hoped that Alina’s unusual heritage would protect her from the Lantsov roving eye, but this is clearly not the case. What he can – or should – do about it is a question he will have to think about later as, with impeccable timing, the Apparat intervenes to suggest that it is time for the demonstration.  

It is an excuse Aleksander desperately needs. The last few minutes has tried his patience in ways he has not felt for many years and his shadows are desperate to escape – both to protect Alina and to prove his dominance over the boy who has inadvertently issued a challenge to him. He barely has to concentrate before the room is cloaked in the comforting embrace of his shadows and the thought flickers across his mind that it would be such an easy thing to reach out with one and remove the useless idiots that make up their royal family. It isn’t the right time for that though. One day they will pay for the blood of the Grisha they have abused and killed, but things are not yet ready. He is a patient man. After waiting 500 years, what are a few more months.

With that, Aleksander takes off his glove and turns, reaching out and offering Alina his hand. He can see in her eyes that she is curious and uncertain as to what he is doing, but nevertheless her hand reaches out and joins his. The reaction is instantaneous and greater that even he could have imagined. Around them he feels his shadows pulse and grow, as if Alina’s touch has sent a surge of power through them, but it is Alina which captures and holds his attention. Around them a bubble of light has erupted, encasing Shadow Summoner and Sun Summoner. The ballroom may glitter with the light of a hundred thousand stars but in that moment all he can – and all wants to see – is Alina, her eyes shining with golden light, her skin shimmering, she has never looked more beautiful then in that moment and it feels like his heart might burst with how swollen it is with love for her.      

He loves her – desperately, ardently, completely – and with their powers mingling it has never felt so right. Alina’s eyes are shining with light and something else, something he desperately wishes is love. It gives him hope. For a moment he feels almost giddy with it and then reality crashes down.  

He doesn’t deserve her. The realisation is a crushing one and coincides with their hands parting and the reluctant separation of their gifts. How is happened, he cannot say. Did he pull back? Did she? Mayhap both let go at the same time. Either way, the result is the same. Slowly, almost resentfully, his shadows dissipate, reluctantly disentangling themselves from her light. Alina staggers as the starlight fades, off balance and exhausted by the display.  

Thunderous applause shock the pair out of their stillness and Aleksander watches as his precious girl ducks her head, suddenly shy, as the crowd scream their delight. Desiring nothing more than to give her a moment to collect herself, Aleksander turns to face the Tsar – proudly proclaiming that there can be no doubt as to Alina’s status. She is the Sun Summoner. With a nod he allows the impatient Grisha to swarm around her, welcoming Alina into the fold and extended family of the Little Palace, while he discusses training with the Tsar.

The Tsar’s demands are not unexpected, even if they are vexacious. He wants her trained as quickly as possible, far quicker than any Grisha has mastered their powers before. Alina is released into his custody, but there is a proviso that almost makes him see red – she must perform infront of their guests at the Winter Fete in three months. If sufficient progress has not been made then the Tsar will reconsider where the Sun Summoner is best placed. The predatory glint in Vasily’s eyes makes his spine stiffen in protective affront and it is all he can do not to cut the Tsarevitch down where he stands. It is the Tsar dismissing him which saves his son’s life – or at the very least his ability to father children – and it is with relief that Aleksander follows the happy throng of Grisha back towards the Little Palace.

 


 

The celebrations continue for most of the day and conclude in a grand feast for all the inhabitants of the Little Palace. Even the servants will eat well this day. His Grisha have had so little to celebrate over the past few years that he is eager they enjoy today to the fullest.  Aleksander does not join in. He is too busy going over reports and dispatching urgent missives to his spy network. One of his best is missing, and he fears that Nina may have been captured by the Drüskelle.

Even distracted as he is, his worries about Alina persist, and he leaves instructions with the oprinichki to bring her to him when she leaves the senior dining room so that he might see how she is. With everything going on, this is the most he can do to assuage his concerns, and he is grateful when she finally appears that now the low-level anxiety which has set up a home in his stomach might finally stop churning away.  

His study is different to the rest of the Little Palace. Here he is better able to express his tastes and it is arranged more to suit him then it is to impress visiting otkazat’syas. Contrary to what people might think as a result of him being the Shadow Summoner, he does not like dark rooms. He likes large, light rooms. Rooms which are the opposite of the small, windowless caves and filthy hovels he grew up. His shadows make him feel safe, but the dark in general makes him as nervous as anyone else. He is drawn to the light, and he can see Alina looking around this, his most private room, with unconcealed interest. Idly he wonders what conclusions she is drawing, but before he can ask she spots the book shelves and a look of wonder spreads over her beloved face.

Catching her eyes with his, he stands and offers her a weak smile, asking her how she is and whether she enjoyed the dinner. He feels unaccountably off kilter with her in this room and it makes him stiff and revert to a level of formality they left long ago in their dealings with one another.

Alina’s response though is calm and friendly and slowly he feels the tension melt away as they discuss her training and her schedule for the next few days. The interview is not long, and far shorter then his unhelpful heart wishes, but before she leaves he offers to courier any letters she wishes to send to her mother. Ivan will not mind the additional duty and there are few people he would trust with such a dangerous secret. That Alina needs Mei-Xing is evident, they have always been close and now more than ever she needs her mother’s support, but the relationship is a potential weakness – and one unscrupulous people will not hesitate to exploit. To protect both Alina and Mei-Xing their relationship must not be broadcast, and that means discretion is paramount.

The offer earns him the first truly genuine smile he has had from Alina since before everything went wrong and it gives him hope that, as undeserving as he might be, he can still salvage the friendship which has meant so much to him.

 


 

The next few days are some of the busiest he has had in a while, and Aleksander spends most of his time locked in meetings or pouring over reports. It is headache inducing, and by the fourth day he is thoroughly fed up and needs to escape for a while. It is providential.

Earlier that morning, as Gustave put the finishing touches to his immaculate appearance, Genya appeared, brow furrowed in concern. It didn’t take long for the Tailor to voice the reason for her visit – she is worried about Alina. The friendship between the two is everything Aleksander had hoped and it is clear that both girls have found in each other a kindred spirit they had been missing. Genya’s report is not unexpected. He had suspected his precious girl would find it a difficult transition phase – particularly the restrictions around her movements. They were for her own good, but to someone like Alina who was used to a busy, active life and self-autonomy, the new regime must be chafing.

It is this thought which gives him an idea. He has been longing for a ride, why not invite Alina to join him. He could show her the grounds, maybe even take her to the well which would act as a useful aid for him to start to tell her the truth.

In high spirits he sends Genya off to get Alina ready and invite her to go on a morning ride. His impatience makes him jittery while he waits and he finds himself pacing backwards and forwards across his study just to release the nervous energy. After sufficient time that he is sure Alina must be ready now, he leaves his sanctuary and heads for the stable, eager to choose the horses himself.

Beauty is the first horse he sees as he enters the stable. The Trakehner is well rested and visibly in need of exercise as he stamps his legs and digs at the ground in boredom. The groom on duty is only too pleased to leave the saddling of the fidgety horse to its master and instead saddles the grey before leading both out to the mounting blocks in the stable yard.

Alina’s delight in seeing Beauty is both amusing and mesmerising and Aleksander finds himself caught watching as the girl places kiss after kiss on Beauty’s black nose. She is beautiful in the morning light, like a vision, and his heart skips a beat as he sees how well she looks dressed in the familiar uniform of his people.

It’s the first time he’s seen her outfitted as a Grisha and he has to say it suits her, the kefta flattering her figure and the gold embroidery complimenting the gold of her eyes. The only thing that feels wrong is the colour. Blue is the colour of the Etherealki, the order she belongs to as a Summoner and yet it feels wrong to see her garbed in it. Alina shouldn’t be dressed in the blue of a common Summoner, she should wear black, like him, to show her for the unique Grisha she is. It is something to think on later, for the thought of Alina dressed his colours with golden embroidery sends shivers down his spine and brings heat to his cheeks. Both of which are not suitable reactions for anywhere but his private rooms.

With an embarrassed cough he remembers their audience, and it is with reluctance that he interrupts the reunion.

“Would you like to ride him?” Aleksander asks with a relaxed smile as he pats the grey next to him.

There are few people in the world Aleksander would allow to ride one of his personal horses, but as with most things, Alina is the exception, and her visible delight at the offer is more than enough to calm any qualms he might have about it.  

In moments they are off, racing along the path and then off across the Ravkan countryside, the wind in their hair making Alina laugh with the joy of it.

The glade he eventually directs the to is a pretty wilderness and so unlike the rest of the palace grounds that he can easily understand Alina’s surprise that such a place exists so close to the finely manicured gardens she is familiar with. The glade is at its best during spring and summer, when a riot of colour erupts in all the chaotic glory that nature intended, but to Aleksander’s eyes it is still pretty now - with autumn turning the leaves on the trees a fiery cacophony of reds, golds and oranges.

Tying the horses to a nearby tree, Aleksander directs their walk towards the well, only half attending to Alina’s happy chatter as his eyes trace what can be seen of the familiar carvings. He had always intended to bring the Sun Summoner here, to spin them a web of half truths as part of his longer plan to woe them to his cause. He had planned what he would say, how he would slowly reveal his true plans, how he would talk about his infamous ancestor who had saddled him with the curse that is the Fold as his familial inheritance. This morning he had thought about bringing Alina here to talk to her about the past, but the thought now sickens him, and he feels wretched as he breaks away from her to tear off the bracken and detritus that cover the well.

How could he think of saying any of that to Alina, and yet how can he tell her the truth. She could never love him – not even as a friend – if she were to discover that he is the Black Heretic. Twice he begins to speak, but both times his courage fails and he is merely left to shake his head and return to his self-appointed task.

Part of him wonders if Alina recognises the story played out in the carvings. She is a clever girl and he would be surprised if she didn’t, but he is torn between the hope that she doesn’t and the hope that she does and that she will start the conversation he cannot.

It is not to be. They sit in the glade and discuss meaningless things until the sun is high in the sky and he reluctantly realises they must return soon, or Alina will be late for her first lesson with his mother.  

The ride back is less jubilant than the outward journey had been, but for all that Aleksander feels better for the exercise and is pleased to see Alina looking happy and relaxed as he escorts her into lunch.

 

 


 

He has to admit some nervous anticipation as to his mother’s assessment after their first lesson. Baghra, in her usual uncompromising way, had informed him early on that his attendance in Alina’s lessons would be neither helpful nor wanted.

“What use would you be boy, except as a distraction,” she had grumbled when he had raised the possibility of him sitting on the lesson. “She needs to concentrate, not worry about looking like a ninny in front of you.” His mother’s assessment had stung to begin with, but he could see the sense it in and so he had given Baghra free rein.

It is a decision is coming to regret. His mother is her usual unhelpful self when he appears at her door that evening. She has no wish to discuss how the lesson went and will only say that it went much as she expected. What that means is left a mystery as Baghra will tell him no more than to say, “Sun Summoner she may be, but that doesn’t mean she will learn any fast than other Grisha,” before she shoves him out of the door.

He is over 500 years old and yet ten minutes with his mother makes him feel like a callow youth of 20 again.

 


 

It is not an easy life being Grisha. Children born Grisha usually have a hard life and it is common for the testers to find stories of abuse, neglect and cruelty when they bring their new wards back to the Little Palace. It is why he and his mother have worked so hard over the years to create this little paradice for them – a place where they can be loved and respected and grow into their gifts safe from those who would hurt them out of ignorance. Life doesn’t get easier as they grow. The otkazat’syas resent the Little Palace, thinking that Grisha live a life of ease and opulence. They couldn’t be more wrong, yet Aleksander has seen countless examples over his long life that ignorance is often the foundation for the strongest of opinions.

Such resentment and dislike from the otkazat’syas breeds danger for Grisha – adult and child alike, and he has lost count of those who have been unfairly attacked – and even killed – purely for the sin of being born Grisha. Then there is life in the army. There is no doubt that the Second Army is better provisioned – unlike the corrupt and incompetent lords of the First Army who would rather line their pockets then care for the troops under their command – he looks after his officers and it shows. But the danger they face is the same and while they are many otkazat’syas there are only a few Grisha. Each loss in the Second Army is a devastating blow, many of them he has known since – and cared for – since they were children and yet their sacrifice is never seemingly appreciated. It infuriates him.

So no, life as a Grisha is not an easy one. It’s why ensures they have a good diet, the best cloth and good boots. It is also why once a week there is a games day at the Little Palace. Games day is a chance to relax and unwind. It is the only day free of lessons and responsibilities his Grisha have and it is all the more enjoyed because of it.

Alina had seemed to very much enjoy the last two, so it is with surprise and no little concern that Aleksander finds her missing from the festivities when he goes to find her.  He finds Fedyor easily enough who looks shocked, then abashed, as he realises his charge has slipped out while he was playing quoits with several other Corpoalkis.

Despite Alina’s continued objects as to the need for guards, Aleksander remains concerned. The Little Palace has so far been a sanctuary for the Grisha, but then they have never had a Sun Summoner in residence before. A part trained Sun Summoner. If Alina was in full control of her powers, he would have little cause for concern, but she didn’t – and that left her vulnerable. Twice already he had found Vasily wandering the halls, ostensibly with a note from his mother, but the pretext was flimsy at best and it took like intelligence to realise what his real motive was. In addition to the Tsarevitch there was the Apparat to consider.

As spiritual advisor to the Tsar he had sent five letters already requesting an audience with the Sun Summoner and Aleksander had had reports from his oprinichki that he too had been found on the grounds of the Little Palace on several occasions. And these were just the two he was aware of. People were turning up every day requesting to see the Sun Saint or to give her gifts. So far he had succeeded in keeping them away from Alina, but such luck would not hold forever and when it ran out they had to be ready.

Not everyone welcomed the discovery of the Sun Summoner. Shu Han, Fjerda, even West Ravka are all nervous as to what Alina means for them and the war. Then there are the fanatics – those who see Grisha as abominations and would sooner kill her and all hope for destroying the fold then let such unnaturalness live. If they weren’t enough to worry about then there was the Soldat Sol, a cult that worshipped the Sun Summoner as a God. Aleksander had been alive too long not to know how dangerous it is for someone to be named a saint. The saints venerated by the populous were often killed by their own followers or those they were trying to save. His grandfather is a prime example of the cost exacted from those deemed a saint.  

Then there was the question of Alina’s powers. He and his mother had assumed that Alina would be immortal, like them. The problem is he had not gained his quasi-immortality until he had come into his full power during his 20s and it had been the same for his mother. Alina is at her most vulnerable now and that terrifies him.  

With that thought it mind it takes only a few minutes to gather a search party and set off in search of their misplaced saint.

 

He finally locates her in the library – a place which, in hindsight, knowing Alina as he does really should have been his first port of call.   

Alina is curled up on one of the window seats, expression peaceful as she reads, and Aleksander feels an immediate sense of guilt as his abrupt entrance startles her. It is a relief to find her and he cannot help the smile that spreads over his face as he says, “there you are. I might have known you would sneak off here rather than enjoy playing games with the others.”

Alina laughs as she nods her agreement and sets the book down on the nearby table as she stands to take the hand he couldn’t remember raising. Her warmth scalds him, even through the thick leather of his glove, and he shivers; his mind growing foggy as her warm gaze finds his.

“Alinochka,” he murmurs hoarsely, eyes full of unspoken emotion as he touches her cheek gently with trembling fingers. Her eyes are molten, soft and full of some feeling that makes his heart ache and for a moment his eyes flit to her mouth, love and desire pushing him forwards. The moment is broken as Alina looks away, a hint of a blush staining her cheeks and telegraphing her discomfort. A bucket of ice cold water could not have been more effective in that second then the sight of her distress. It feels like a canon ball has ripped through his heart, and with a lurch Aleksander steps back, the contact that had only a few moments before been of so much comfort and joy now leaving an acid taste in his mouth. His breathing is hard and his heart pounding as he runs a hand through his hair, desperately trying to regain control and manage the competing sensations of lingering desire and utter heartbreak.  

The silence, which a moment before had been filled with something poignant, something beautiful, something captivating, is now is awkward and strained and one Aleksander has no idea how to deal with. He takes another step back, his desire to flee warring with his need to be near Alina. Flight wins and with a bow that he hopes hides his despair he leaves the library, reassured by the sight of Fedyor in the hallway that their Sun Summoner is well guarded.

 


 

Life moves on in the Little Palace and before he knows it a month has passed. Things have almost returned to normal between he and Alina. He sees her as regularly as their schedules allow, taking her for rides and talking to her about her studies. If he takes care not to stand so close to her, or to be alone with her for long without distraction, then that is his business and Alina seems content with the new unspoken rules of their friendship.

Yet for all things have changed, some things have remained the same. Concerned over Alina’s continued lack of spirits at her slow progress, Aleksander calls Zoya to his study hoping to enlist the Squaller’s aid. His mother is a good teacher, but she leaves much to be desired when it comes to building the confidence of her pupils. Alina’s progress over the last month has been excellent – no one, except the Tsar, expects her to be able to be a master after only a few days of training – but Alina is frustrated at what she perceives as her failure. That this is a common problem, faced by all Grisha at the start of their training, apparently makes little difference, and in this Baghra is not helping.

His mother’s opinion is that confidence comes from doing, not from being patted on the back or coddled, and that Alina will gain confidence once she understands how to use her power. That she can’t find the key to use her gift does little to alter his mother’s opinion, which remains as staunch and immovable as ever. The last time he tried to raise this with her he earned a sharp whack with that wretched walking stick of hers and a lecture on not trying to teach his mother how to suck eggs. What eggs had to do with this was – and remains – a mystery to him, but he had eventually retreated from her cottage bruised and bad tempered, with nothing to show for his excursion except the headache which usually results from a conversation with his mother.  

His mother’s intransigence, whilst not surprising, is frustrating – especially as he can see how it is affecting his Alina. Alinochka has always been fairly reserved and quiet, but now she is withdrawn. Where, as a child, she had been fascinated and enthralled by Grisha powers, now she just looks uncomfortable and edgy whenever someone talks to her about how her studies are going.

Baghra thinks that the issue is that she has not accepted her powers - that there is a part of Alina that is afraid and still trying to supress her powers.  It is an opinion Aleksander longs to refute, but in the back of his mind, the words she said that fateful day by the Shepherd’s hut linger; her desperate desire not to be the Sun Summoner and her fear of what it would mean that she was.

Aleksander thinks Alina needs reassurance and praise.

Baghra thinks she needs to work this out for herself.

It is a standoff on a cliff edge. Pressure is growing from the Imperial Palace to see progress, and then there is the Winter Fete. He could care less what their useless lump of a monarch thinks, or wants, but of one thing he is worried – that the Tsar could revoke his agreement for Alina to be trained at the Little Palace. If sufficient progress is not made by the date of that ridiculous fete, Aleksander worries what their august leader will do, or what it will mean for his Alina. As time passes, he can see how dispirited Alinochka feels; how lost and unsure she is surrounded by expectation. Even being around her fellow Grisha is of little help as she is not truly one of them. She is unique - special - and it sets her always apart from them. It is a distance his poor girl will feel acutely. Her heritage has always set her apart, but not she has been raised to the level of a god by the general populous. It is a lonely position to have - as he knows from bitter experience.

Alina’s struggle recalls to his mind another young Etheralki who once had similar problems. One who wished not to be Grisha so she could return to the loving home she had with her family. It is this recollection which prompts him to summon Zoya in an attempt to help his Alinochka.

As this is a problem Zoya herself at once faced, he has hope that the prepossessed and confident Squaller will be of help in assuring Alina that she will find the key and in suggesting alternative methods; seeing as the traditional one of clapping to summon appears to have little effect for the Sun Summoner.

As succinctly as possible he explains the situation to the Squaller, careful to convey only the outline of the issue. He has faith that Zoya will do as asked – and do it well – as she has all other assignments given to her; but for all that Alina will not thank him for saying too much, nor is it in his nature to share such information. With a smile and a nod Zoya accepts her task and leaves him to his troubled thoughts. If only all of Alina’s worries were so easily dealt with. Tomorrow she is due to start training with her peers under Botkin’s watchful eye and he has a meeting with the latest incompetent lackies the Tsar has promoted to lead his army. It is not a discussion he is anticipating as anything other than a waste of his time and limited patience.

 


 

Aleksander is staring at the large map in the War Room, mid meeting with several senior officers from both First and Second Armies, when he feels it.

It starts as a tingle that races down his spine and the tiny hairs on the hairs on his arms almost vibrate with sudden tension. He stops mid-sentence, distracted by the way he can feel his own power roiling under his skin as if desperate to escape. Across the table he sees the way the other Grisha present are rubbing their arms or fidgeting in discomfort. It tastes like static electricity in the air, a sixth sense you get before the approach of a powerful storm. He looks out of the window, the sky - which at last look had been its usual overcast autumnal self – is still overcast, but there is no hint of a storm, and there are now patches of sunlight breaking through giving it a radiance not normally seen in northern Ravka at this time of year.

The First Army officers seem blissfully unaffected by the strange sensations, which adds both to the mystery and to the unease now coiling in Aleksander’s stomach, his shadows restive as whisps start to form around his arms. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

With a barked command he leaves the room, ignoring the grumbling and protests from the senior ranking First Army officers, and striding purposefully through the doors with Ivan hot on his heels. Once out of sight he breaks into a run, the tingles have become shivers and there is now a painful sensation in his chest that is tugging him in a direction that he is heedless to do anything but follow.

Anatoly, one of the final year students, almost runs into him as he passes the east staircase. The boy is panicked and out of breath, “Moi Soverenyi,” he gasps in relief as he grips the General’s kefta and starts pulling him back the way he came. Such behaviour would normally be met with a swift rebuke, but this dies a swift death on Aleksander’s lips at the explanation that Anatoly gives as they rush down the passage towards the training yard.

There has been an incident, a terrible incident, and Alina is hurt – that is all he understands as they hurtle through the final door, and he crashes into the pandemonium that has overtaken Botkin’s training area.  

It is chaos that greets him. Over the far side, close to the stable wall, several of the students are beating at something on the ground with large blankets, other students are huddled together, crying in fear and desperation as they clutch at each other, but it is the sight of his martial arts trainer who catches his attention. Botkin is kneeling by another figure, the blue of their Etherealki kefta just visible around his large form and he feels his heart pause for a long moment as fear overtakes him. Around him students’ part like water controlled by a Tidemaker and it only takes a few seconds for him to cross the distance and join the trainer. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest as his eyes see what his heart already knew – it is Alina.

There on the ground before him, for the second time in as many months, is his Alina. His sweet girl is unnaturally still, and it takes his grief fogged mind longer than it should for him to realise that she isn’t breathing. Her skin, which usually has a health sun-kissed glow has a peculiar pallor to it and her lips usually the colour of blush roses are stained blue. With an inarticulate cry Aleksander throws himself down beside her, desperate fingers clenching around Alina’s wrist as if he can anchor her soul in the realm of the living through touch alone. Beside him Botkin continues to rub her arms and alternatively put pressure on her chest, his voice is rushed and lacks its habitual calm as he speaks to the fallen girl.

Within moments of his arrival the healing staff appear, and Aleksander finds himself unceremoniously pushed out of the way as an older woman in healer red appears and takes control. There is a nightmare inducing crack, followed quickly by a gasping inhale as Alina take her first breath. With a sigh the healer rocks back on her heels, “get her to the infirmary,” she informs Aleksander, voice tired and strained. “There is more damage than I can heal, and she needs the attention of the Head Healer.”

With a firm nod, Aleksander shifts and gathers his precious girl into his arms, his shadows wrapping around her like a swirling black blanket. There are four or five boys lingering close by who all offer to take the Sun Summoner to the medical wing, but he cannot bear the thought of letting her out of his sight, let along allowing another to touch her. He had so nearly lost her. Here. At the Little Palace, the one place that was meant to be safe for Grisha. A place that was meant to be safe for her, and this had happened.

Each shuddering breath Alina takes is like music to his ears as his eyes alternate between obsessively monitoring her and trying to watch where he is walking. It’s not an easy thing to walk carrying a grown woman, let alone one that is unconscious, and it’s not helped further by the panic gripping his normally calm mind. Ivan accompanies him, his stern expression keeping the curious and worried Grisha away as he opens doors and leads Aleksander the quickest way through the labyrinthine passages the servants use to the Infirmary.

 


 

Their entrance to the infirmary is, not surprisingly, slightly more dramatic than either Aleksander or any of the healing team would have preferred. The main reason being that in the seconds it takes to enter the infirmary and settle his precious burden on a bed, Alina’s heart stops beating again.

He feels it even before the three healers who have congregated around the unconscious Sun Summoner start shouting, their voices verging on hysteria as they call for Garin, supplies and support. The precious beating of her heart has vanished and Aleksander feels it’s absence in his own chest, which now feels as if a leaden weight is weighing down his lungs.

At this point Alina’s near immortality is more a hypothesis than a proved fact. That he’s come back from worse wounds is a small comfort in that moment as Aleksander contemplates the full horror of eternity without Alina by his side.

The healers are working furiously, desperately trying to catalogue her injuries and he hears enough to make his head swim in rage: lacerations, bruises and a dislocated shoulder, are just the tip of the iceberg. Concussion (again), four broken ribs and a further three have hairline fractures. The worst injury though is the most recent. The trainee healer who had attended her in the courtyard had forced air into her lungs, giving her much needed oxygen, but in doing so had caused one of the ribs to shift, puncturing the right lung and causing it to collapse. At Garin’s appearance, Aleksander lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, but his relief is short lived.

The head healer is not his normal calm self and is shouting instruction even, as more healers join the fray. But they cannot get her heart to re start.

The precious organ remains stubbornly still no matter what they try. In the background Aleksander is aware of the infirmary doors opening, and of Botkin carrying in the crumpled form of Zoya, but he pays them no mind. In that moment his entire being is focused on Alina, on willing her heart to beat again, and there is no space to think of anything – or anyone – else. Later there will be time to find out the truth, later there will be time for retribution, later he will sort this mess out. All that matters in that moment is Alina.

Her heart has been silent for over three minutes; worry and fear are escalating as hope starts to dwindle. Vaguely, Aleksander is aware of Sergoi leaving the huddle and hurrying in the direction of Botkin, but all he sees is the gap by Alina and half in a panic riven daze he steps forward into it, desperate to touch her, to feel her familiar, beloved presence against his own again.

“Fight, Alina!” He pleads, desperation driving him to speak as he leans down to rest his head against her own, his shadows escaping his control to wrap loving tendrils around her wrist. “Please don’t leave me, sweetheart. You must fight.”

There is a long endless moment as nothing happens, but then Alina suddenly gasps, breathing ragged and shallow as her heart thunders back into life. Aleksander’s hand clasped protectively around her own.  

For the second time that day, Aleksander finds himself pushed away from the woman he loves, and relegated to watching from the side-lines as others try to save her life. It’s not a position he likes or finds easy. He’s a man of action by nature, and even at the best of times he’s never liked waiting. Waiting now is like torture. Another ten minutes of frenetic activity pass and then suddenly, almost without warning, two of the healers start to wheel Alina’s bed away from Aleksander and down the corridor. Alarmed, Aleksander steps forward only to be intercepted by Garin.

The Head Healer is smiling as he grasps the Generals arm and leads him towards a seating area down a different corridor to the one Alina is quickly vanishing down. “She’s fine,” Garin says, exhaustion making his brogue thicker than usual. “Olena, Miri and Gregori are taking her a private room to finish things off and get her comfortable. There will be a lot of curiosity around our Sun Summoner and she’s going to need peace and quiet.”

All Aleksander can do is nod mutely in thanks as Garin pats his arm again and leaves, heading towards the room Alina had been taken to.

Tiredly, he walks the few steps to the visitors area where Botkin is sitting, and sinks into the waiting chair, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he wonders how things have gone so wrong so fast.

 


 

Until now the panic of seeing Alina so badly injured has left little available in the way of grey matter to consider how she had come to be hurt in the first place.

That question now comes rushing back, and with a frown he turns to his trainer with a raised eyebrow in mute command. Botkin nods, he has known the Darkling for too many years not to understand his master or what he is now asking.

In his usual succinct and lilting way he explains the events of that afternoon, of the decision he had made to introduce Alina into the standard group with her peers, and his error in judgement with matching Zoya with the Sun Summoner.

What precipitated the altercation, he cannot say, but that there was tension between the two was evident. He had thought the training exercise would help, but he had been wrong. Instead of giving the girls a healthy outlet to learn to work together it had instead ignited into a wildfire – with all the devastation and grief such a natural disaster brings.

With a scowl, Aleksander pinches the bridge of his nose again, anger simmering inside him as he desperately tries to control his shadows before they lash out in impotent rage. As to what had happened, and who was ultimately to blame, he would need to talk to both girls to discover, but one thing was clear. Zoya had attacked first. Zoya had used the small science first – breaking Botkin’s first and most important rule and his trust in the process. He had asked her to help Alina, not cripple and nearly kill her.

In a perverse twist of irony, it did at least appear that Zoya had - inadvertently at least – helped Alina find how to access her power. Alina had called the sun; not as she had on the skiff, but summoned it and wielded it like the divine weapon it was.

It might have been seconds, minutes or hours, they have been waiting for news when Aleksander’s musings on what this could mean for Alina and her abilities is interrupted by Garin’s reappearance. The normally jolly and laidback Head Healer is unusually frazzled as he bustles out of the room Zoya had been to and collapses into a chair while calling for the strongest coffee known to mankind.

“Yes, I’ve checked on Miss Starkov,” he says, correctly interpreting the commanding silence from his General. With a sigh he gratefully accepts the coffee one of the junior healer’s presses into his waiting hands, breathing in the aroma deeply before continuing. “Her heart is looking much better. She must have hit that wall with incredible force to have caused enough concussive trauma to stop her heart like that.”

“And is she…” Aleksander trails off hopefully.

Garin pats his hand comfortingly, “She isn’t awake,” he says gently, “and I can’t tell you when she will wake. Healing takes time – as you well know - and Miss Starkov used a great deal of energy today, by all accounts, and that will take time to recover from. Be patient,” he advises sternly, as he takes a long sip of the coffee.

Aleksander swallows around the lump of relief that has appeared in his throat, but Garin hasn’t finished and the smile becomes a frown as the healer continues. “We’ve fixed the worst of the damage, but there’s only so much we can do and it will take at least a week – if not two - before she’s up to full strength again. There’s also some concern over how long Alina was without oxygen.”

Aleksander is speechless, fear paralysing his voice as his mind rebels against the thought that the Alina who wakes up might not be the precious girl he has loved for so long. Patting his arm, Garin says gently, “that’s not to say that she will suffer any ill-effects, she might be lucky. But she was without oxygen for a significant period of time, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least raise the prospect with you. At the very least I’d expect some memory loss or confusion in the early days.”

Aleksander nods sharply, the deep unrelenting fear of earlier has not left him, but it has at least quietened somewhat with the healer’s calming reassurance. If anyone can recover from an injury like this surely it will be the Sun Summoner.

Setting the mug aside, Garin folds his arms, “now Miss Nazyalensky on the other hand, is a different matter. She should be awake within a few hours, I would think.”

Aleksander doesn’t try to repress the scowl that crossed his handsome features at the reminder of the party responsible for that day’s drama. “Awake and able to be questioned?” he asks, voice regaining its usual cool and commanding tone.

Garin nods thoughtfully, “I should think so,” he says. “Her injuries are mostly superficial in nature. She has some very nasty burns, and a few bad bruises, but nothing that should be difficult to heal.” His fingers tap on his knee as he turns something over in his mind. Botkin frowns slightly, watching the healer carefully, before asking, “something is wrong?”

“There was something odd about the healing,” the healer says at last, “don’t ask me what, it’s just odd. An odd feeling.” He shakes his head, still looking frazzled and pushes himself to his feet.

“I imagine you want to see Miss Starkov, and you can – after dinner,” he adds, looking at the still pale General. “I’d say the usual visiting rules apply, but I rather think you’ll just ignore them.”

The Healer’s grin reminds Aleksander of a cat that has just got into the cream, and he deliberately ignores the gentle taunt, as he nods regally and strides out of the Infirmary with instructions that he is to be sent for if there is the slightest concern or change. Alina is safe, for the moment, and there are things he needs to do before she awakes.

He has two mothers to inform and a puzzle to solve. Grisha have been known, on occasion, to be able to sense when another Grisha was summoning or using their gifts. These instances are almost always during periods of exceptional stress or high emotion and all and any attempt to recreate it has, as yet, yielded inconsistent results. The most those who had studied the phenomenon could conclude was that Grisha had some sense of each other but as to why, how, or to what extent, remained a mystery. 

That he, and the other Grisha in his War Room, had felt the altercation this afternoon was clear. That they had sensed it over 500 yards away and through multiple thick stone walls was more unexpected. But what puzzled Aleksander was that he hadn’t just sensed it as his fellows had. He had felt Alina’s pain, felt her need. She had called to him, and he had heard it; known it in his soul and reacted instinctively to it before his conscious mind was even aware of what it was.

His mother had always told him that like called to like. Indeed, it was one of the founding tenets they taught all Grisha about the small science, and he had expected – anticipated - that this would be especially true for him and the Sun Summoner, whenever they appeared. He had not expected it to be literal though. Nor had he expected how his shadows would respond, without his conscious decision – or thought – as if they were a separate, autonomous entity rather than a part of him.

Alina had called to him. It was a puzzle, and one that needed solving.

Notes:

I have to confess, this has proved to be one of the hardest chapters to write, and I'm still not happy with it. I have really enjoyed doing this multi-perspective take though, and the library scene from Aleks' pov is possibly my favourite things I've written to date. Poor Alek, I will stop torturing him... eventually, it is for his own good though. It really annoys me in the series (books) that he gets such little character development. It's like he's assigned as the villain because he controls shadows and that's that - he's the black General so he must be evil with no chance for redemption or development. Rant over ;)

I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please review. Reviews feed us hungry authors and will help me complete the next chapter quicker ;).

Next up: Of Conversations and Consequences. In which difficult conversations are had, Aleksander loses his temper and Alina wakes up.

Chapter 10: Conversations and Consequences

Summary:

Old sins cast long shadows and actions have consequences.

Notes:

Hi folks, first of all happy Christmas :).

thank you so much for all your kind comments and well wishes. I was really touched - and as you can see, they've inspired me to get a chapter out as a Christmas present for all my wonderful readers.

Quick heads up: I've rewritten part of the last chapter. This chapter won't make much sense unless you go back and have a look at the changes :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

With Alina in safe hands and himself effectively banished from Garin’s domain until after the dinner hour, Aleksander finds himself at leisure to finally consider the ramifications from the events of that day. Alina had demonstrated her power, had wielded it like a goddess, showing what a formidable adversary she will be once fully trained and come into her gifts. But there will be consequences. Alina’s light show is unlikely to have been visible outside of the safety of the Little Palace, but gossip knows no such bounds or borders, and already he suspects the servants here have started tattling to their fellows at the Imperial Palace.

That in and of itself is not an insurmountable problem. The Tsar will no doubt find out about today, but he should be easy to appease with vague references to a training mishap. The corpulent-corpse-to-be that is their illustrious leader is not a man gifted with either intelligence, perspicacity, or – it has to be said – much in the way of a concentration span. All Aleksander will need to do is dangle something suitably shiny before the rotund idiot and the details of the incident today will be forgotten in a heartbeat.

The bigger problem are the rumours that will run rampant, spreading like wildfire outside the confines of the Imperial Palace to Os Alta… and even further. Aleksander has too much experience with the unpleasant side of humanity not to see the danger that could arise as a result of today – not just to Alina, but to Grisha everywhere, as ignorant and uninformed and reminded of the power that their long awaited saint has locked within her. Divinity, in his experience, is only desirable in the abstract. People want a saint but they don’t want a powerful one, one who could tear down their cities and lay waste to their land. They want a saint who is pliable, malleable, a willing sacrifice to their needs. They don’t want strength or independence, and they especially don’t want one they cannot control.

Perhaps with another Sun Summoner he need not have worried so much about this, but Alina is the very antithesis of what saints are expected to be and he fears – he very much fears – what this might mean for her in the long run from people who crowd around the gates of the palace every day just in the hope they might catch a glimpse of her.

Had he been less distraught he might have been able to squash some of the rumours, or at least start spreading a counter story. But alas he had not and now it would be too late. All that was left was to try and make the best of a bad – and very volatile – situation.

But first Mei-Xing must be informed before whispers reach her that something might have happened to her daughter. There are few people that have the power to scare him, but Alina’s mother is definitely high on the list, and he has no doubt whatsoever that if she finds out any other way that he will lose an important ally – and the respect of someone he holds in high esteem. It is not an easy letter to write, and he resents every word that his pen scratches on to the fine paper. Alina should have been safe here. He had promised Mei-Xing that her daughter would be safe within his home, and in this he had failed. Alina had been attacked, hurt - possibly even permanently injured – and he still didn’t know why.

He wants to rush to Mei-Xing, not to exculpate himself but to explain and throw himself on her mercy and understanding. Unlike last time, though, he cannot go himself – nor can he risk sending Ivan or one of his Oprichniki in case they are recognised – that only leaves one person he would trust with such a missive. His mother.

 

 

The journey to his mother’s cottage is not as long as he would wish and he barely has time to start gathering his jumbled thoughts before he arrives. Heaving a deep sigh he knocks on the dark wood door, listening intently for his mother’s voice giving him permission to enter, so as to not annoy her unnecessarily by entering without her permission. A faint murmur reaches him and just as he’s about to knock again the door is wrenched open with surprising force by his mother, scowl firmly in place, that only deepens when she sees who it is who has disturbed her peace and quiet.

“Oh,” she says in a surly tone of voice, “it’s you. Well, I suppose you’d better come in then,” and steps out of the doorway so he can enter.  

 


The visit starts off badly and only gets worse.


 

“What have you done now, boy?” Baghra demands as she whacks him with her walking stick before he’s even sat down, a quelling look on her face.

His mother’s faith in him is touching, it truly is. Not for the first time, Aleksander wonders if he would have turned out more normal and well adjusted if he hadn’t been cursed with a mother like Baghra.

“Meh,” is all his mother has to say with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders when he voices this whimsical notion. “You wouldn’t have made it past four with a normal mother,” is her considered opinion. She might have a point, but even so Aleksander suspects things might have played out very differently had his mother been less… like herself.

As distraction techniques go, this is a poor one as the topic he’s picked is quickly exhausted and discarded by his darling mother, who repeats her demand, fingering her cane with ominous intent.

Heaving a put upon sign, Aleksander recounts the excitement of the afternoon. His frazzled nerves feeling inexplicably soothed by the familiar sniping and back and forth banter that characterises every interaction with the woman who birthed and raised him.

“Stupid boy,” his mother hisses when he’s finished, “what on earth were you thinking by involving one of your discarded lovers in such a plan? And that one in particular,” she adds, thumping her walking stick on the floor.

“I was thinking that Alina needed help – help, I might add, that you wouldn’t give. Zoya had a similar problem when she was training and I thought that she could be of assistance to Alina.”

“It was stupid,” his mother states with finality as she stares down her only child.

“More than stupid. It was idiocy at its finest. I did not raise an idiot son, so I can only think that you’re being this idiotic because you’re not thinking with your proper brain.”

“Mother!” Aleksander exclaims, partly in shock and partly in traumatised horror at Baghra of all people referencing that part of his anatomy.

“Don’t you ‘mother’ me,” Baghra responds, ire puffing her up. “I’m not the one who decided to use one of my cast offs to assist her replacement.”

“Alina is not Zoya’s replacement! Zoya was… was a mistake. She means nothing.” Aleksander growls, very much taking offence at the implication.

“Well, at least you understand that much,” Baghra says with all the satisfaction of having forced a concession out of her opponent that he had had no intention of giving.

“What a saints forsaken mess,” Aleksander sighs, settling back into the uncomfortable chair his mother insisted on keeping for visitors. He had long suspected that Baghra’s attachment to this particular piece of furniture has less to do with her having had it for over a century and more because it is the single most uncomfortable piece of furniture he has ever had the misfortune to sit on; which makes visiting his mother a doubly painful experience and encourages all guests, her son included, to depart quickly. As if visitors here needed any additional encouragement to want to leave. Baghra’s legendary lack of social skills were quite sufficient to ensure no one – even the most foolhardy or devoted of students – would wish to linger.

“It would considerably less messy if you could learn to keep it in your trousers,” Baghra gripes, stick tapping on the floor again. “Just like your grandfather. He could never resist…” she pauses for a moment as she searches for a suitably euphemistic term, “entanglements, either.”

Aleksander sighs, a frequent occurrence when around his mother, and runs a hand over his tired features.

“What did you think would happen?” Baghra continues, ruthless it appears in her determination to show him each and every one of his many failings.

“I thought that Zoya understood it was a one off and would be the consummate professional she can be.”

“Heh,” says his mother, “just goes to show you how much you still have to learn about women.” She shakes her head, her grey hair catching the firelight and making it shine like starlight for a fraction of a second. “There’s no fiend in hell that can match the fury of a disappointed woman,” she continues. “I taught you better than this. You’re meant to be intelligent.”

“I am clever,” Aleksander protests, only to receive a whack to his already bruised shin.

“Then start acting like it,” Baghra demands. “this is embarrassing.”

“Are you sure I’m not adopted?” Aleksander asks, nursing the impressive bruise taking shape on his right shin.

Baghra raises a sardonic eyebrow, “I could only wish.” She snipes back, causing Aleksander to let out a huff of quickly supressed laughter.

“You will take the letter to Mei-Xing,” he asks after a pregnant pause.

Baghra nods regally as she accepts the missive. “Yes.” She agrees. “But not for you. I’ll do this because that woman deserves to know and she’s one of the few people in the world who doesn’t seem to be an idiot.”

That’s surprisingly high praise from his mother, who’s general view of humanity is that they’re only one – or possible two, if she’s feeling generous – steps above pond sludge.  

“And what will you be doing?” Baghra asks her son.

“Finding out what happened,” he replies, as impassively as he can. “Garin said that Zoya should be awake by tomorrow morning. I’ll know more once I’ve talked to her.”

“And if it turns out she did attack Alina?”

Aleksander can’t stop the growl low in his throat, nor the way the darkness around him suddenly seems thicker and darker than a moment before. “Then she will wish she hadn’t.”

His mother nods, the corner of her lips ticking upwards in what for Baghra is an approving smile, completely unperturbed by the unconscious show of power. “Good,” is all she says, clearly expecting him to leave now that they have covered the essential points, but his mother’s question has reminded Aleksander of another part of the puzzle.

“Why did I feel her call?” he asks, mindful of the walking stick currently leaning innocently against his mother’s leg. Experience has taught him the risks of ignoring that particular piece of wood and he has no desire to add to the bruises he has collected on this visit.

His mother turns to him with a questioning tilt of her head. “Alina,” he clarifies when it becomes clear further explanation is needed. “I felt her call me, felt her need,” and her pain, but this he doesn’t disclose.

The walking stick starts tapping again while his mother thinks, irritating him as it hits the floor with no discernible pattern.

“Like calls to like,” Baghra muses thoughtfully to herself, turning her gaze to the fire. “I will think on it,” she says at last, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Long inured to his mother’s way, Aleksander knows a dismissal when he hears one and he wastes no time in trying to push the older woman for answers he knows she is in no mood to give, instead making his escape back to the relative sanity of his study for some quiet thinking time of his own.

 


 

The next morning dawns grey, cold, blustery and with no new answers for the frustrated General of the Second Army. He feels like a child who has been given a puzzle beyond his years to complete, with no instructions or guide to go by. The solution is there, just out of reach, he can feel it – and yet he has no idea what it is.

It isn’t a feeling Aleksander is either used too, or appreciates, and it puts him in a foul mood that continues well past breakfast. It must be bad as an unusually solicitous Ivan plonks a second large cup of coffee in front of him along with the usual overnight reports. His morning gets slightly better after a large infusion of caffeine and the established familiarity of going over duty rosters with his trusty second in command. Ivan is his usual competent and taciturn self, which is oddly soothing and by the lunch hour his mood has mellowed sufficiently that he feels able to visit the Infirmary and chase Garin for an update.

In hindsight, he really should have anticipated that Garin’s uncharacteristic silence was a portent of yet more complications in an already difficult and convoluted situation. His first clue that something wasn’t right was the lack of update from his trusted Head Healer, which he had expected first thing. The second is the worried hush that greets him in he the Infirmary. Something is wrong. Whatever is it has unsettled his healing staff, a unusual happenstance on its own, but it quickly becomes clear that it hasn’t just worried them, it has them frightened as well.

His first thought is for Alina, and he finds himself making his way towards her room before conscious thought has even had a chance to comprehend what it is his eyes are seeing. His precious girl is as she was yesterday. Lying still on her bed, pale and doll like, with her dark hair a stark contrast to the starch white of the sheets and the unhealthy pallor of her skin.  The gentle rise and fall of her chest is a balm to his frantic heart and he cannot help but cross the few steps between them so he rest his fingers against her pulse. The reassuring pulse of blood in her veins sends a rush of relief through him as he realises that it isn’t Alina – whatever has spooked the healers it isn’t his precious girl. She, at least, is safe.

It’s in this state that Garin finds him moments later, worried frown firmly in place as he guides his General from the Sun Summoner and into his own office, before shutting the door. Quietly, the healer explains the shock they, the healing staff, have had that morning. Zoya, who they treated last night, is not healed as she ought to be. The Squaller is awake and lucid, but her injuries remain. It’s an unheard of thing for a Grisha to not respond to healing in some way, even if it may take more than one session for the healer to fix what is broken.

“It’s frightened my staff,” Garin says quietly, eyes serious as he watched Aleksander.

“Understandably,” Aleksander nods, “do you have any idea what might be behind this.”

At this Garin looks almost nervously towards the door and his voice drops to almost a whisper as he says, “aye, Moi Soverenyi, I do.”

“Yes?” Aleksander demands, not in the mood to play guessing games.

“We know that Grisha healing can work differently with otkazat’syas,” Garin starts, his discomfort clear.  

“Of course,” Aleksander prompts. It’s one of the common problems between Grisha and otkazat’syas and has led to no end of ill feeling over the years. Grisha healers can heal almost anything with a fellow Grisha, but it is much more difficult for their healers to fix an otkazat’sya’s injuries or illness. Studies into this concluded that there was a biological difference between Grisha and otkazat’syas – slight though it may be, what allowed Grisha to use the small science also acted as a barrier that prevented otkazat’syas from being healed in the same way. Experience had taught their healers how to work around these limitations, but it cost the healer to do it as it required far more energy and time, and even then was slower to work. It was the primary reason Second Army healers rarely helped out the medical corps of the First Army. There was little point. Not that the First Army saw it that way, of course. But as to what baring this had on Zoya, Aleksander couldn’t understand. Zoya was Grisha.

“When Gregori first reported his concerns over how little Miss Nazyalensky had healed from yesterday, I admit I was inclined to dismiss it. Gregori, as you know, has something of a crush on Miss Nazyalensky and I thought he was probably being overly cautious.”

“But he wasn’t?” Aleksander queried, an uneasy feeling starting in his stomach.

Garin shook his head, “not on this occasion. I checked her myself. Her injuries are slightly further along than they would be if we hadn’t applied the healing yesterday, but they are nowhere near as healed as they ought to be.” The healer sighed deeply. “The problem is, by the time I’d finished examining her, Gregori had evidently been talking and the story was around the whole ward… as was Miss Nazyalensky apparent claim that she couldn’t feel the wind anymore.”

With a start, Aleksander sat forward in his chair, the unsettled feeling growing. “What?”

“Aye,” the healer replied, “that was my reaction as well. Miss Nazyalensky hadn’t said that to me, but when I returned and asked her, she admitted that she had been trying to summon when Gregori came into the room to do the morning rounds, but nothing had happened.”

Aleksander sat back, eyes closing as he listened to the healer.

“I’ve tested her, moi soverenyi. There’s no doubt, whatever happened yesterday, today she is no longer a Grisha.”

“Saints have mercy,” Aleksander breathed. He could understand why the staff were so alarmed now. He was quite shocked himself. He had never heard of such a thing before. You were born Grisha and you died Grisha. It was an immutable biological fact, just like colour of your eyes or the shape of your nose. It couldn’t be taken away with the snap of the fingers.

“Do you have any idea…” he trailed off.

The healer shook his head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before,” he confessed. “Some are saying the Saints are punishing Miss Nazyalensky for what happened yesterday. It’s stirring up a lot of ill feeling – and that’ll likely spread once my staff start mixing with their friends at dinner.”

Garin was correct about that. So far he had been able to keep the healers confined to the Infirmary wing, but sooner or later they would have to be allowed out, and once that happened it was only natural that they would talk. Aleksander felt little affection or sympathy for Zoya at this point, but the prospect of a lynch mob was unacceptable. They needed to understand what had happened yesterday so that the residents of the Little Palace could be updated with facts and not baseless speculation. People were already asking about Alina and why she and Zoya hadn’t been seen since the incident.

With a nod, Aleksander stand.s. “Is Zoya awake?” he asks. Garin nods,  leading him out of the office and down a corridor to a different part of the Infirmary.

The medical wing at the Little Palace is divided into large general wards, which have multiple beds, surgical rooms for operations, and private rooms where Grisha with injuries or illnesses that will take longer to heal, or which might be infectious, are housed.

Zoya’s room is one of several identical private rooms. It is white washed, with a single bed, a basin and a bathroom. The only splash of colour in the room are the two blue damask chairs placed by the window which overlooks the walled gardens and hedge maze.   

Zoya is sitting on a chair by the window when he enters, head turned to so she can stare at the gardens. At this time of year, there is precious little colour or greenery to be seen and the vista makes for a depressing sight. The creek of the door alerts her to his entrance, and he watches, face impassive, as her head snaps round and her eyes light up when she sees him, fervent and bright.

It’s a sight that unnerves him and for a long moment he stands still, examining the expression on her face. He has been blind; he sees that now. A blind old fool, just as his mother accused him. He had assumed he and Zoya had been on the same page with regard to their short, ill advised fling. Instead, he finds that not only are they not on the same page they aren’t even in the same book.

Their conversation goes about as well as could be expected – which is to say not at all. 20 dreadful-horrible-stomach-churning minutes he spends in that tiny room questioning the Squaller and seeing for himself how no matter what she tries not even a whisp of air responds to her. As a last test he places a hand on her skin to see if he can still feel the thrum of power he should be able to sense in all Grisha. The results of the test make him frown. At first he thinks it is gone, but then just as he about to release the girl he sense it – a faint buzz against his senses - and he chases it further than he has ever had to go before to call another’s power to him. He finds it – eventually – buried deep within the girl, and it reminds him of something from years ago, of another child whose powers he tried to summon and instead met with a barrier he could not pass or overcome. But how? Alina had pushed her gifts away, creating a block that she alone could overcome. Zoya has done no such thing and yet… and yet the result is the same.

It is one more mystery to add to the growing list, but this one is perhaps the most disquieting. Three things though are clear: Firstly, that Zoya is still Grisha, albeit only by a technicality and not in a useful way; secondly, that Zoya is now power bound, just as Alina had been; and thirdly, that his precious girl is somehow at the centre of this.  

It’s while he’s thinking about this conundrum that Zoya decides to grab his hand and place a fervent kiss upon it, voice trembling with emotion as she professes her love for him and declares that she’d forgive him anything, even the iniquitous sin of seducing the Sun Summoner as part of his plan to bring down the Fold.

For a moment all he can do is stand there, mute in his shock - but then his fury erupts, and it is a cold and terrible thing. Is this what she said to Alina yesterday? Is this the poison that made his darling girl lash out in the way she did?

A kinder man would have let the Squaller down gently. A less tired man might have considered his reaction more carefully. A man less in love with her victim might have shown more compassion. Aleksander is none of these things. His anger is like a living creature in the room, the shadows writhing around him, as all the agony, anxiety, misery and anger of the last day coalesce inside him into a maelstrom of dark unforgiving emotion.  

Something of his feelings must have been apparent as Zoya says, “I thought you loved me,” a plaintive note in her voice.

The Darkling laughs coldly.

“But…” Zoya’s voice trembles as she forces the words, “what we had. Three years ago… I thought…”

“What did you think?” Aleksander demands in an icy voice.

“I thought, we had a connection. That we loved each other. How you were when we were together, I thought… I thought we were waiting until the war was over. I understood that the difference in our ranks would make it difficult to make our relationship public… but once the war was over...”

“Then what?” Aleksander raises a mocking eyebrow, “it would be rainbows, fairytale weddings and happy ever afters? If I loved you, do you really think I would have gone three years without touching you, without being near you? Do you really think I would have stood back and allowed other men to paw at you, to take you to their beds?” his laugh is cold and mocking as he delivers the final blow, “If I had wanted you, I would have made it happen, no matter what.”

Zoya’s distress is palpable but then she rallies herself, pride smarting and heart hurting, to spit at him, “you’re lying. You have to be. What we had was special. You can’t tell me you’d throw it all for that girl. I know she’s the Sun Summoner, but-“

That girl, as you call her, is worth 200 of you and I would tear Ravka apart with my bare hands to protect her,” Aleksander explodes, voice raised for the first time as his shadows writhe about him with malevolent intent. “Not because she’s the Sun Summoner, but because she is Alina. Someone who is brave and kind, someone who is honourable and loyal, someone who loves wholly and unconditionally. Someone I…” but he cannot finish that sentence, not now and especially not to Zoya. He has already said more than he meant to and revealed more than he should.

In a voice so cold it could freeze glaciers, he pushes his point home with all the subtlety of a 6 tonne anvil to the face, “what we had was a fling, a momentary weakness on my part – and a barely memorable one at that.” His anger makes him cruel, and he watches in satisfaction as red stains Zoya’s cheeks, tears glistening in her eyes.

“You are nothing to me but an officer in the Second Army, and that is all you will ever be.”

In a whirl of shadows, he stalks from the room before he says, or does, something he might regret.

 


 

That night he visits Alina and sits beside her bed, his left hand wrapped around her own as he wills her to wake. It is a long and lonely vigil.

What a mess – and what’s worse, it appears his mother is right, and this is a mess very much of his own making. It’s a hard thing to face and a harder thing still to accept. Head cradled in his hands, Aleksander realises that time has run out. He will have to tell Alina about what Zoya and his mistake three years before.

 


 

When Alina finally awakes it’s to the sensation of a hand stroking her hair and someone humming a gentle lullaby. Twilight glittering through the shutters of the window gives her just enough light to see a familiar shape and she sighs as she lets Aleksander’s lyrical voice wash over her. It’s rare to hear Aleksander sing, though he has a beautiful voice, and she treasures the moments he is happy enough that he does.

It doesn’t take her watcher long to realise that the subject of his concern is no longer unconscious but very much awake, and with a start that makes his chair screech painfully against the marble he rushes to check on her, shouting loudly for Garin. She tries to smile in reassurance at her friend, concerned by the dark circles she can see clearly under his eyes and the deep worry lines writ upon his brow, but it quickly falls flat. Her cheek hurts. That is the first thing she realises. The second is that it isn’t the only pain now making itself known. Her back is stiff and sore, her shoulder feels tender and the less said about her ribs the better. As far as she can tell the only thing not hurting at this moment is her head which feels fine, for a change.

Gentle hands help her to sit up and take much needed sips of water from the cup he has brought to her lips. The cool water is heavenly in the desert that is her mouth, and she can’t suppress the whine of discontent that escapes her when the healer arrives and the cup is taken away. Garin smiles at her, warm and comforting as ushers a protesting Aleksander out of the room, before returning to her bedside.

Now more aware and alert, Alina looks around the unfamiliar room, confused by both the strange environment and how she came to be there. This not a part of the Little Palace she knows – even the view from the window is different and unfamiliar to her. The mystery is soon solved as the Head Healer informs her that she is in one of the healing rooms in the Infirmary wing and has been since she was brought in two days ago.

Two days – it is little wonder that her mouth is so dry then, but the mystery of why she is in there remains. Garin frowns when she voices this, soothing hands brushing against her as they check over her various aches and pains, but the kindly healer tells her not to worry. It’s a nice sentiment, but a futile one. Too much has happened over the last few weekss for Alina not to feel concerned at being injured yet again, especially as Garin has taken pains to avoid telling her what happened this time round.  

When his assessment is complete the healer steps back and smiles. “Well,” he says jovially, “considering the state you were in, you’re doing really very well. Another couple of days of rest and you should be ready to re-join your peers.” Discovering that she will be spending yet more time stuck in bed is not what Alina wants to hear. She’s always been a terrible patient whenever ill or injured, as her mother likes to remind her, and she doubts that this time will be any different.

“Well, I suppose we’d best let the General back in before he wears a hole in my floor,” Garin’s tone is conspiratorial as he flashes a grin at Alina that she can’t help but return. She likes Garin and can see why Aleksander trusts him enough to make him Head Healer. True to the healer’s predictions, Aleksander is pacing up and down the corridor outside her room, scowl in place as if the floor has somehow offended him. The moment he notices door open the General strides towards it, scowl gone but with the look of a man who won’t be taking no for an answer.

It’s fortunate for him that Garin is happy to oblige, on this occasion, as he repeats his observations and prognosis for the benefit of his commanding officer. Throughout the update, Aleksander’s eyes remain fixed on Alina, carefully cataloguing the healing injuries one at a time, with an intensity that makes Alina’s heart start racing and brings a blush to her still pale face.

Eventually, Garin finishes his update and vanishes off into the labyrinthine halls of the infirmary, leaving the Sun Summoner in the General’s care. The Aleksander who sits with Alina that afternoon is not her normal playful friend, or even the slightly aloof and regal General she has come to know in the Little Palace. This Aleksander is sombre and secretive. He will not say what happened to her and whenever she raises the topic, he merely replies that he will tell her later, when she is stronger. This is not the answer Alina wants and her frustration only grows as her friend continues to refuse. For a naturally curious person like Alina, it’s torture not to know and yet Aleksander will not be moved, no matter how she pleads with him.

In the end, Aleksander leaves just before the clock chimes 10, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as he stands. Alina playfully crosses her arms and looks away, bringing a smile of Aleksander’s lips as he regards her with emotion filled eyes. “I am glad you are on the mend, Alina,” he says as he pauses at the door to her room and for a moment she thinks he is about to tell her something important, but then he shakes his head and leaves the room muttering under his breath.

With Aleksander gone, so to is Alina’s distraction from boredom, but to her surprise she finds herself yawning and sliding down the pillows to nestle in the warm covers of her bed. Her eyes sliding shut of their own accord.    

The next day follows a similar pattern, and the day after it as well. Aleksander appears sometime after breakfast – usually with a book he thinks she might be interested in – and they spend an hour or so talking before he returns to his work and Alina slides into the deep sleep of the recovering. The frequent need to nap breaks up the days, and the books help as well, but in the absence of distraction she returns to worrying about the gaps in her memory. Aleksander is different, in some subtle way she can’t explain. There’s an energy to him that reminds her of a hornet’s nest – and a kicked one at that – a buzzing, almost vibrating resonance that makes her nervous, as if he’s feeling too much to hold inside himself and this is the physical manifestation. Add to that the curious behaviour of the infirmary staff and it feels like something big, something important, something monumental happened, and everyone knows but her.   

It’s a disquieting thought.

 


 

It takes time, but on the third day memories start coming back to the Sun Summoner. It starts with flashes of colour and snippets of things half remembered, but slowly over the next few hours the memories become clearer and clearer as what was lost is once more found. By the time the sun has started to dip below the horizon, Alina can recall with horrible clarity Botkin’s class and the feeling of being pinned to the ground while the Squaller drips poison into her ear.

Her head is hurting, but it is heartache that brings tears to her eyes as she tries to muffle her desperate sobs in the thick blanket wrapped around her. Distantly she hears the creak of her door followed by hasty footsteps retreating from her room, but she is too lost in her misery to look up. Loneliness and fear are pressing in on her, crushing her beneath their weight and all she can do is cry out her pain and betrayal.

Zoya. Aleksander.

Zoya and Aleksander.

Zoya who knew about her problems summoning.

Zoya who knew how she felt about Aleksander and threw it in her face.

Zoya who had trampled on her fragile faith and confidence.

Zoya who had confirmed all her worst fears.

Zoya who said she was the one Aleksander really loves.

Light burst from her, turning her once gloomy room into a kaleidoscope of colour as it cocoons her, hiding her from view. In her pain she turns into the light, grasping the comforting warmth as it washes over her. Vaguely she’s aware of movement around her, of people trying to get close to her, but all she wants is to be alone, and it’s a relief when the cacophony of sound is replaced by a heavy silence interrupted only by her laboured breathing and hiccoughing cries.

 


 

The first Aleksander knows that something is wrong is the hurried message from Garin’s deputy, Erik. For the third time in as many days he leaves his study at a run.

He arrives in the infirmary panicked and fretful. Has there been some sort of set back? Have Alina’s injuries taken a turn for the worst? He had left her in a deep healing sleep at lunch and before that she had been her usual alert and happy self, if somewhat frustrated that she was still not allowed out of bed.

The sight that confronts him in the infirmary is like a twisted parody of that day in the training yard, only this time he has to battle through the throng of inquisitive healing staff rather than students, as he pushes his way through to the door of Alina’s room. Erik is standing there, barring the way to stop the curious crowd from entering the room. Both his hands are red raw and blistered and the skin on his face looks like he has been badly sunburned.

It doesn’t take a genius to suspect it has something to do with the glow visible through the crack between the door and frame. It’s at times like this that the Darkling’s reputation is most useful, with only a few curt words and one of his infamous looks, he is able to achieve what Erik and his injuries had not, and the accumulated crowd quickly disperses back to their respective stations. 

With a relieved sigh Erik tells him what he knows – which is frustratingly little. Alina had been asleep for most of the afternoon but is now awake and distressed. Very distressed.

As to what has upset her, Erik cannot say. She’s had no visitors, no letters, nothing at all that could account for her change in mood. All he knows is that some twenty minutes before, one of the apprentices had heard her crying and had come to him, as per Garin’s instructions the day before. He had gone to her room immediately, but on entering had found the Sun Summoner enveloped in a ball of light which had burned him as he tried to reach her. Fearing worse injuries, the healer had left the room and dispatched a note to the General, as this was beyond his knowledge.

With a worried frown, Aleksander dismissed Erik into the waiting hands of another healer, before entering the room.

The light burns, that’s the first thing he notices, searing his skin as he calls on his own gift to protect him. The coolness of his shadows is a blessed relief after the blistering heat as they wrap around him, but even encased he can feel the raw power emitting from the figure on the bed.

With careful steps, Aleksander crosses the room, one gloved hand reaching to touch the girl’s shaking shoulder, a pained hiss escapes him as the heat sears through both the protective layer of clothing and darkness. “Alina,” he calls, pitching his voice to be low and soothing.

There’s no visible reaction, not even a flinch or twitch to show she’s even aware of his presence.

“Alinochka,” he tries again, pleading. This time there is movement. Out from the nest of blankets Alina’s beloved face emerges tear stained and distraught.

Ignoring the pain, Aleksander gathers Alina to him, enveloping her in his embrace as he hums a familiar lullaby. In his arms his precious girl shakes with the force of her muffled cries, her face pressed into the crook of his neck as he gently soothes her.

Slowly the light dims, fading gently out of existence until the two figures are left shrouded in the comforting gloom of dusk.

With gentle, unhurried motions, Aleksander disentangles one arm and reaches over to twist the knob on the lamp beside Alina’s bed, bathing the room in a dull orange glow that’s a pale facsimile of what had come before. 

In his arms Alina sits quiet and quiescent, her head resting on his shoulder as if she has no more energy to support herself – and after that display, that might well be the case.

Gentle fingers stroke her hair before slipping down to grip her hands. “Can you tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks softly, reluctant to disturb the peace, but needing to know how to help, how to fix whatever has distressed her so. Seeing her like this has torn at his already battered and ragged heartstrings. There is little he would not do to protect this precious girl from any – and every – harm, and he feels it now, the desperate need to do anything that’s within his power to make her smile once more.

“Why do you call me that?” Alina asks, as she pats at her tears with the cuffs of her nightgown.

“Call you what?” Aleksander replies with a frown, not understanding – or liking – the despair he can hear in her voice.

“Sweetheart.”

“It’s what I’ve always called you,” Aleksander’s frown deepens with confusion.

“But it’s not true,” she cries, suddenly wrenching away from him as if his touch pains her.

“Alina-“ he starts, but before he can say more than her name the girl in question continues, her voice turning shrill as she says, “it’s not true! You call me that and its not true. I’m not your sweetheart, or your dear one. I’m nothing to you. I’m no one. I’m Alina Starkov, a peasant girl you took pity on years ago, who just happened to be the Sun Summoner – and even in that I’m a disappointment! I. AM. NOTHING.”

“Do not say that,” Aleksander hisses, his heart tearing at the pain in her voice, even as it eviscerates itself over her denial of the connection he has long cherished between them.

“You are not nothing to me-“

“Of course, I am your precious Sun Summoner, after all. I mustn’t forget that fact,” the mocking tone to Alina’s voice sends chills racing down his spine.

“I couldn’t care less about that,” Aleksander almost bellows, shooting to his feet in agitation and distress.

“Two days, Alina,” he cries, voice hoarse with pain. “Two days where I didn’t know if you would wake up. Two days where I didn’t know if you’d even live.” He takes a deep shuddering breath as he tries to regain control of his rioting emotions. “Two days where I feared I had lost you forever. I would take this burden from you, if I could. I would spare you the pain of being the Sun Summoner, no matter the cost to me, or what it means for Ravka, or for our people. I would undo the gods decision in a heartbeat if it would save you even a moment of pain.”

Alina is silent and still in her shock. He runs a shaking hand through his already dishevelled hair, desperation clawing at him. “I call you sweetheart and dear one, because that is what you are to me. My better self, my dearest friend… my living heart.” It’s a challenge to get the words out with the chaotic maelstrom of emotion choking him and paralysing his voice, but somehow he manages it.

If nothing else, his darling girl must understand just how precious she is to him: not because she is the Sun Summoner, but because she is Alina - the girl who’s smile lights up his world, the girl who understands him like no other, the girl who managed to do the impossible and gave him back the heart he had long ago thought too broken by life to ever beat again. She is Alina and he loves her.  

“So don’t you dare say I do not care.” He finishes, chest heaving with supressed emotion and heart pounding as if it can impress upon her the extent and depth of his feeling through sheer force.

Alina’s beloved features telegraph her shock before she hides her face from his, turning away from his gaze to stare fixedly at the blanket still partially wrapped around her.

Silence falls, and with it Aleksander’s hope.

 


 

“Zoya said that you were just using me, that once I destroy the Fold you won’t care for me anymore,” Alina’s voice is heartbreakingly shy and quiet as she at last breaks the stillness, her eyes still fixed determinedly on the bed and her shoulders hunched in clear discomfort. Her face has lost the haughty, mocking look that had turned his stomach to acid, but in its place are anguish and despair, and it makes him want to cry to see such pain in her eyes and know that he has helped put it there.

Aleksander curses violently under his breath. The smouldering embers of his fury towards Zoya reawakened once more into a blazing inferno. Would he never be free of the consequences of his mistakes?

“She was wrong,” he states resolutely, firm conviction making his voice strong even as his heart pounds painfully against his ribs. And Zoya had been wrong. He could never not care about Alina. Such a thing is unthinkable. It also proved how little the Squaller understood either him, or his plans regarding the Fold.  

“but you and she…you never, - I mean, you weren’t…” Alina’s discomfort and embarrassment are clear to Aleksander in that moment, as is the question she is asking.

“We aren’t in a relationship,” Aleksander begins cautiously, “if that’s what you’re alluding too.”

Alina nods, her face is still downturned with her eyes fixed on the thick blanket her nervous fingers are twisting into random shapes, but he can see a relieved smile spreading across her face and it brings one to his lips as well.

It would be so very easy to leave it there, to swallow the words that he is desperate not to speak. He has no desire to own to the truth he would do anything to undo, but the words of Mei-Xing ring in his head with devasting clarity, and he knows what he must say next.

“I am not - nor have I ever been - in love with Zoya,” he says uncomfortably, hating the confusion that flashes across his Alina’s face. His eyes blink shut of their own accord, as if to stop the pain he knows he will bring her, as he steels himself for what he has to say next; “but there was a time when we shared a bed.” 

Alina’s sharp intake of breath makes him pause, but he forces himself to continue knowing that if he doesn’t say it now that he will lose his courage and determination to see this through. At over 500 years old he has long known the damage that miscommunication and misunderstanding can cause. If he made a mistake with Zoya and failed to ensure she understood, he will be damned if he repeats it with Alina.

With a sigh, he forces his eyes to open and lock on Alina’s face. “It was only for a few weeks several years ago now. It isn’t uncommon for Grisha to look for such comfort from one another. Life in the Second Army isn’t what one could call conducive to the forming of romantic relationships and, given our reception in some places, it’s often safest to find companionship within the safety of the Little Palace. When Zoya approached me that night I thought it was in search of just such an arrangement – companionship on a short term basis, before she resumed her duties in Kribirsk – I had no idea she thought it was more than that. In hindsight it was a foolish mistake, and one I am ashamed to admit to making.”

Alina has now lifted her gaze to the potted fern in the corner of the room, but her refusal to meet his eyes hurts his battered heart. With gentle fingers he softly touches her chin, guiding her to face him. “It was a mistake, Alina. I knew it at the time, but I had hoped that as she never spoke of it again that it was one that would be short lived.”

She isn’t crying, yet, which reassures him slightly, but her eyes are glassy and it doesn’t look like it would take much before she does. Alina sniffs, fingers white where they are gripping the blanket, “then why did you?” she asks quietly.

Aleksander laughs darkly. Why is a question he has asked himself many times since that night, but the reason is complicated. How can he begin to explain the complex emotions that drove him to what could turn out to be the greatest mistake of his very long life. How can he explain to Alina that it was his love for her - his overwhelming desire for her - that sent him running into the arms of another woman in an attempt to rationalise and stop the foreign feelings he was desperate to rid himself of. At the time it had made perfect sense, but now he can see the futility and outright stupidity of his actions, and he hates himself. It’s one more mistake in a long line of them where it comes to his Alinochka.

“Because I’m an idiot,” is what he says to Alina, with a sardonic smile, “the worst kind of bloody idiot.”

“I was… three years ago was a difficult time, Alina. Zoya offered comfort and release at a moment when I was struggling, and in my misery I thought it would help.” It’s not the complete truth but it’s as close as he will go. If Alina was angry with him before she will surely hate him if he confesses the feelings he has harboured for years. He had come perilously close to telling her earlier, but he hopes she will see his declaration as that of a friend, not as a would-be lover. If the events of the last month have shown him anything it’s confirmed that he doesn’t deserve her, and this situation today has merely reinforced what he realised in his mother’s cottage the night they arrived: no matter what his heart wants nothing can ever come of it.

The silence has a sad quality to it and Aleksander has the horrible feeling that his relationship with Alina is deteriorating with each breath they take, as neither shows signs of breaking it. He is still trying to resign his determined heart to a life of only friendship with his Alina, but now he may not even have that. As the silence stretches his stomach clenches in fear that this is it – that they have already passed the point of forgiveness and redemption.

A familiar hand sliding into his own shocks him out of the dark spiral of his whirling thoughts and with awe filled eyes he looks down, watching Alina knit their fingers together before squeezing their clasped hands. Terrified Aleksander lifts his head to find Alina’s beloved eyes fixed on his, filled with warmth, as she brings their joined hands to cradle them by her heart.    

Hope is truly the cruellest emotion.

Notes:

So there we go, what do you think – was it worth the wait? Our favourite pair have a lot more they need to discuss, but things are on the up now 😊.

What do you think of Aleksander's conversations with his mother and Zoya? Also, hats off to anyone who spots the movie nod in the chapter - I was recently rewatching it with a friend and couldn't resist as it seemed too perfect not to include during the chat with Zoya. It'll be another 2 chapters or so before we start really unravelling the mystery of Alina's powers, but there are lots of clues in this chapter about what's going on - so if you have a guess I'd love to hear it :)

the next chapter is written and just needs a final proof read before posting. If I have time I'll try to do it over Christmas, but it might be the early part of next week.

Next Chapter: Of Questions and Answers – The only thing more dangerous than a question is an answer. In which we get Zoya's POV and Botkin makes an appearance.

I hope you all have a very happy Christmas, or if you don't celebrate a very happy new year :)

Chapter 11: Of Questions and Answers

Summary:

There is an old Ravkan saying: envy sees the sea, but not the rocks. Zoya has been foolish, very foolish - she didn't see the rocks and now she has to live with the consequences.

Notes:

As promised here is the second part of a bumper Christmas update :).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The unrequited in their love have a special talent for ignoring the things they don’t want to see. Lingering touches, longing gazes and secret smiles, signs of affection that are obvious to everyone but the one who doesn’t want to believe. They can make mountains out of mole hills, turning the smallest act into something more meaningful. Nights which were never meant to be anything more than a shared comfort take on new significance and feelings which should never have been allowed to grow are instead nourished and nurtured. 

Three doors down from the scene playing out between Sun Summoner and Darkling, Zoya sits, head hidden behind her knees, eyes red and puffy from the tears that are still streaming down her face. Garin had been by earlier to check on her, but otherwise she has spent the last day alone except for her thoughts; her torturous, turbulent thoughts. Thoughts which bring a fresh sting of tears to her eyes as they cloud her mind, clamouring to be heard.

He doesn’t love her. That is bad enough, but far worse is the knowledge that he had never loved her, knowledge which had been delivered in an ice cold voice, distant, dispassionate and uncaring as he broke her heart and shattered it into tiny pieces. In the space of one afternoon everything she thought she knew - everything she had been so sure of - had been turned upside and ripped away. He wasn’t her General. Instead, he belonged to her, the Sun Summoner - as he had made abundantly clear in his all too brief visit - a visit which had been solely for and about the other girl.

When he came through the doorway to her room shortly after she had awoken, her heart had leapt within her chest and hope had burst through her in a rush. She thought he was there for her, that the worry and pain on his face was for her, that finally he would say the words she had been waiting years to hear.

It wasn’t. He was there out of concern for Alina, the girl who was lying in a coma only a few doors away. A coma she had put her in.

Slowly, Zoya had recounted the afternoon as clearly as her still fuzzy mind could recall, panicking as she remembered the sensation of reaching for the wind only to find it would not answer her. The same panic had found her again when the healer had been here examining her.

With a frown and a dark, forbidding look, the General had asked her try again. Swallowing her panic, she had tried once more to summon, but nothing happened. Where there should have been a swirl of air there was only stillness. She ran through all the forms she knew, forms which had always worked, but there was nothing, not one puff or gust. She was truly alone in her body for the first time in her memory, alone and lost without the gentle tickle of her gift in her mind.

With a cry she had turned to the General, seeking comfort and reassurance that this wouldn’t change what was between them, only to stop as she caught a glimpse of his face as he deliberately and coldly turned from her. His undisguised fury had been an awful sight, made more so by the shadows writhing around him like angry snakes, and for the first time in many years Zoya feared her General. This was nothing, however, to what he then said – his cold, dispassionate cruelty as he destroyed her hopes and dreams.

He had left then without even the courtesy of a farewell as he stormed from the room, darkness trailing in his wake, and Zoya had been left alone with the terrible realisation that she was part of a non-exclusive club of people who let themselves get too deep before seeing the truth.

He had never been hers to begin with.

 


 

Half an hour later, just as she had composed herself, Garin had returned. The normally kind head healer was quiet and stern as he checked her wounds and Zoya knew that this was just the start. There would be a price to pay for her actions that day, a steep one.

With a worried look, the healer stepped back, carefully rewrapping the criss-crossing burns on her arms. Her day got worse as Garin confirmed what she already knew. The burns weren’t healing, not as they should for a Grisha. Given Garin’s skill, and the time that had passed since Zoya’s arrival under his care, the burns should have been almost better by now. Instead, they are still raw and weeping and show very little evidence of improvement. With horror, Zoya understands the implications. Grisha are inseparably intertwined with their gifts – it was what gave Grisha a naturally longer life than otkazat’syas and protected them from common illnesses and diseases that could kill thousands. It’s also why Grisha healers have so much trouble healing otkazat’syas. Whatever had happened to Zoya the day before had done more than just take away her gift – it had effectively made her an otkazat’sya, with all the problems and limitations that created for Grisha healing.

The irony is not lost on her even as she begs to be allowed to see the injuries she’s going to have to live with. She’s become what she feared and hated most.

With a sigh, Garin summons two junior healers to fetch one of the mirrors hanging in the hall, but once it is brought before her she can barely bring herself to look, and when she does the girl looking back at her is one she hardly recognizes - and it isn’t because of the burns.

What has she done? Who has she become? Who is this bitter, unpleasant person before her. If her family in Novokribirsk could see her in this moment they would be horrified.

Shocked.

Disgusted.

Appalled.

In the space of three minutes she’s undone years of hard work; not only has she abandoned the teachings her family raised her with but, worst of all, she’s betrayed the Grisha code and in doing so has betrayed herself.

With terrified eyes she looks into the mirror, cataloguing every mark and burn across her torso. In a distant part of her mind, the part not consumed with self-loathing and utter desolation, she knows she should be thankful that apart from a bruised cheek her face is unmarked, but at that moment she can’t help but wish the light had taken her sight as well - for then she wouldn’t have to see what she has become.

 


 

Garin and the others depart shortly after that, leaving her to her thoughts and silent distress. It’s hard to find a comfortable position with her skin so sensitive to every movement and pull of her bandages, but eventually she finds a semi comfortable spot in the chair by the window, and she stares out of it unseeing as she contemplates the new reality she is now living.  

Zoya is unusual for a Grisha in that she has a loving family that had maintained contact and its link to her after the testing. Most Grisha came to the Little Palace rejected, fearful of being harmed and ashamed; few either missed their families or kept in contact with them. In contrast, her family are proud of her status as a Grisha: proud of her accomplishments and achievements, proud of the woman they thought she had become. What will they say when they learn what she’s done, that she’s hurt – deliberately hurt – the Sun Summoner, the saint they have been praying would appear for more years than Zoya’s been alive. The Sun Summoner’s existence changes everything – she has the power to change everything – to banish the Fold and reunite Ravka. The Sun Summoner could even be the much needed catalyst that finally ends the interminable war between Ravka, Shu Han and the Fjerdans.  

What has she done?

As the memories of the day wash over her again she feels sick, nausea rising as her breathing speeds up.

She’s ruined everything. The general’s reaction has shown her that, and the behaviour of the medical staff in the last few hours just reinforced it. She’s a social pariah, the Grisha who not only broke the rules but also nearly killed the Sun Summoner their people had been waiting for, and she had nearly taken that from them.

Who has she become? This isn’t her. She’s not hot headed and cruel. She’s not bitter and angry at the world. She doesn’t try to hurt people to feel better, or to prove her dominance and position in the social pecking order, and she certainly doesn’t do it over a man.

 


 

Through the window, Zoya watches the last vestiges of a stunning sunset, glorious reds and golds bleeding into the inky blue sky. Apart from the delivery of meals and fresh water she has been alone for hours, just sitting and thinking as she stares unseeingly at the sky. 48 hours ago she was living in blissful ignorance. 46 hours ago she made a mistake that will haunt her for life. 27 hours ago she woke up in this room, her world – and her life – irrevocably changed.

A change in the ambience of the room makes her look up and with surprise she sees Botkin seating himself on a too small chair, his normally jovial face is grave and sad as he regards her.

With a nod, Zoya’s eyes drop to the white bandages wrapped around her arms, fingers fiddling with the pin that keeps them in place in discomfort. She was never a shy child and even during the embarrassing time of adolescence she seemed to skip that uncomfortable, awkward stage that her peers experienced, but now she is unaccountably timid and nervous. She knows what’s coming, but has no idea how to do it, or even where to start.

The silence stretches on for some minutes in this way with Botkin’s attention fixed on her, patiently waiting her out, as Zoya studiously avoids eye contact in the hope of a few more minutes reprieve. At last, her nerves frayed, she says, “you might as well just come out and say it,” her tone snappy and belligerent.

Botkin raises an eyebrow full of gentle rebuke. “It is not for the student to determine the time for a lesson,” he says, his familiar voice is calm and quiet, even as it brings a blush to her cheeks. Embarrassed, her eyes drop back to her bandages and she has to fight the urge to duck her head and hide.  

“How is she?” she asks after a long moment, remorse curdling her stomach and prompting her to speak. In all that had happened since she awoke no one had told her how Alina is other than that she had yet to awaken.  

Botkin frowns, “Alive,” is his succinct answer.

Why did she do it? It’s a question she still doesn’t know the answer too.

“Is she… will she be okay?”

“Eventually,” is the less than reassuring response to her question, but Zoya nods accepting the shortness and censure she reads in the tone. She deserves this.

After a long moment contemplating the potted plant in the corner, Botkin surprises her by raising the topic of her powers.  

“Can you summon?” he asks, finally looking at her.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Do you know what happened?” she asks desperately, so far no one has been able – or willing - to explain why she can no longer call the wind.

A shadow passes over the trainer’s face that chills her blood. “What is given may be taken away,” he says softly, his golden eyes full of emotion as he answers her.

Zoya frowns, “what do you mean?” she asks, confused.

“We will know more once the Sun Summoner is awake, but I believe what I saw. You acted against a Saint, Zoya Nazyalensky, there is always a price to pay. Worse than that, you used the very gifts the Saints gave you to do it.” His gaze once so comforting is now full of condemnation, and she hears the words he has left unsaid, that she misused those gifts.

“Will I ever get my powers back?” She asks quietly, accepting the other’s subtle refusal to be drawn into giving a more detailed explanation.

Botkin looks at her levelly, “do you deserve them?” He asks in return.

Zoya blinks away the threatening tears as she chokes out, “I don’t know who I am without the wind. It’s… being a Squaller has defined my life for so long…”

“Then you must learn.” Botkin frowns, “You chose your enemy unwisely, child. That was a grave mistake. What is another?”

It takes Zoya a long moment to understand what her teacher means, and she can’t help the scowl that forms when she realises what he means to do. She has no desire to dig through each bad decision with a fine toothcomb, but she can see from the set of his jaw that there is no escape from this.

Fingers worrying at the fraying edge of the bandage, she is slow to reply, taking the time to think through what she is about to say.

“I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done that. It goes against everything we’re taught to attack in anger.”

“Good!” Botkin praises.

“Another.”

“I wanted to teach her a lesson,”

“Why?” Botkin’s face is impassive, but Zoya can hear the steel hidden in his mild tone.

Why had she? That is a good question and one that makes her want to squirm in her seat to the point where it’s only her iron discipline which keeps her still under Botkin’s relentless interrogation. She’s been angry - in all honesty she is still angry, but it isn’t because of anyone one thing the Sun Summoner has said or done. It’s everything: from the way she was discovered, to the deaths she had caused in her desperate flight to the Little Palace, to her utter disregard for the rules and convention of the Second Army. She comes and goes as she pleased, has private lessons and frequent contact with their General, she’s feted and lauded wherever she goes and whatever she does, no matter how mediocre. Dinner is just one example – they are meant to sit with their own orders during the last meal of the day. It has been the convention for longer than Zoya has been alive, but in the space of her very first week in the Little Palace, she had started to change that; flitting between the orders, sitting with Materialki more often than she sits with her own. To make matters worse, the Corporalki who are renowned for keeping themselves to themselves and looking down on the other two orders, welcomed her with open arms.

It's infuriating. It’s unfair.

“Because everything has changed,” she summarises, “She’s changed everything. She flouts the rules and does her own thing; she shows no interest in learning our ways… she just came in and…”

Botkin nods calmly as if this is what he expected, “envy sees the sea but not the rocks,” he says as he regards her with a disappointed look. It’s galling to be on the end of this man’s disappointment, Zoya is used to being the star pupil, the one who never puts a foot wrong. To have her failings raked over like this is unprecedented and a whole new level of humiliation to her situation.

“Another,” Botkin demands,

“I… I…” this one is harder to confess but eventually her unwilling mouth forms the words, “My pride… I – it was embarrassing what happened, the others cheering like that, I wanted her to feel the same way.”

The instructor nods gravely, “pride is a failing we each have. There is no place for pride in teaching or fighting – there is no dishonour in being beaten by your student if they have fought well. Your job it was so show her the way, to teach her how to protect herself. In this you failed.” Though said in a mild tone the point hits home with bruising force and Zoya can’t help the flinch as it lands. “But not your failure alone. Thought you ready to teach, to guide a student, as I have guided you. That was my mistake – I did not see clearly. In this I failed you both.”

And so it continues. Patiently Botkin pulls out each of Zoya’s secrets, each of the reasons behind the horror of the day before and examines them with kind determination until there is only one left. One last secret, one which it pains her to think, let alone speak, and yet she knows she must.

“I love him. I thought he loved me… I thought she was trying to take him from me. I’ve been such a fool!” the admission hurts and brings fresh tears to her eyes. 

“Many fools there are today, you are but one,” Botkin says kindly. It’s a generous interpretation that Zoya knows she doesn’t deserve, but it soothes her battered feelings, bringing a brief smile to her face before her melancholy returns.

“But none as great as me,” she acknowledges sadly. There is no escaping from or ignoring this fact.

Botkin’s nods in agreement as he stands, the chair creaking as the large man pulls himself to his feet with a groan.  

“What happens now?” she asks tearfully, suddenly afraid.

“You live, you learn, and you do better,” he replies sternly, watching her intently for a long moment before patting her hand gently. “There is no going back in life, only forwards. Maybe your gift is returned, maybe it is not. Whatever happens you must move forward, accept your mistakes, learn from them, and atone.”

Zoya can only nod. She had asked the question and now must live with the answer. Forwards is the only option, however hard that proves to be.  

Notes:

So... what do you think? I really don't like Zoya in either the books or the series, but this is an important chapter for her... and for Alina and Aleksander. We're also inching closer to find out more about Alina's powers, what she's done to Zoya and, more importantly, how she was able to do it. I'm shamelessly excited about the big reveal next chapter. We're also inching towards Alina coming into her own with regard to Aleks - so far she's been quite passive, but she's about to take a much more active, self-determined role :D.

As ever, I'd love to hear your comments, thoughts and speculations - they really help me write, so definitely keep them coming if you'd like quick updates ;).
Next time: The Sun Summoner.
In which the plot thickens, a secret council convenes and certain things come to light.

Chapter 12: The Sun Summoner

Summary:

In which the plot thickens, a secret council convenes and certain things come to light

Notes:

Happy 2022 everyone :). Sorry this is a bit later than planned - it was an absolute pig to write and I've spent most of the last three weeks tweaking it. Still not completely happy, but if we wait for that it'll probably be 2023 before it gets published. Having said that I had a hoot writing Baghra and Botkin and I really hope you enjoy reading their interaction as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Hold on to your hats though... the big reveal is finally here!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Once satisfied that Alina is deeply asleep and will not awake for sometime, Mei-Xing quietly escapes the room, her thoughts in tumult as they spin around her mind as she walks aimlessly down one of the many corridors. She is troubled, gravely so. Her daughter has been injured, grievously according to the chart hanging on the back of Alina’s door, and far from setting her mind at rest Alina’s account merely stoked the fire of her worries. Her only child – her precious girl – had nearly been killed by another Grisha and for reasons which only provoked her parental fury to greater heights.

By her own words, her daughter is not blameless in the altercation, but she is sorely troubled by the implications – both of the attack by one who should have protected Alina, but also the cause. Long has she wondered about the relationship between her daughter and the Black General. He is not who she would have wished for her daughter’s partner in life, but it is becoming increasingly clear that he is the only one she will have.

When Alina was younger and just on the cusp of womanhood, Mei-Xing had hoped that it was merely the normal, innocent infatuation so common with girls of that age which Alina felt for the older man. General Kirigan is a handsome man after all. Tall, dark, with striking eyes and a charisma which attracts others to him like moths to a flame. It hadn’t surprised her in the least that her daughter’s head was turned by such a man.

More troubling had been when she had noticed a similar interest from the General himself. Oh, he no doubt thought himself subtle and under good regulation, but a mother’s instincts are a finely honed thing and she had seen the way he looked at Alina, the way he held her as if he couldn’t bear to let her go, the way his eyes followed her no matter what he was doing or who he talking to. It had troubled her and made her long for the steady character and patient understanding of her husband. Anton had been a gentle man, a good man, he would have known what to do when boys started paying attention to their Alina, just as he would have known what to do about Kirigan. She had missed his insight, his wisdom, his calm strength during those trying days when all she could do was watch and wait and fear what was happening before her eyes. A stranger in a foreign land – even after all these years as a citizen – Mei-Xing was at a disadvantage. She might know the customs and laws, but her heritage and gender worked against her and rendered her almost powerless against a man of much higher station.

It was common in Shu Han for men of the General’s station to have their pick of women – young girls and experienced ladies alike – to take as mistresses, and it had kept her up for more nights than she could recall worrying what she could do should the General seek to call in the debt they undoubtedly owed him by taking Alina.

On this matter at least time had put some of her worries to rest. Alina’s 16th birthday had come and gone with no mention or even hint of the feared topic. That he desired Alina was clear to Mei-Xing, but equally so was his strange reluctance to act on it. It gave her hope that he daughter would be safe,  could have a good life with an honourable husband.

Then had come that heartrending day when he had said goodbye for what he clearly thought was the last time. Such a farewell would have called out to colder hearts than hers and she could only watch with tears in her eyes at the torment and pain she saw so clearly in the man. That he cared for her daughter had been indisputable that day and she had seen first-hand the pain it had caused him to part with Alina.  

That Alina loves Kirigan has been clear to her mother for some years. It isn’t as she had once hoped the work of attraction and infatuation, but the sort of love that lasts a lifetime. It isn’t the fiery passion of those ghastly books young girls seem to love so much – cloying, desperate, needy and jealous – but something deeper, something stalwart and true. The type of unselfish love that knows no bounds. It is the love she once shared with Alina’s father.

Whether the General loves her daughter is less clear. He certainly cares for her a great deal – that was always apparent and undeniable – but there are many forms of love in the world and Mei-Xing is worldly enough to know the difference. She had wondered when he left them all those years ago if perhaps it wasn’t just desire he felt towards Alina, there had been a pain in his eyes that she recognised, that had called to her. It had moved her enough that afterwards she had even asked Baghra. The older woman had looked uncharacteristically sad and troubled but all she would say is that his decision had been for the best, and that had been that.

As the months passed, she had thought that that had been the end of the matter, time would move on and with it Alina’s affections until the Black General was nothing but a dream. She had been wrong. Alina, her precious baby, had fallen ill and Mei-Xing was returned to the nightmare that was the fifth year of her daughter’s life. Nothing worked: no medicine, no magic, no cure was enough to even halt the wasting illness that was stealing her daughter’s life from before her very eyes. How she had railed against Baghra’s desperate plan, resisted it until it was almost too late and Alina too weak to make the journey, and in doing so had nearly killed her darling girl.

She may not have seen her daughter in nearly a year, but the Alina she had met at the Little Palace – grubby, terrified and traumatised she might have been – was also resplendently healthy and whole in a way the Alina she had last set eyes on had not been.  

The connection between her daughter and the Black Generals has always scared her, almost as much as she is thankful for it, and now another piece of the puzzle has been given to her.

She had never seen the General so shaken as that night he had come to her, trembling with exhaustion, to explain and escort her to the Little Palace. The Alina she had met there was older, wiser and wearier than the girl she remembered. For the first time, her daughter’s faith had been shaken in Kirigan. Gone was the absolute certainty and unquestioning trust she had in the man, and in its place were altogether darker emotions. She feared his intentions and doubted his affection. The pain Alina felt hurt her mother’s heart and it had been with that in mind that she had talked to the General and imparted her advice, it was all she could do. Alina was now an adult and it was her choice how she lived her life… and who she lived it with.

Things had seemed to improve after that. The regular letters had been a balm to her aching heart and she had been overjoyed to see Alina recover and start to flourish once again. The last letter she had received from her darling girl had been filled with hope and excitement and joy at the new friends she had made and the closeness she once again felt with her oldest friend.  

No parent ever wishes to hear that their child has been injured. When Alina had first left for Kribirsk and life in the First Army, Mei-Xing had feared every tap on the door and every letter in the post box. She would twitch if she heard the sound of horses hooves down her little street, convinced they were coming to tell her that her beloved child was dead. As time passed, that worry did not ease but it did recede as she became used to its presence and learned to live with the fear.

She had thought upon hearing that Alina was now in the Little Palace that she could at last relax. The General would not allow harm to come to her and the Little Palace was renowned for its safety and security. Surely her girl would be safe in such a place, surrounded as she was by her fellow Grisha and with a contingent of guards.

Baghra’s appearance at her home early that morning had turned her world upside down and shown her the folly in her assumption. Alina had been hurt, badly hurt, and by one of their own. It had only been the older woman’s conviction and assurance that her daughter was out of danger that stopped Mei-Xing from ignoring the instruction in the accompanying letter and storming the Little Palace, Darkling or no Darkling.

The five day wait before she could see her own child was torture to Mei-Xing even as she accepted the necessity of the delay. Each day a note would arrive with an update from the General, delivered by Baghra, all with the same news. Alina continued to recover but was not yet well enough for visitors. Then, at last, on the sixth morning there is no note – only Baghra who has come to collect her to take her to Alina. As they walk towards the Little Palace, the older woman explains in a hushed voice about the meeting that afternoon, the desperate urgency to understand what had actually happened and the task they need Mei-Xing to undertake to speak to Alina and find out.

Alina’s tale troubles her greatly.  She has not her daughter’s youthful sensibilities, at 51 Mei-Xing is old enough to know and understand the ways of men much better than her tender-hearted daughter. It doesn’t surprise her that the General has had lovers over the years, but what does make her pause is Alina’s reaction to it. Her daughter is not by nature cruel, vindictive or prone to anger and yet she is candid in her recounting as she speaks of the pain the other girl inflicted and what it drove her to do. But more than this is her renewed confusion around the Aleksander, and with it Mei-Xing fears for Alina’s fragile trust, fears what such pain could do to her precious girl, what it could one day turn her into.   

 


 

It’s in this state that Botkin finds her, pacing in front of a large bay window, eyes fixed on the floor as her thoughts whirl around her head.

“What troubles you, sister,” his familiar voice calls, jolting her out of her ruminations. Looking up, her eyes alight on the larger figure of the Shu-hanese man. Bowing low in the customary greeting of their homeland, Mei-Xing rattles off the normal salutation, her mind only half attending to her words.

Frowning slightly, Botkin gestures for her to follow him as he turns and leads her to a quieter, less frequented, part of the Infirmary.

“What troubles you so, sister?” he asks again as he shuts the door of the room he has led her into.

Mei-Xing clasps her hands together, the white of her fingers the only visible sign of the strain she is feeling. “I am concerned,” she says at last, “and troubled. I have just come from Alina.”

Botkin nods, “you have spoken?” he asks gently, reading the answer in the worried mother’s eyes. He nods again. “Troubling it is. Heard of its like before, I have not.”

In 11 words the Martial Arts instructor has summarised the root of her worries. Her daughter is already so unusual, so different, that Mei-Xing cannot help but wish that in one way at least Alina could be normal, but it’s clearly not to be. Already she stands apart from the other Grisha for being the Sun Summoner, but now it seems she will be set apart further still for what has happened to the other girl. Worse than its uniqueness, however, are the implications of this ability. It is one that will make others fear her – even, or perhaps, especially her own kind. For a parent it is the worst sort of realisation.

Smiling at the worried mother, Botkin pats her hand. “Fear not, daughter will be well for she has us to guide her.”

The gentle kindness of the man before her brings tears to eyes, tears of gratitude and worry and fear – tears a lifetime of training will not allow to fall. Eyes bright and glassy, Mei-Xing smiles at the stalwart man. “The General has called a meeting this evening to discuss the event,” she confides softly, keenly aware that in a place like the Little Palace it would be easy for someone to over hear something that they shouldn’t. “He wishes to know what Alina remembers.”

Botkin nods solemnly, “there is disquiet amongst the Grisha. They know something has happened to the Sankta but not what, and in the silence rumours start to spread.” Both instructor and mother understand the reason behind the delay in what would ordinarily have been a minor matter, but in this case the delay is creating problems of its own and Mei-Xing worries what they will mean for her daughter. They need answers and a strategy to keep Alina safe. Botkin pats her shoulder comfortingly as he gently shepherds her back towards her daughter’s room. “I will speak to General,” he announces, “and I will attend with you. Thoughts I have, insight from Zoya, which should be shared.”

“Worry not,” he continues as he opens the door. “No harm will come to the Sankta, on this I swear.” It is a meagre comfort. Alina has already been hurt in this place, and yet it lights a gentle warmth in Mei-Xing that pushes back the dark thoughts that have been clamouring for attention, a warmth she hasn’t felt for many long years. Watching her friend leave, Mei-Xing can’t help the thought that flits across her mind – maybe time really does mend all wounds.

 


 

The first Aleksander knows of this latest Alina related hiccough is when Botkin materializes in his study just after the midday meal. The large instructor sits serene and composed on a chair at least two sizes smaller than it needs to be for one of his stature.

“Yes?” Aleksander states, eyes still fixed on the report he is reviewing.

Botkin frowns at the obviously dismissal conveyed in his general’s tone but otherwise remains still and silent; patient in his determination to wait out the General’s studied concentration.

At last, Aleksander looks up, his gaze meeting that of his silent guest. He lets the silence question hang in the air for a moment. With an exhalation too gentle to be sigh Botkin nods and with his usual directness states, “I wish to join the council meeting.”

“What?” Aleksander demands in bewildered confusion, at least half of his mind still devoted to the news imparted in the report he had been reading.

This time it is definitely a sigh that escapes the larger man. “There is a meeting today, yes? Regarding the sun summoner and the events in my class. I will join.”

Aleksander frowns as he places his pen back in its holder. “How did you hear of it?” He responds evasively, but Botkin just levels a serene gaze at him and refuses to answer.

The answer arrives almost immediately as his brain recalls the events of the morning. Barely suppressing a groan he says, “Mei-Xing.”

Botkin nods regally. “Sister was concerned, she wished for my opinion.”

“Of course,” Aleksander says, frustration leaking into his tone. Saints dammit, could nothing be kept secret in the Little Palace at the moment.

“This meeting does not involve you,” the general says firmly as his gaze returns to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

“Spoken with Zoya, I have.” Botkin says as if it’s explanation enough, and perhaps it is. “Thoughts I have,” the man continues, “thoughts which must be shared with the other guardians.”

“Guardians?”

“The guardians of the Sun Summoner. Guards to protect and guide the Sankta in her first steps. A sacred duty,” Botkin explains, features uncharacteristically stern as his gaze searches Aleksander’s with more perception and intelligence than Aleksander is comfortable with.

The examination makes him bristle with uncharacteristic agitation. He feels wrong footed, caught off guard, exposed in a way that unsettles him. It makes him defensive and belligerent as he tries to regain control of the situation he fears has spiralled far from the sphere of his influence. “Of course.” The condescending drawl is obvious enough to earn a disappointed glare from the normally unflappable martial arts instructor. “And you think you’re one of these… guardians?” Aleksander asks, his distaste for the topic evident in his tone.

Botkin sighs again, this time looking at the General like he is a particularly stupid child who should have learnt their lesson by now but keeps making the same mistake.

“Four guardians there are spoken of in the texts of my people,” he says, his tone full of gentle reproach.

Aleksander sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels the beginnings of a headache start to niggle. “And what do these guardians do?”

“They guide and protect the Sankta,” the instructor says as if it should be self-evident.

 “And you’re one of these guardians?”

Botkin inclines his head and Aleksander sighs.

“Who are the others?” he asks, his headache ramping up a notch, but the instructor just sits there calm, serene and resolutely silent on the matter. “Do you know?” he presses, keen eyes watching the other man. Botkin raises an amused eyebrow. “Yes.” He says simply and leaves it at that.

“Alina won’t thank you for calling her a saint,” Aleksander says as he settles back in the cushions of his chair, experience telling him to let this go - for now at least. Botkin could be like an immovable object when he made his mind up about something and there was little point giving himself a migraine trying to get answers out of the man at this very moment when patience would likely soon reveal all.  

The larger man nods again as if he expects this. “And yet it does not change her nature.” His eyes become serious and darken slightly, “just as it has not changed who - and what - you are.”

Aleksander cannot repress the flinch even as his mind rushes to reassure his finely honed sense of paranoia that the instructor cannot possibly be referring to that – his greatest secret.   

“Morozova.”

One word. Just one, and his whole world tumbles down around him.

Aleksander freezes, barely breathing as the word hits him with all the force of the cut and with the same devastating effect.

“You know?” He gasps. Botkin’s nod feels like the final nail in his coffin.

“How?” Aleksander demands hoarsely, once the power of speech returns to him, in a tone of voice that would normally have a lesser man quaking in his seat. Botkin is no such man - he continues to sit in serene silence as if he hadn’t just upended Aleksander’s world with those few words.

At last, the larger man takes pity on his surprised leader and he pats the other man comfortingly on the arm. “It is a good disguise,” he says in his usual lilting voice, “but not good enough to fool Botkin. Long I have known who you are. Many years now.”

How did you know?” Aleksander askes quietly as he desperately represses the anxious need to fidget in his chair.

Botkin smiles grimly, “because only one there was of you at a time. One Shadow Summoner to take the place of the last. Most unlikely that there would be only one if a family there was – surely there would be others. More likely that there was only one – the same one as before.”

Then why stay silent?” The general demands, fingers clenched under the table as his shadows try to escape his iron control to deal with the threat before him. There are many who would pay handsomely for this information – some of them only a stones throw away from this very room.

Botkin looks at him for a long moment as if contemplating his answer. “Because,” he says at last, “these last years have shown that while you are undoubtedly a great man you also have the potential to be a good one.”

Of all the answers he had been prepared for that wasn’t one of them, and for the second time in as many minutes the general finds himself speechless. Botkin on the other hand has no such difficulties.

The instructor’s eyes are serious in his jovial face as he continues. “The histories of my homeland remember the events that led to the Fold’s existence - we at least remember the betrayal and greed, the malice… the genocide. We do not forget as Ravka has forgotten. Such events did more than create the Fold, it also birthed my country’s fear of Grisha, and with it their need to understand, to learn how to combat such powers. Much pain and evil has come from your creation, but so too has good.”

Aleksander closes his eyes, fists clenched as he tries to suppress the reflexive guilt along with the memories, which even after 400 years are still as fresh and as painful as if the events had happened only weeks ago.

“Such pain and treachery,” Botkin says, voice sad and pained. “A lesser man would have run away. A lesser man would have abdicated responsibility. A lesser man would have lost his heart and soul to the quest for vengeance against those who drove him to such a desperate act.”

Aleksander’s opened of their own accord to meet the level stare Botkin levels at him. “A lesser man would have done these things. You have not. You stayed to confront your mistakes and have fought to provide a place of safety and belonging for your people. History has made a villain of a victim. You have done much which is wrong, but always you strive for what is right – what is needed to protect Grisha.”

“I’m not a good man,” Aleksander says, his voice barely more than a murmur in the stillness of his study. Botkin shakes his head, “not always,” he agrees. “Many times I have feared that you were loosing your way. It is easy to wander down dark paths when there is no light shining to show you the way.” The instructor’s eyes are sad and full of empathy as his gaze remains fixed on Aleksander’s. “War has no room for good men. Much has been asked of you, many sacrifices you have made, you have done great things for Ravka – more than I think many realise – and greater things still for the Grisha. A great man with great powers and a greater burden can make terrible choices, choices which could destroy all he has worked for and sought to achieve.”

Aleksander can only nod, there is truth in that – just look at what he had planned originally for the Sun Summoner – but Botkin isn’t finished. “Great men are seldom allowed to be good also, necessity prohibits it. I had feared that goodness had been beaten out of you, but these last years I see it has not. You are a great man, Moi Soverengi, but with the Sun Summoner you could yet be a good one.”

Botkin stands, his chair creaking as he pushes it back. “That is why I keep my silence.”

He smiles and bows low to the still figure of the general. “I await your summons,” he says as he straightens and proceeds to leave, his confidence clear in what his General’s decision will be. As the door shuts with a soft click, Aleksander lets his head fall into hands, fingers rubbing at his temples as if they can banish the lingering fear and distress through sheer will power, and idly wonders if Ivan might be willing to share some of his special tea – if the morning he’s had is any indication, he will need it. What a saints forsaken mess.

 


Aleksander’s day only gets worse from there, for shortly after Botkin’s departure a note bearing the double headed eagle of the Tsar arrives - complete with a level of pageantry and fanfare more normally seen on a royal progress than in the delivery of a simple letter. In keeping with its delivery the missive is written in the Tsar’s usual overly florid and rambling style and it takes the Darkling several minutes of intense effort to decipher what the incompetent moron is after now.  

“What time is his Imperial Highness expecting me?” he asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance at the peremptory summons. The three footmen who attended the letter turn to the fourth man present who is clearly in charge of this little pantomime. Aleksander has never liked the second under-steward at the Imperial Palace. Erik Dimitrov is a pompous fool with an enormous quivering moustache and an ego that if it could be weaponised would decimate the Fjerdan army. Like many at the Imperial Palace, he’s also a small minded, xenophobic misogynist, more concerned with jockeying for position than common decency and has a vexing habit of treating any Grisha who has the misfortune to cross his path with contempt and a complete lack of anything approaching appropriate behaviour.  

Dread curdling in his stomach, Aleksander picks up the carefully worded report he and Ivan have crafted to account for the training incident and leaves, shutting the door to his study with a heavy heart. With every step he takes, the lead weight grows and it’s only made worse when he spies the Apparat waiting for him with ominous intent by the small side door Dimitrov has led him to.

As the priest dismisses the moustached under-steward, Aleksander braces himself for what he is certain will be a campaign by the royal family to have Alina moved to the safety of the Imperial Palace. He need not have worried. True to form, the Tsar – assuming he even knows about the incident that has been keeping the inhabitants of the Little Palace up at night – seems content to ignore it in favour of much more pressing concerns: last night’s bad dream.

As they walk down the gaudy corridor toward the Imperial Study the Apparat explains. Last night, after a late supper of cheese, breads and cold cuts, The Tsar had retired to bed only to be woken a few hours later by a dream at which point their venerable leader - once again demonstrating his maturity and sense of proportion - had awoken half the Imperial Palace with his shouts and demands.

The night staff had been the first to be disturbed. They had then gone to find the Senior Night Butler. The Senior Night Butler had summoned his Imperial Highness’ Under-Valet, who had then been tasked with waking the Senior Valet. The Senior Valet’s contribution had been to wake up The Tsarina’s dresser, who then alerted the Tsarina to the fracas occurring in her husband’s room.

The Tsarina had then decided to assist matters by joining her husband in his room, and within a few minutes had joined him in his hysteria as well. It was at this point in the unfolding drama that the Night-Groom of the Stool had the sense to go find the Apparat, who with a cool head used to the mercurial moods of his lord and master had calmly taken charge – dispatching the hoard of watching servants back to their beds and the Tsarina to the tender clutches of her dresser and a strong sleeping draft, before turning his attentions on the Tsar himself.

It had taken some time to make sense of the ramblings, but finally he understood the gist. The Tsar had had a bad dream. A nightmare in which he saw his throne toppled from its dais in the great hall, a mighty white stag standing in its place, light shining down on it as a benediction, as the double headed eagle of the Lantsov line lay quiescent under its hooves.

The logical conclusion the Tsar had reached upon waking was to believe it an omen of his impending demise and that of his family’s ruination. With a heavy sigh, the Apparat wiped a hand across his eyes. “I managed to settle him last night and had hoped that when he woke in the morning he would have forgotten such a dream – as indeed has happened before. Alas, when he woke just before luncheon he remembered it just as clearly the second time as the first, and nothing would do but for him to speak to you about possible sedition. He’s convinced it means someone will attempt a coup.”

Aleksander raised an eyebrow. “But you do not?” he queries, voice deliberately light and dismissive, as they round a corner. The other man stops him with a hand to his elbow, his voice dropping to barely a whisper as he says, “General, let us be frank. I know you do not trust me – no more than I trust you – but on this we must be united as we are united in the care of one who is precious to us both - you know of who I speak. General Zlatan is a threat, but we both know the stag is not his symbol… no matter how much he tries to claim it. That symbol belongs to another, one who the Tsar must not suspect.”

A shiver races down Aleksander’s spine and he has to fight to repress the shadows licking at his skin as the words and their importance sink in. Alina. The priest means Alina. This vile, slimy politician is threatening his precious girl. The fine hair on his arms stand on end as he resists the protective urge to slam the other man against the wall and demand answers, to let his shadows swarm until this otkazat’sya confesses all to him and begs his forgiveness for daring to speak of Alina.

The priest’s eyes are dark and serious as they bore into Aleksander’s own with unusual fervour and perceptiveness. “His Highness must be pacified. I have tried to assure him that this was but a dream, one brought on by too much cheese, but the Tsar remains convinced that this is an omen. Much harm could result if this tumult continues. He must be reassured – which is why I persuaded him to call you.” Impossibly, the Apparat’s voice grows even quieter, and it’s these words which save him from Aleksander’s fury.  “We both know to whom the stag belongs. You must persuade him that it is Zlatan to which the vision refers. We must protect the Sankta. Until she has come into her full power she is in great danger. Already her popularity is starting to worry the Tsar. I have heard murmurings within the royal circle, and I fear for what this means for the Sankta, especially if the Tsar were to realise what the stag symbolises.”

These are not the words he wants to hear. He already has enough problems on his plate without adding this one at the moment. That the Apparat appears to be allied with him on this matter is as unsettling as it is unexpected, and it brings a whole new set of issues with it. He has never cared for the Tsar’s spiritual advisor and first minister. He is a greasy, obsequious sort of man who lacks the dignity and charisma which might have accorded him some respect. The courtiers laugh at him behind his back and have little time for his words – other than at official ceremonies when he is wheeled out in suitably gaudy robes to laud the Lantsov name and command public devotion to the Imperial family. Aleksander has long thought him a fool. A grovelling, unctuous idiot, consumed with his own piety and a willing servant of a corrupt and useless regime.

In light of that speech, it appears Aleksander will need to amend at least some of that assessment – in the last few minutes the Apparat has shown not just courage, but conviction and loyalty – not to his paymaster – but to the Saints. He’s surprised Aleksander, and after so many years living amongst the royal court that is a rare thing. One thing is clear, no matter what game the Apparat is playing, on this he can only agree – the Tsar’s attention must be turned to safer topics… and targets.

With a slight nod, he agrees and together the pair walk down the corridor and into the Tsar’s study, two unlikely allies as they work together to sooth their Imperial leader’s disturbed mind.

 


  

It’s two long, laborious hours before Aleksander is finally dismissed and can escape the dismal grandeur of the Imperial Palace for the safety and comfort of his home. The meeting with the toddler Tsar proved just as ridiculous as he had feared it would be. He has never been one to believe in omens. His mother had raised him to be above such superstitions – his is a life of science, of logic and rationality, for all that Grisha gifts more closely resemble magic than science at times. There is no place for saints and divine plans. Yet… the Tsar’s dream gnaws at him, unsettling him - made worse by the Apparat’s uncharacteristic behaviour. These are yet more badly shaped pieces he cannot – as yet – fit into the puzzle that is the Sun Summoner. He knows what the priest was hinting at, the fabled stag of Morozova. The stag he had once thought to use as an amplifier to bind the Sun Summoner to his will. It’s an unsettling coincidence and one that gnaws at him.

Still, some good has come from the last couple of hours: the Tsar is now convinced of the need to remove Zlatan once and for all. It’s a decision which means Aleksander is finally authorised to act – something he has long advised and just as long been denied. The other First Army Generals will moan and complain, but this is a very necessary victory and a significant step forward in Aleksander’s plan for Ravka.

As he makes his way across the cold grounds, the icy wind biting through the thick lining of his cloak and gloves, he turns over in his mind the other positive from the meeting. The Tsar – mutton headed moron that he is – remains blissfully unaware of the dramatic events involving the Sun Summoner, something for which Aleksander can only thank the Saints. Even the Apparat appears to be ignorant of the chaos which has infolded the Little Palace over the last week, although on this point the General is less certain and secure. The discussion earlier with the priest has shown him to have more cunning, intelligence and skills in subterfuge than he had previously thought and it would be folly to continue underestimating the other man given this new evidence. One thing is clear, the Apparat needs to be watched. Friend of foe, ally or enemy, Aleksander knows only too well how blurred these lines can be in politics and how quickly they can shift. Alina is vulnerable, naïve to the ways of the Imperial Court and their particular brand of realpolitik.

The Apparat may be aligned to Aleksander in protecting Alina at the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat, and Aleksander has no doubt that the priest has a plan involving the Sun Summoner. It’s a worrying thought.  

 


 

If Aleksander had hoped for a moments reprieve from the insanity of the day he is to be disappointed as Ivan ambushes him as he enters the vestibule, face set in a ferocious scowl muttering about unscheduled meetings and wicked old women. The reason for Ivan’s pique becomes apparent as they round the corner into the corridor that houses his suite of rooms.

“You…you - you turnip head!” A familiar cantankerous voice screeches from behind the heavy wood doors at the far end of the corridor.

The two guards stationed outside wince at the sound and share a commiserating look with each other as they grip their rifles a bit tighter, both looking a bit peaky in the orange glow of the lamps.  

“See,” Ivan grunts in an aggrieved tone. “Moi Soverengi, I must protest. How am I meant to keep your diary if you do not schedule appointments, and those you do, you do not keep. Diary disorder leads to confusion. Confusion leads to chaos. Chaos leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to more paperwork!”

“My apologies, Ivan.” Aleksander says as a loud thud emanates from his study. “Our illustrious Tsar required my services. Had I known you the chaos this would cause my diary I would of course have put him off to as to keep to my itinerary.”

Ivan grunts, and gives an approving nod. Clearly pleased to see his leader has his priorities in the right order, and makes a note in the leather bound book in his hands.

Aleksander winces and suppresses the desire to bang his head against the nearest wall. Ivan, like the Tsar, is immune to the gods gift to humour that is sarcasm. A more literally minded man it would be hard to find and things like irony and sarcasm were water off a duck’s back to him.  

Another crash and an inarticulate screech of rage from behind the closed doors decides him. Letting out a displeased sigh, Aleksander dismisses Ivan to check the midday reports and dispatches the two grateful Oprichniki to a suitable point some distance away, where they can continue guarding the passage to his rooms, but will no longer have their eardrums assaulted by his mother’s dulcet tones.

Taking a deep breath, the feared general of the Second Army opens the door to his study valiantly ignoring the trepidation singing in his chest.  

The sight that greets him when he enters the room makes him pause for a moment in surprise at the tableau. His mother, perched on his favourite chair is apoplectic with anger, her stick clenched in a grip so tight he’s surprised it hasn’t broken either the handle or her fingers. Over in the corner, the large figure of Botkin blots out much of the light from the west window, shoulders tense and as bothered as Aleksander has ever seen him. In the middle of the chaos is Mei-Xing, a bastion of calm serenity and she continues to pour tea, looking for all the world as if she’s unaware of the other occupants currently lobbing insults and heated looks at each other.

So consumed are they that his entrance – which was not particularly quiet or stealthy – has completely escaped their notice. Only Mei-Xing with her habitual attention to detail looks over and nods a greeting.  

It’s a rare sight to find his mother near speechless and Aleksander can’t help a moment of puerile glee to see his normally unflappable and superior mother in such a state. The source of her ire, however, is equally surprising - for its Botkin, a man with such impeccable manners and gentle behaviour as he’d thought incapable of upsetting anyone - even his difficult mother - but for the first time ever the man has lost his habitual serenity and is instead starting to look displeased. There is a deep rattled frown on his normally jovial features, and he is sitting forward, the chair beneath him groaning it’s complaint, as he locks eyes with the old woman.

“And you are a termagant. You do not teach madam, you batter.”

“My students learn just fine you overly muscled moron!!”

“At least I have use. What use have you other than to be rude and unpleasant.”

“Only as a pin cushion, you over cooked pudding.” Baghra hollers in response, her stick only narrowly missing his telescope as it expresses her fury.

This is evidently too far for the normally mild man as he starts to draw himself up to his full - and rather impressive - height. It’s at this point that Aleksander decides it is time to intervene and does so by slamming the folder he’s carrying down on his desk with a satisfying thump. Two out of the three intruders jump and he has the unique experience of seeing his mother look like a small child who’s been caught raiding the sweet bin.

Sadly, it doesn’t take long for the old woman to recover and in a loud, belligerent tone she barks, “you’re late.”

Aleksander looks at the grandfather clock and raises an amused eyebrow. “No, I’m on time, which means you’re all early.” He checks the time again, “very early. I thought we agreed on the hour before dinner.”

Baghra huffs, but looks away. It’s a small victory, but when conversing with his mother small victories are often all he has, and the woman has already scored two points by being in his study before his return and nabbing his favourite seat to vex him. He cannot allow her to increase her score.

After quickly checking to make sure nothing has been fiddled with or moved on his desk, Aleksander crosses the room to the only unoccupied chair and sits, suppressing a sigh as he spots the look of triumph that flashes across his mother’s features. Within seconds a cup of tea is pressed into his hands by Mei-Xing who despite being the only non-resident of the Little Palace appears to have adopted hostess duties with her usual calm efficiency. The tea is a welcome balm to his frazzled temper and he enjoys the warmth that sinks into his cold hands as he nurses the drink.

“Well?” He asks when it becomes clear no one else is willing to break the silence. It’s a decision he regrets almost as soon as the word is out of his mouth as his stomach churns with dread at the secrets about to be discussed. Into the void Botkin steps, his deep calm tones a soothing contrast to the painful hammering of Aleksander’s heart as the instructor recounts the fateful class.

By the time Botkin has finished his narrative his mother has unfortunately rediscovered her voice as she demonstrated by starting to berate him.

“This is your fault, boy. What insanity drove you to ask that girl to help the Alina?” Baghra demands crossly once Botkin has finished explaining what he saw. “I warned you, boy – I warned you that this would be a recipe for disaster!”

Aleksander sighs, “Yes, well…” he begins only to be interrupted as his mother turns her attention to the instructor, eyes flashing with anger.  “And you!” she hisses, “I expected it of him - his brain has been operating from a different address since that girl came to this place – but you? What in the Saints names were you thinking you thinking pairing those two together? Anyone with eyes could see that jumped up Squaller was angrier than a kicked hornet. What sort of incompetent moron allows this to happen in their class?”

“A misjudgement,” Botkin corrects reproachfully his habitual serenity restored as he sits calmly on the too small chair, looking totally unconcerned with the old lady’s heckling. “Thought Zoya ready to teach, that in doing so it would help her and Daughter both.”

 “Poor girl,” Mei-Xing says quietly with a sad shake of her head before his mother can continue her barrage of opinions.

“What?” Baghra splutters in surprise as she whirls her attention from the instructor to Alina’s mother. It’s a response Aleksander can for once both understand and agree with. Of all the possible reactions his mind had considered when he thought about Mei-Xing finding out, feeling pity for the unfortunate Zoya had not been one of them.

“Are you mad? That ‘poor girl’ is the same wretch who just tried to murder your daughter.”

The other woman looks up, her golden gaze meeting his mother’s without flinching as she nods, “yes,” she repeats firmly, “poor girl.” She turns her gaze on Aleksander, watching him for a long moment. “For she is a poor girl. To have felt so much and been so wrong – done so much wrong – for that she is deserving of our pity.”

In his corner Botkin nods in agreement, “she has paid a high price for her folly. A price possibly without end.”

On this matter the room is divided - as he is very much of his mother’s opinion: but even so he cannot help but marvel at the graceful compassion Mei-Xing demonstrates in a moment when no one would blame her for demanding her pound of flesh in recompense.

It creates an uncomfortable atmosphere as the two sides struggle to find common ground. Things do not improve as Mei-Xing takes the floor and recounts her conversation with her daughter. Alina’s distress and confusion is palpable, despite her mother’s calm and efficient retelling, and it hurts something deep inside him to hear it even, or perhaps especially because it is second hand. He aches to see her, to hold her, to reassure her. How confused, how frightened she must be and here they are with more questions and few answers to give her.  

Silence descends as Mei-Xing stops speaking. It is an uneasy quiet, one pregnant with horror and realisation. Aleksander’s heart pounds and his shadows writhe beneath his skin as his mind struggles to accept the conclusion before him.

It is Botkin - loyal, courageous, honest Botkin - who breaks the stillness and says what Aleksander’s heart already knows.

“Then it is as I thought,” Botkin muses quietly, his voice sounding unnaturally loud such is the stillness in the room. “Daughter did this.”

“How did you come to that conclusion,” Baghra demands, her tone icy. “I’ve heard the rumours circulating. Many believe this is a punishment by the Saints. Is that not also equally as possible as a part trained Sun Summoner somehow stripping another Grisha of their powers?”

Botkin frowns deeply as he draws breath to reply, but it’s Mei-Xing who plunges into the fray to answer his mother’s question. “Because Alina told me she did.”

Six simple words and Baghra nods, accepting the point with more grace than she normally shows when people disagree with her.

Botkin nods in agreement. “Judgement of the Sun Summoner,” he says, serenely ignoring the irritated scowl Baghra shoots him.  “Zoya raised her hand against a god and was punished for it. Alina alone there was who could have enacted such a judgement. Saw I did the golden net that trapped Zoya and held her still. Such power could only have come from the Sun Summoner.”

Mei-Xing folds her hands carefully in her lap, a thoughtful expression on her face as she watches Botkin and Baghra eye each other like prize fighters in a ring, the hostility between the pair palpable. “The question,” the younger woman says softly, “is what happens now. I cannot think such a gift will be easily accepted among her fellow Grisha. How can Alina learn to control such a power?”

“The girl lost control,” Baghra muses in her usual acerbic tone. “Not surprising really, given the provocation. Well that’s simple enough,” her gimlet stare is fixed on a subdued Aleksander, “she just needs practice, lots of practice.”

Botkin shakes his head, “No!” he corrects sharply, “not simple at all. Daughter did not lose control. Daughter was in control the whole time. Daughter lost temper.”

“And how, exactly, did you reach that conclusion, you oversized dumpling?” Baghra demands in affront, very much taking umbrage at being contradicted.

Botkin remains unmoved. “Because Daughter got exactly what she wished,” he said, matching Baghra’s glare.

“Botkin has a point,” Madam Starkov interjects gently, placing a soothing, or possibly restraining, hand on the old woman’s arm, and Aleksander is again impressed with both the woman’s courage and diplomacy. There are few people who would dare to openly contradict or disagree with his mother and most of them are sitting in this room.

“Alina told me that she wanted that girl – Zoya, did you say her name was? – to experience a taste of her own medicine, to feel powerless and understand the fear that brings, and that’s what happened.”

Baghra lets out an annoyed harrumph and crosses her arms as Mei-Xing continues in her usual soft tones, “Alina wanted her to be powerless. I do not believe that what happened was a fluke, not given Alina’s description – she might not know how she did it now, but I am certain that in that moment she knew exactly what she was doing.”

His mother’s eyes have narrowed as she turns a dark on her only child. “Well?” she demands, “I assume you tested Zoya, what do you think has been done to her?”

It’s a good question and it makes Aleksander pause as he martials his tired thoughts, trying to recall the strange ice like sensation, as if his call were sliding off a pane of glass.

“She’s still Grisha,” he says at last, “that much was clear when I touched her. Alina didn’t take Zoya’s power away – I could feel it, but it’s like its trapped – blocked – behind a wall.”

Botkin’s eye twitches as Baghra starts tapping the floor with her stick, eyes closed in thought. “Hmmm,” the old woman murmurs.

“Blocked or taken, what difference does it make?” Botkin asks, “the result is the same. What matters is Daughter’s training – she must learn to control her temper.”

“It matters, pudding brain.” The walking stick thumps the ground as if to emphasise Baghra’s point and Botkin’s eye twitches again. “It matters because it changes what she did.” The old woman’s eyes open, their dark brown irises looking black in the weak wintery light, “and, more importantly, it tells us how she did it.”

The stick thumps the floor again as the old woman continues her voice wintry and sharp. “Cabbage brained the lot of you! So consumed with who and why that you’ve lost sight of what and how! The how changes everything… everything! If Alina was in control, then what happened was deliberate and not an accident. Stop thinking about why she did it and instead focus your miniscule minds on what it means.” Her eyes snap to her son’s and there is such a look of raw, unbridled emotion that it hits him like an arrow to the gut. “There’s no point arguing about whether she lost control or lost her temper, we’re just moving chairs on a sinking ship when there’s a much bigger problem heading straight for us.”

There is a deep, troubled frown on Mei-Xing’s face and her eyes are glassy and overbright as she fiddles with her teacup, and Aleksander realises this is the most emotion he’s ever seen the normally composed woman show. He sits forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he thinks over the point his mother is hinting at, a disturbed hiss escaping him as his mind reaches a conclusion that sends shivers down his spine.

“You mean… You think that Alina can suppress Grisha powers?” he demands, stomach churning as the implications race around his thoughts.

“Why not?” Baghra murmurs, one eyebrow raised in challenge at her son’s incredulous question, “after all, nature exists in balance…”

Around him chaos breaks out as Botkin and his mother resume arguing but Aleksander tunes it out, instead sinking into a thoughtful silence, turning this new idea over his mind. It has merit - curse his mother - and despite how much he might wish to he can’t deny the evidence of what he had felt. Something had stopped Zoya from accessing her Squaller abilities. Something, or rather someone. Someone who had once had her abilities trapped in the same way. Hadn’t he thought it at the time, that trying to call the Squaller’s power had an eerily familiar feel to it.

Is it really so crazy an idea? After all, he is a living amplifier – could his mother be right and Alina is a living suppressor? Like calls to like. He had theorised years ago that the Sun Summoner would be his balance, his match, he just hadn’t thought it would extend to this; although now that the possibility has been presented to him he realises how foolish and short-sighted his arrogance has made him. How could Alina be his equal unless she had some way to balance his abilities – all of them… including amplification. What hubris had led him to assume the Sun Summoner would be all he wished, all he planned and yet still inferior to him, a weapon to wield and control.

If his mother is correct, then Alina is truly his equal: not just theoretically, but in actuality. He now has no gift, no power she cannot match or annul.  

It’s a chilling thought, far more so than the prospect of another amplifier - that at least empowered Grisha. A living suppressor though, someone who on a whim could take that power away, who could nullify the workings of the small science, that is worse even than the possibility that Alina had transformed Zoya from a Grisha into an otkazat’sya - that at least was a limited power and one she was unlikely to use. Suppression – assuming it mirrored his own gift of amplification - didn’t just apply to the Grisha, but to their workings as well. Just as he could increase the power, potency or effect of another Grisha’s summoning or craft could Alina nullify or reduce it?

In the wrong hands such an ability would be devastating, terrifying – it would effectively negate any advantage Grisha have over the otkazat’syas, even potentially his own. According to Botkin, she hadn’t even needed to touch Zoya to do this, it was done at a distance of over 20 feet. What could such a power do on a battlefield. It’s the type of ability that changes the course of history and dominates wars. Should the wielder of such a gift take up arms against their own people the consequences would be horrific – a civil war the likes of which his people had never before seen. A war he doubts even he could win, not without appalling losses and the destruction of all he holds dear.   

This could undo everything he has spent so long working towards because his mother is right – this discovery has the potential to change everything! If the Tsar finds out, he would undoubtedly try to use it to give him the control over and the Second Army that Aleksander had always resisted. But there are other dangers. What would the Shu or the Fjerdans do with such an ability – both countries would do anything to gain such an advantage over Ravka – and if this news reached them, they would stop at nothing to claim such an ability for themselves. Thousands of Grisha would die, everything he had worked so hard for, every hard-won gain they had made – all gone in an instant.

In anyone other than the Sun Summoner the discovery of such a power would be met with only one answer. It would tear at what remained of his torn and battered soul, but to protect his Grisha Aleksander would have no choice but to remove such a player from the board. Had it been anyone other than Alina, he would already be planning a counter move, a way to either kill or control the person cursed with of such a gift. Unbidden, the image of a great white stag dances across his minds eye and he cannot suppress the flinch. Had the Sun Summoner been the anonymous girl he had long planned for, he would even now be searching for his grandfather’s stag - the perfect way to collar and control the Sun Saint’s powers - and he would have stopped at nothing to bind both their person, their will, and their light to him for eternity.

Distantly, as if from a long way away, he hears his mother and Botkin continue their argument, Mei-Xing’s quiet tones gently attempting to mediate between the two combatants, but he cannot spare them any attention lost as he is in his torturous thoughts; the guilt racing through him making him feel sick and shaky. He can see it so clearly in his mind – a vision of his precious girl, a collar of bones wrapped around her beautiful neck in a terrible parody of a lover’s necklace. It’s a sight that nearly drives him to his knees in shame, his heart crying out at the image.  

A living suppressor, someone who can truly be his equal is a terrifying possibility. Truly terrifying, and yet - and yet - even if they are right, this is Alina.

His Alina.

His Alinochka.

Alina, who he would be lost without. Alina, who he loves wholly, completely and unconditionally. Alina, who he could no more think of killing then he could kill himself or his mother. Alina, who above all things is kind and loyal.

The truth sits like a heavy stone in his stomach. It doesn’t matter what power the Sun Summoner has - or that she is now not just his greatest weakness but quite possibly the weapon of their people’s destruction - to him Alina will always be his precious girl and he could never harm her, never act against her in such a way.  

If he cannot remove the piece from the board then he must protect it – and to do that Alina needs to train and to master her powers, only then will they be safe. Yes, she had lost her temper, but Alina hadn’t known what she could do; or what it would mean. The Alina he knows, and loves, is kind and fiercely loyal – she’d never want to cause such harm to her fellow Grisha – he believes that with all that is left of his heart and soul. Trust is an unfamiliar emotion to him. Too many years and far too many betrayals have taught him the danger in trusting, and yet in this moment he now has no choice. He has to trust Alina; trust her character and loyalty, trust her control… trust her judgement. There is no other option open to him – he cannot kill her, and he will not control her, which leaves trusting her. With anyone else such a thing would be unthinkable, but for Alina – for his precious girl – he will try.

His mother and Botkin are right though. If this incident has proved anything, it’s how fragile their current peace is and they can’t afford for a repeat of the last few days. Alina needs to learn control – both of how abilities and of her temper. The next time could be worse - something too big to be hidden or repaired - next time it might not cost the object of her ire their power, it might be their life. Instead of suppression it might be the cut. Anxiety curdles in his stomach at the horrifying thought and the potential ramifications, the worry made worse by the feeling itching at his finely honed senses. There is a storm coming, he can feel it – plans are in motion, events beyond his control. Time is running out and they must be ready. Alina must be ready, or it could spell ruin for them all.  

Notes:

Crikey, 80,000 words and we still haven't had a first kiss. Don't worry, it is coming and when it does it'll be in a suitably dramatic and unexpected moment :P.

What did everyone think? I really hope this has been worth the wait - and build up. I had the idea for this right at the start when I was watching the series. It seemed like an obvious direction for me and I kept hoping that it would come up in the show or books, but alas not... so I decided to write it instead. It never made sense to me that Alina - who is meant to be Aleksander's equal, opposite and balance - is so much less powerful than Aleksander. I felt like the point was that she should have been his equal, but she couldn't be unless she could truly be a counter to Aleksander... and a counterbalance. It'll also be pretty important later on for reasons I'm pretty excited about.

In other news - an awful lot happened in this chapter. The Tsar's dream and the mysterious behaviour of the Apparat. Both are pretty important (hint hint) and I'd love to hear your thoughts on them. Speaking of which, thank you so much for the reviews. I really love hearing your thoughts, reactions and speculations, so please keep them coming. Comments feed hungry authors and make us write faster ;).

Up next: The Court of Night and Day
I'm not going to give a summary for this one as it'll give too much away, but I'd love to hear what you think of the title :).

Chapter 13: Dark Dreams and Darker Realisations

Summary:

"There is truth in dreams, but especially in nightmares" – James Patterson. Dark dreams haunt Alina’s nights, but there are worse things than darkness.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Alina is dreaming. She knows she is, but it’s a vague sort of knowledge; hazy, ephemeral and oblique, it slips through her ghostly fingers like mist. Above her the sun is bright in the sky, powerful and triumphant. For a time it feels like she’s floating, half heard words whispering to her on the wind. She sees mountains covered in pristine, unblemished snow, tall trees dusted white, and then tracks. Tracks leading away from the hill where she is hovering, embraced in warm light, and she feels it again, the sensation that she’s missing something, something important - something she needs to find.

Before she can find it, however, she is off. Off across the wilds of Ravka. A pulling sensation dragging her across the world, faster and faster until it feels like she is racing the beams of light surrounding her. A joyous, wonderful race, that stops as suddenly as it started. It’s unfamiliar this place, the forest dense, dark and unwelcoming so it takes a moment for her to see him: but there he is, standing tall and handsome on the steps of a ruin, his face shrouded in darkness, his tone cutting and colder than the snowy mountains she has just seen. It makes her invisible heart ache to see him like this, his distress clear to her in the harshness of his features and the iciness of his voice. He’s like a wounded animal, lashing out in fear and pain at whatever is around him and she feels a desperate desire to comfort him, to wrap her arms around him and soothe the fury she can see in the shadows flaring around his still body.

There are men - soldiers - with weapons drawn, shouts she cannot understand and then blood, so much blood, that the forest floor grows slick with it. The world spins again and the sun disappears, plunging Alina into a dark abyss. Through the dark she hears familiar screeches and the terrifying flap of wings, then she feels it, pain - so much pain that it saturates the air, cloying, choking, suffocating her, and with crushing certainty she knows where she is. The Fold.

The whispers are louder here, but still she can’t understand the words, only the knowledge that she ought to, that she should, that it is vital she understands.

The dark of the Fold is roiling around her, and she watches in mute horror as the bodies of the fallen men change before her, transforming into something grotesque and unnatural.

For a second the words are clearer: “Make them suffer. Make them fear. Betrayed. They betrayed us. Show them. Show them. Make them feel our pain. Make them regret.” The words are nonsensical, strange, and yet she feels their power as the world around her changes… as they make it change.

Grief, overpowering grief, sorrow and pain, but under it all is a burning thirst for vengeance; a desperate need to avenge a betrayal greater than words can convey. She feels it all singing through her bones, phantom eyes stinging against the onslaught, and in the centre is the man shrouded in swirling shadows, his head thrown back as he screams his agony to a cruel and thankless universe.

Above The Fold, the sun is different - weaker as its rays try and fail to permeate the dense blackness now beneath it. She can feel it’s pain, feels it’s fear and despair as it calls out to its mate, it’s other half, but there is no answer, only a void and the knowledge that something vital is broken, that a line has been crossed.

 


 

With a sharp breath, Alina’s eyes snap open, her heart pounding as if she had just run ten miles. The morning light is streaming through her window, warming her with its gentle touch. Even as she tries to hold on to it, the dream starts fading, the images slipping through her fingers like water. Half remembered words floating around her mind: “In the beginning there was only light and darkness…” The words resonate with her like this is something just out of reach that she ought to remember, a connection she ought to be able to make.

Sitting up, Alina looks around the welcome sight of the Vezda suite. It’s been two days since she was released from the infirmary - two long days of mostly silence and rest, but it’s a welcome change to be back in the soft blue and cream tones of the Vezda suite and away from the harsh sterile glare of endless white that characterizes the infirmary. Even better though is the privacy, here she has the quiet and solitude she wants, away from well-meaning prying eyes and the constant undercurrent of fear and worry.

There’s a strain in the air that’s new, a sense of loss, of change, but Alina doesn’t know whether it’s the Little Palace that’s changed… or her. Here in the Vezda suite she has time to think, to ruminate on the events of the last few weeks and she mulls over her mother’s parting words.

“Who do you want to be, my Alinochka?” Her mama had asked her when she had first voiced her fears a few days before, this feeling she has that she’s losing herself, becoming subsumed beneath an identity and responsibilities she doesn’t want. The older woman had looked at her with unusual sternness, “don’t think about other people think; it doesn’t matter what they want or expect you to be. What matters is you. Only you can decide who you are.”

It’s a simple question, but one with a complicated answer - an answer she still isn’t sure of.

Who is she?

She knows how most people see her, what people want her to be: Sankta, martyr, saviour. They want her to do six impossible things before breakfast, no matter the cost to her or her conscience. They want her to right wrongs, fix what’s broken and repair their shattered country. People, even the Grisha here in the Little Palace have taken to calling her Sankta - to them she is Alina no longer, but something bigger, something almost divine. Alina the girl is of no use or interest to them - all they care about is the Sun Summoner.

Only a handful of people still use her name. It’s a dehumanizing experience, disorientating and distancing. It makes her heart hurt to think of what it must have been like for Aleksander all these years; addressed only by his rank or his semi pejorative title, Darkling - a name given in condemnation of his amazing abilities, not in celebration. She’s long known on some level that Aleksander isn’t viewed as human – or perhaps, something more than human – but now she has first hand experience of how alienating such a distinction is, how isolating it is and what a weight the expectations such an identity creates.

It feels like she’s being erased, fading like the dream that woke her, her identity - who she is – is being taken from her and replaced by what others want.

Worse than that knowledge though is the horror of what her powers can do. It was bad enough when she found out she was the Sun Summoner, her powers then had been a hazy thing overshadowed by the new reality she had been thrust into and the heavy weight of expectations that had been thrust onto her unprepared shoulders. Now it’s worse, now she’s starting to know what she can do. She’s heard the whispers in the ward, the panic about what’s happened to Zoya, of what it means.

What she did to the other girl sits like a stone in her stomach, a suffocating weight that traps her and holds her prisoner. She hates it - hates what she did, hates what she can do, even as a part of her is triumphant and feels vindicated and victorious. She shouldn’t have this power, it’s too great to be given to anyone person. But what fills her heart with dread is Aleksander’s reaction; the fear she could see in his eyes, though he tried to hide it from her. He’s scared of her. Aleksander - her oldest, dearest friend - is scared of her, of what she can do; of what she did to the Squaller.

It’s a sobering, horrifying, terrifying thought. It’s the type of thought that can suffocate a person, drown them in a pit of despair and misery. She hates it, but it’s also a start - a catalyst for something much bigger - a realization that feels like it’s been a long time coming.

“Who do you want to be, Alinochka?” Her mother’s question swims around her head.

She knows who she was: Alina Starkov, beloved only child of Anton and Mei-Xing Starkov, loyal friend, dutiful daughter, and an excellent army medic. The question is - who does she want to be going forwards. She knows that the Tsar wants a weapon; that the people of Ravka are crying out for a saviour; that the Grisha are looking for a hero, one who can end the war and cement their hard fought position in Ravka. She knows that Aleksander wants a solution to fix a mistake made centuries ago.

But who does she want to be?

A ball of light glides over her fingers, the trick calming her nerves as she sits and thinks.

Zoya thought her weak, that was why she said what she did, why she thought she could get away with such casual cruelty. It’s a hard thing to accept, but Alina sees it now - she has been weak. Weak. Passive. A human sized doll to be dressed up and displayed as others want.

The ball grows bigger as her agitation increases, light spilling from her cupped hands. She isn’t a weak person, that’s not who her wonderful, extraordinary mother had raised her to be. She’d found her strength in the First Army, but it’s like she’s forgotten that person, has gone back to accepting the lack of respect as once again her lot in life.

She isn’t weak, but she has allowed herself to be seen as feeble, pathetic, malleable. How can Aleksander trust her when she can’t even trust herself. It’s a realization that galvanizes her, fabrikator steel flooding her veins.

But it isn’t just her mother’s words that echo around her mind, alongside them is the advice Baghra gave her in their last lesson, as yet again Alina failed to do more than summon stinging sparks.  

“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Baghra had snapped, her normal bad temper morphing into something that looked like real vexation. “You’ll never learn the control you need if you insist on being something that you’re not.”

“And what’s that?” she had replied in a deliberately surly voice while she nursed her bruised leg.

“Ordinary!” even the thump of Baghra’s stick sounds agitated. “You’re not ordinary, and it’s about time, girl, that you stop pretending that you are. You aren’t an Otkazat'sya – or even a normal Grisha – you are the Sun Summoner. You should own your power, your identity, not hide from it. Until you stop running from yourself you will always be weak.”

She hadn’t wanted to accept the words at the time, but now they chase themselves in circles around her mind and she knows that the old woman is right. She has been hiding, pretending, in the vain hope that this nightmare would all go away. She’s never liked attention, has never been comfortable in crowds and suddenly, with no warning, she found herself front and centre stage, cast in a role that she had never dreamed of playing. Her way of coping with her new found fame had been to hide, to step back, to make herself seem as normal, as unthreatening as possible.

Hindsight is a relentless mistress, and she can see the folly, the stupidity of her actions. She hadn’t wanted to be the Sun Summoner but that is who she is. She is the Sun Saint and all that that entails, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t Alina too.

Part of her hates what she did to the other girl, but she also cannot regret it. It was wrong of Zoya to act as she did. Wrong of her to break the rules, wrong of her to use the gifts the Saints gave her to bully and overpower someone she thought was weaker than herself. Vulnerability should inspire compassion and protection, not a desire to dominate and destroy, especially in Grisha. It’s a lesson the Squaller desperately needs to learn – and learn she will, the sun has seen to that. No, she can’t – won’t – regret it, but she does mourn the cost. The terror and dread in Aleksander’s eyes is a steep price to pay and one that haunts her.

Who does she want to be? She wants to be Alina. The Alina who was strong and independent. The Alina who was loyal and fierce in her defence of what’s right. The Alina who was no one’s weapon or martyr. The Alina who made Aleksander’s eyes light up in joy, not fear. That Is who she wants to be - who she needs to be again.

There’s no denying this latest twist scares her, but as she considers what it means to be a suppressor Baghra’s words about balance come back to her, and she understands what the old woman had been trying to tell her. Her job – her most important role – is to be Aleksander’s equal, his balance. Alone, the powers of a god could corrupt even the purest and best intentioned soul. Together they are a balance, a control, a check for the other.

She sees again the man in The Fold, wrapped in shadows screaming in anger and despair as devastation is wreaked around him. How easy it would be for one with their abilities to cause such harm, for who could challenge them, who could stop them if they needed to be stopped? Alone they may be close invincible, together they are each other’s vulnerability, but together they are also something greater: a matched pair – opposite and equal. Each a support and a counterbalance to the other – a true partnership.

There’s so much uncertainty in this new life she has been thrust into. So much she doesn’t know, so many unanswered questions, so much doubt around her oldest friend and yet… Nature’s balance. It’s a reassuring thought.  She might not know Aleksander’s plans, or how much to trust him, but this she does know - where she might not trust herself with this new ability she can trust Aleksander, he will not let her hurt others nor abuse such power. It’s a start, a stable point she can fix her eyes on while all about her is adrift on a sea of doubt.

Closing her fist the light vanishes, satisfaction flowing through her at the new ease with which the sun answers her call. She’s done.

Done with being meek and passive.

Done with hiding.

Done with exhausting herself trying to live up to other people’s expectations.

She is done. Its time embrace the sun and be who she has always been and always will be: Alina Starkov.  

Notes:

Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter - I'm really thrilled that you my lovely readers liked the revelation. This is a bonus chapter, it was meant to be part of the next one, but it just wouldn't fit so I thought I'd post it separately :). This is the start of what in my plan was labelled 'Alina comes into her own' arc.

Although its super short (much shorter than my normal chapter length anyway ;)) there's a lot of important stuff happening in this chapter starting with the dream (hint hint). Prepare for an Alina who is increasingly confidence and in control of both her powers and her decisions, poor Aleks.

As always, I'd love to hear what you make of this chapter. The next one is being written as I type and if we get to 320 comments I might be persuaded to post it early this week :P.

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend xx

Next up: The Court of Night and Day

Chapter 14: The Court of Night and Day (part 1)

Summary:

What is the dark but an omen of the sun. New threats emerge, friendships are tested and secrets start to come to light.

Notes:

Happy Saturday everyone :).

The muse has been very busy this week, so you've got another chapter... and possibly a second on the way.

This is another two parter, but unlike last time it doesn't end of a cliff-hanger, promise :).

Quick heads up, the plot starts to get a bit darker from here on out. Nothing graphic, but there are mentions of rape in the last section of the chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He leaves like a shadow in the night. Here one day and gone by the first light of the next. With him travels Ivan, two other Heartrenders and his usual contingent of guards. Alina watches him leave just before dawn, her eyes filled with tears. His hurried goodbye the night before sits like a lead weight in her stomach, too close to another farewell all those years ago and the sinking suspicious that just like then he doesn’t mean to return.

It's been two weeks since the incident in the training yard, four days since she was given her freedom from the Infirmary and only one since she sat on her bed in the Vezda suite and decided it was time to take control of her life once more. The news came that morning, there had been an incursion on the border with Shu Han, the largest seen for many years. Two Imperial infantry units had crossed the border and razed two of the villages nearby, searching for Grisha, after unconfirmed reports had reached the Royal Taban court that the Sun Summoner had been born in that area.  

Crisis talks were called at the Imperial Palace, and within moments of the news arriving Aleksander had left in a swirl of his cloak, his shadows whipping behind him. The rest of the day had passed normally for the Grisha in the Little Palace; lessons continued and meal times took place as scheduled. If there was a general disquiet among the students and teachers, well, who could blame them. For Alina, the news came as a shock. A shock that sent shivers down her spine and turned her mind upside down, as for the first time she was confronted with the darker side of the ‘glorious discovery of the Sun Summoner’.

Despite the personal suffering and inconvenience she has endured, so far all she had be told were the positives for the people of Ravka. This was something else. This was an atrocity committed because of her, because of her parentage, because of where she might have been born. It didn’t matter whether it was true or not; people were suffering – dying – because of her. The realisation ruined her appetite and eroded the fragile confidence she had been building.  

This was because of her. Women and children, mothers and fathers, dead and why? Because of her. Because of who and what she had been born.

The injustice burned like the sun within her. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But there was nothing she could do, and somehow that just made the hurt worse.

 


 

He came to her just after dinner, his face gaunt and pale with strain. His eyes had been so afraid, so fearful as he tried to explain that he had to leave.

“I have to go, Alina,” he had said. “I have a duty to stop this. An incursion like this into Ravka cannot be allowed to go unanswered.”

“But why can’t I go with you?” Alina had pleaded, her desperation clear. “I can help… I can-“

“NO!” he had interrupted her, voice cold and distant, “you will stay here where its safe. I would be a fool to bring you within fifty leagues of Shu Han.”

She had drawn back then, stung by his fierce denial and his cutting tone. “But I can help,” she had said again. “It’s me they’re after… why won’t you let me-“

“NEVER!” he had growled fiercely, eyes almost wild with fear as his fingers bit into her arms where he gripped her. “What help would you be – a part trained Sun Summoner with neither knowledge nor control. No. I will not consider it.”

In one sentence she felt her shaky confidence cut from under her. He didn’t trust her. Worse than that, Aleksander thought her a liability. He was afraid of her, of what she did to Zoya, she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone – he was frightened. Her oldest, dearest friend, her Aleks, was scared… of her.

It was the heartbreak of the training yard all over again. Numbly she had nodded. Frozen she had felt as Aleksander brushed a kiss against her forehead, his arms circling her for one last tight hug and then he was gone, and Alina felt her legs give out from under her as she slumped to the floor. There were no tears, the pain was too great, so vast and unending that all she felt was numb.

It took time, how long she could not say, but she had picked herself up, eyes hardening as her resolve firmed within her. All night she sat by her window, waiting for that last glimpse of him before he was gone from her again. But as she waited, she planned. He said she would be a liability. She cannot change who she was born, nor alter the powers the saints have granted her – no matter how much she may want to – but on this she can, and will, prove him wrong.

When he returns – and he will – she will be stronger, wiser, more powerful. No longer a liability to be left, but a partner, an equal.

 


 

Time passes slowly for Alina and she watches the season change as October slips into November; fiery reds and ambers turning to dull mottled brown as the leaves fall from the trees. Her classes are going well - even Baghra is reluctantly impressed with the progress she’s made since the disastrous episode in Botkin’s training yard. It’s the one good thing that has come of that awful day - where before it was a struggle to summon even sparks now it is difficult to not scorch whatever is around her whenever she summons. The sun whispers to her and she feels it burning beneath her skin, her gift right there - now a proper part of her, as it should always have been. It’s sings in her veins and burns in her heart. She is the sun, and the sun is her.

It’s a heady feeling, this power inside her. Control is still a problem though and it is something both Botkin and Baghra work tirelessly on improving. Every day that passes her control gets that little bit better, a little bit surer as the unruly force of nature that is the sun obeys her will that little bit more.

Not all the changes are good though. Zoya sits heavily on her conscience. The other girl left the Little Palace two days after Aleksander did. Alina cannot regret what she did, but she does feel guilty that it has cost the Squaller her home and her job. The last she had heard, Marie thought she was returning to her family in Novokribirsk.

“Good riddance, I say,” Marie had told her over breakfast the morning after Zoya’s departure. “No one liked her. She was always so proud of her abilities, so convinced she was better than the rest of us. The saints did us a favour there, in getting rid of her.” Nadia had nodded in agreement. “I mean, she attacked the Sun Summoner, for saints sake. I’m surprised she was only thrown out of the order - did you see the General’s face that day, he looked murderous. I’m surprised he didn’t cut off her head there and then.”

The words leave a bitter taste in Alina’s mouth as she sits quietly listening to the gossiping of her friends. Zoya’s scarring is widely put down to an intercession from the saints who saw and condemned her actions in the training yard: there’s not even a whisper of rumour that the squaller lost her power, or Alina’s part in it, for which she can only be thankful. Aleksander and Botkin had worked hard during her recovery to create a plausible cover story. She knows why they did it, why they are so worried about others discovering what she did - and what it means she can do again. She understands it, is thankful for it, but it’s also this that causes her disquiet. Zoya had been sent away so that no one would find out about her suppressed powers. It’s a sensible decision, but it’s still cost the squaller her home… and probably the last vestiges of her self-respect.

Alina had seen her the morning she left. She’d asked if she could say goodbye, but the Squaller had refused, and Alina understood all too well why. If Aleksander had left like a dream or a shadow, Zoya had left like a thunderstorm, all rolling, roiling emotions and not dealt with grief, and Alina had again felt that faint stirring of guilt. She had done what she could though. With Genya’s help, Alina had made sure that Zoya was well provisioned for her trip, with a heavy purse and enough food to see her well stocked for several weeks. Aleksander had refused her one of the horses, but Genya’s friend David had been able to find her passage with a caravan travelling west to Kribirsk, which at least would give her company and greater safety.

It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do. Aleksander had ruled that Zoya leave, not as her friend, but as the General of the Second Army, and she had to respect that – even if it meant she had to live with the guilt.

 


 

As often happens when Alina is upset or anxious she finds her feet turning towards the library. Books have long been a refuge for her, and she has come to love the large library with its tall windows and peaceful quiet. Few of the Grisha at the Little Palace come to this room – the junior members because they are not yet old enough to have been granted library privileges, and the older because there is always something else they would rather be doing with their precious free time.  

While she cannot say she is sad to have seen the Squaller leave, she is feeling out of sorts and in desperate need to be away from the well-intentioned gossiping of her friends. She is fond of Nadia, Marie and Fedyor, but when they are together it is often overwhelming for Alina, who had grown up often alone. Had Genya been available, or even David, she would have sought them out, but the Tailor is busy today dealing with some imaginary crisis up at the Imperial Palace and when she had looked in on David, the Fabrikator had been so deep in concentration that he completely failed to notice her entrance or her speaking to him.

Which had led her here. The smell of old books soothes her frazzled nerves as she walks down the aisles, fingers occasionally reaching out to brush the butter soft leather spines.  Normally she has no problem finding something of interest to read in this immense collection, but today nothing catches her eye, and she is left to drift listlessly through the stacks.

He finds her down the cartography aisle, her fingers brushing over maps of the Ravkan-Shu Han border. She knows from the reports that the incursion occurred southeast of the town of Caryeva, destroying at least two villages. There has been precious little news since that report, which does little to settle Alina’s anxious thoughts. At five days fast ride away from Os Alta news is slow: she knows that a division of the First Army and Second Army stationed at Kribirsk were to meet Aleksander in Caryeva, but that is all, and she can only hope that the troops moved faster this time than the First Army usually does.

It's while she is perusing the maps, eyes intent on the tiny dots listing the outlying villages, that her peace is interrupted.

“Ahem,” a voice says behind her, making Alina jump, eyes wrenched away from the map as she spins round. The man before her looks vaguely familiar, but for the life of her she can’t place where she’s seen him before. He’s an average looking man with short brown hair, a pleasant, if unremarkable face, and dark brown eyes. The odd thing about him though is that he’s garbed in a brown monk’s robe, a brown so dark that even in the bright light of the Library it looks almost black.

“Do I know you?” Alina asks, the question slipping out before her brain has a chance to catchup with her mouth. The man smiles thinly at her.

“Not as such, Sankta,” he replies with a slight bow. “You will have seen me during your presentation to their Imperial Majesties, but we have not been formerly introduced.”

Frowning, Alina tries to remember if she had seen the man there, but her memories of that day are disjointed and sketchy from the whirlwind speed of the events. “I think,” she begins, then stops. “The dais,” she murmurs, eyes closing in her concentration. “Were you on the dais?”    

The man smiles, brighter this time, visibly pleased at her recollection. “Indeed, I was Sankta. I am the Apparat – the spiritual advisor to his Imperial Majesty and the Royal family.”

“Okay,” she breathes as she steps back, uncertainty suddenly making her nervous. She has never felt alone in the library before, until now, that is.   

The Apparat notices the change in her immediately, a frown pulling his mouth down as he regards her with serious eyes. “You have no need to fear, Santka. I will not harm you. Indeed, I have waited a long time to speak with you. There is much you do not know, much which has been kept from you, and still more than you have yet to discover about yourself.”

Alina inches back further, until her legs hit the desk she had just been using, jarring the table and causing some of the maps to fall.

The Apparat frowns again, but steps back, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as he sees Alina lose some of the tension in her bearing at his retreat.

“One day I hope we will be friends and you will be comfortable in my presence, but I see that today is not that day. Today, all I had hoped was to meet you, to give you a gift that belongs in your keeping.”

“Why would we be friends?” Alina asks softly as she watches the man with a troubled expression. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never been a religious person and well… surely you have more important things to do than talk to silly little Grisha girls.”

The Apparat laughs, his amusement clear. “I hope we will be friends, Sankta, because you have a very important role to play, one which I have devoted my life too. Did you know that people all over Ravka call you Sankta Alina? They light candles for you and pray for you intercession and blessing.” His look gentled and became slightly sad. “But even before your discovery there were those who believed – who knew – that one day you would come, and that when you did we had to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Many things.” The Apparat answers calmly. “The Soldat Sol has been waiting a long time for the Sun Summoner to arrive. Centuries we have waited in the shadows, and never did we give up our faith – and here you are, at last. We are your army, Sankta. Sworn to serve only one – our Sun Queen.”

“What do you mean?” the question bursts out of her as Alina shifts uneasily, uncertainty ramping up into something closer to panic. “I’m… I’m not a saint and I’m certainly no queen.”

The Apparat shakes his head, eyes alight with fervour. “Not yet,” he agrees quietly, “but one day you will be. Sankta you are already, Queen is what you will become.”

She looks away, her denial clear in the stubborn set of her jaw and the first stirrings of angry gold flecks in her eyes.

The Apparat merely gazes sadly at her. “Time will reveal all,” is his response, voice gentle but firm, before glancing behind him as if he is expecting someone.

“I fear I have told you too much too soon, Sankta.” He says, for the first time looking nervous as he looks over his shoulder again. “I beg your pardon, if in my haste and desire to see you come into your own, that I have alarmed you. Such was not my intention.” He bows his head, his hands pressed together as if in prayer.

When he raises his head again he is holding out a book for her to take – a familiar looking book with a red cloth binding. Curiosity drives Alina forwards to take the proffered gift and stares at it mutely in wonder. It’s the book she found on her first visit to the library; the book she has not been able to find since.

There are voices now, loud and panicked sounding, accompanied by the noise of booted feet echoing along the corridor outside the library. Surprised by the sudden cacophony of sounds she clutches the book to her, the Lore of Old Ravka pressed firmly against her chest.  

“But how… how did you get this?” Alina asks, her heart starting to hammer against her ribs as the volume of the shouts grow outside her refuge.

Darting a glance over his shoulder again, the Apparat steps back until he is in one of the thin walkways between the stacks. His expression is growing alarmed, and he looks as if he is poised about to flee, but Alina cannot stop herself from moving closer, instinct pushing her to understand how he came about this book.

“There is not time now to explain, Sankta.” The monk whispers as shifts uneasily. “Suffice it to say that this book is one that should be with you, and I have been trying to get it to you for some time.”

Outside the noise is getting louder; so loud, in fact, that Alina can start to make out the shouted words. “Find him!” one voice shouts, while another more familiar one bellows, “Where is the Sun Summoner. Secure the Sun Summoner.”

“You will read it,” her strange visitor presses, eyes oddly intent. Alina nods, she’d wanted to read the book weeks ago, but when she had returned to the library it was nowhere to be found. Just to compound the mystery, when she had checked the index listing all the books in the library it hadn’t been there. For a time she had thought she’d imagined the book, but now she wonders if maybe the Apparat had something to do with the there-one-day-and-missing-the-next volume in her hands.

With deep sigh of what could only be relief and a final, hurried bow, the Apparat vanishes between the stacks.

Seconds later the door to the library bursts open with a deafening clang, and the sound of boots smacking on the polished stone floor shakes Alina out of her strange daze as she hears Fedyor’s familiar voice calling for her.

“Here,” she shouts back, “I’m here, Fedyor.”

Moments later the Heartrender finds her, his normally jovial face is lined with grim determination and the vestiges of what looks like panic. “Thank the Saints,” he murmurs, as he checks her over before shouting, “All clear. I have the Sun Summoner. Secure the route to the safe room.”

With a surprisingly strong grip, Fedyor takes Alina’s elbow and tows her through the library. As they move, Alina sees the tension thrumming through her friend and can’t help the frown that crosses her face.

“What’s going on?” she asks when it becomes clear that the Heartrender has no plans to release her any time soon.

“An intruder was spotted in the Little Palace, Alina,” he replies as they wait by the now closed Library doors. “Secure,” a voice shouts from the hall and the door is opened to reveal a contingent of Oprinichki standing outside, their backs to the door and rifles raised. “We’ve had threats regarding your safety, so when the intruder was spotted and you couldn’t be found, the Little Palace went to high alert. I’m under strict instructions that in the case of a breach we are to get you to the safe room so that you’re secure while others make safe the Little Palace.”

It's another shock and Alina feels her head spin and her stomach churn as the words sink in. “Threats?” she asks weakly. “What threats?”

The Oprinichki guards surround them, boxing her and Fedyor in as they move slowly down the hall, each intersection or door checked before the group is allowed to pass. Her pulse is thrumming as her anxiety builds, making her simultaneously lightheaded and jumpy. There have been threats made against her. Threats bad enough that Aleksander has clearly gone to a lot of time and effort to plan for them, and yet this is the first she has heard of it. It’s yet more evidence of his lack of trust in her and it galls her even as she is strangely touched at how concerned he is for her safety.     

While they wait at a corner for the ‘all clear’, Fedyor looks at her, face grim and tight with worry. “Most of them are nothing,” he says, in an attempt to encourage her.

“What about the others?”

He looks away, jaw tightening with anger. “We get two types of those. The first are from some of the more militant religious fanatics who think we’re holding you imprisoned and that you need rescuing from our dastardly clutches,” a hint of Fedyor’s usual cheeky smile flashes across his face as he tweaks Alina’s nose as if to show what nonsense that thought is.

“And the second,” Alina prompts as they finally get moving again.

The smile vanishes from Fedyor’s face, his eyes growing cold. “The second sort are from those who want to see you dead.”

It shouldn’t surprise her and yet somehow it does. It’s not as if she hasn’t had plenty of evidence that the world is not universally singing and dancing with happiness at the discovery of a Sun Summoner, but still… somehow it feels more personal that there are people sending letters to her home threatening to kill her than the knowledge that Shu Han and Fjerda are both actively plotting her imminent demise. That’s political… but this? This is personal and it makes her feel irrationally angry – what right have these people got to decide whether she should live or die.

The thoughts consume her as they traverse the labyrinthine corridors of the Little Palace, anger wiping out the panicked anxiety of before. So consumed is she that she misses the command to stop and almost walks into the back of the Oprinichki in front of her, and it’s only Fedyor’s lightening fast reflexes that save her from that embarrassment. Looking up, she sees a familiar blue wallpapered corridor. The place they’ve stopped is only a few feet away from the Vezda suite and she turns uneasily as she wonders why they’re standing here and not moving towards her doorway.

Letting go of her elbow, Fedyor answers her unspoken question as he reaches out to an empty section of wall and knocks five times in a distinctive pattern. Before Alina can do more than wonder at this strange behaviour, the wall shimmers and turns opaque, creating a doorway through to a now visible room.

Through the shimming opacity she can just see Marie standing in the room along with Nadia and Alexi. They all bow as she’s hustled through the invisible door, and Alina feels Nadia coming to stand with her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Go,” the Tidemaker tells Fedyor. “Alina’s secure. We can guard her here – you go find the intruder.”

With a last glance at her, Fedyor nods and leaves, the door shimmering back into the wall as if it had never been.

 


 

It takes three long, boring hours before both the Vladislav, the Oprinichki head of security, and Fedyor are convinced the Little Palace is secure and Alina is allowed out of the safe room. Dinner that night is a horrid affair. Everyone is jumpy and conversation is hushed and tense. Evidence has been found of two intruders, entering from different points. One was tracked back to Os Alta before the Heartrenders finally lost him amongst the slums, but of the second they have no idea. He simply melted away, and there is some talk about whether he might have been a clandestine lover sneaking in to see his paramour.

For Alina the speculation is uncomfortable. She’s unsure whether the Apparat was one of these intruders, but she fears speaking up. How could she explain their strange conversation – or his even stranger gift. Then there are the political ramifications. Fedyor is as furious as Alina had ever seen him, as are the guards who seem to feel that the breach is a personal insult to each and every one of them. No. No good would come from her speaking up on this. The Apparat is the political and spiritual advisor of the Tsar himself. With Aleksander away, she fears what might happen if she tells of her strange afternoon. She has no doubt that loyal Fedyor would raise it with the Imperial Palace – would demand answers - but what then. For all her uneasiness and the creepiness of the man, she didn’t think he was a threat to her. With a nod, Alina is decided. She will keep this to herself for the moment. If the time comes she needs to speak up then she will, but not before.     

 


 

Alina is dreaming again. It’s the same dreams she’s had for the last three weeks. The same images that appear, the same feeling of dread, loss and of needing to find something, and just like all those other nights dream Alina knows that come morning she will only remember the faintest memory of what she had seen. Even in this strange dream world the knowledge sends a spark of frustration zinging down her phantom body, making her ghostly hands clench into tight fists. In this strange world she is powerless, a mere passenger as something greater than her plays a game she still doesn’t understand.

Tonight is no different as she sees the tracks across the frozen tundra only to be whisked away just before she can see what creature made those unusual prints. Again, she watches helplessly as the man wrapped in shadows is confronted by Imperial soldiers, again she hears the nightmarish scream and sees the dark of the Fold starts coalescing around his figure as the soldiers transform before her eyes into inhuman creatures - the monsters of her nightmares taking flight as the Fold spreads and grows wiping out all before it as it advances.

Again she hears the whispered pleas of the sole survivor – the source of the Fold – as he screams his fury and betrayal to the universe. She wants to go to him, to enfold him in a hug, to show him he’s not alone, but she cannot move. It hurts her to see him so alone, so devoid of comfort.

This is normally where the dream stops, but tonight it inches further, it shows him stagger to his feet, face grey and broken, as he limps away from the carnage ruby red tears streaming down his face. Around her the whispers which should have quieted are instead louder. “Make them pay. Make them see. Betrayed us. They betrayed us. All for nothing… Merzost. Merzost hear me, answer me. Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret.”

Merzost. Well fuck.

Even in her ghostly state, Alina trembles with fear at the name. There had been many theories over the years about the Fold, about how it was created. Black magic was the usual answer. Every child in Ravka is told the tale: how the Black Heretic, using forbidden blood magic, had tried to raise an army to overthrow the rightful Tsar and how magic had rebelled and instead of creating the desired army had instead turned on its caster and killed him, creating the Fold and the Volcra in the process.

It was a tale used as a cautionary lesson to beat out sedition from those who might seek to change things in Ravka. Another way for the Imperial family to keep control – if even magic was on their side, what hope did the average Ravkan have.  

And it was wrong. Alina had always doubted the accuracy of the tale, it was too neat, too perfect, too bland. It had a villain and a hero, but it made no sense – why would the Black Heretic have wanted to rebel? According to the tale he had been rewarded beyond measure, lauded and feted from Os Alta to the True Sea. If that was the case, why would he have sought to overthrow the Tsar who raised him from obscurity to such power and prominence. It made no sense. There had to be more to the story, more that had been left out – and was now forgotten in the mists of time.

But now she knows. Merzost, not blood magic, created the Fold, and Merzost doesn’t make mistakes. As a child she had been fascinated with Aleksander’s explanation of the natural order which their people could control to differing degrees. She had loved her lessons on the small science and had eagerly lapped up the rules that governed what could and couldn’t be done – “even nature has limits,” Aleksander had told her, “and we are no different to the otkazat’syas in that we must obey them, our limits are just different.” But along side those lessons had been another one, a more important one about the dangers of Merzost. 

She could recall Baghra sitting in her normal chair, stick hitting the floor as if to punctuate the importance of the lesson, as she explained in a cold, hard voice, the nature of Merzost and the dangers of calling on it. “It’s dangerous, girl. Only the desperate or the mad dabble in Merzost, for you always lose more than you gain.”

“What do you mean, Baghra?” her younger self had asked, innocent curiosity driving her to ask question after question.

The stick thumped the stone floor with more than usual force, sending sparks flying in all directions. “Merzost is the heart of creation, Alina. It’s the force that binds life together, the blocks that make up the world. As Grisha we may rearrange certain blocks within limits…”

Alina had tilted her head as she considered this new puzzle, “like how a Squaller can control the air or a Tidemaker can control water?” she asked at last.

It was an answer that had earned her a rare smile from the normally cold and inscrutable older woman. “Yes,” she said. “Just like that. Grisha can move the blocks that correspond to their abilities. A Squaller can summon and direct air, a Tidemaker water, a Frabrikator can mould iron or stone to his will, but a Squaller cannot do what a Frabrikator does, just as a Frabrikator cannot summon wind or water. Merzost is the force that shapes the blocks and links them. It’s the glue of the natural order. In using Merzost you can disrupt and change that order.”

“But isn’t that useful?” Alina had asked, her confusion evident. “If something is wrong, isn’t it good that you can change it?”

“It is an abomination!” Baghra had cried, hands shaking with rage as her shadows swarmed the cottage, making Alina draw back in fear. She had never been scared of Aleksander’s shadows, not once, not even during that awful half remembered day her papa had died when she had seen shadows slicing through the air like scythes, leaving devastation in their wake – but she feared Baghra’s now as they swirled ominously around her. This was not the protective, friendly darkness of Aleksander’s shadows, but another force, one that bound her to her chair in fright.

Lost in her own inner world, Baghra had not noticed the reaction of her charge. “To meddle in Merzost is unnatural, girl. No one should have the power to unmake creation, or to change it to their whim.” It was a lesson that had stuck with her, even long after the event. She had never seen Baghra so angry, so cold, so… so pained.

At the time she hadn’t understood the older woman’s reaction. She did now. “You always lose more than you gain.” Prophetic words, or perhaps more accurately, perceptive advice based on personal experience. Merzost had created the Fold and in doing so it had cost everyone, not just the man who had invoked it.

But then wasn’t that the point. In her insubstantial form, Alina has been drifting over the Fold, watching as it grew and the world around it changed as if time has been sped up to a dizzying degree. In the space of minutes she watches as decades pass, towns and villages changing in the blink of an eye. But she ignores this as she chases the thought to its logical end, something pressing her that this is important, vital even, and she must understand it. Kribirsk is still a tiny village, not the large town and army encampment from her time, but as the seconds tick by its changing, morphing, evolving. There is the church she remembers, and the first dry dock is under construction.

Think Alina. Think! She groans in annoyance. What were the words,  

“Make them pay. Make them see. Betrayed us. They betrayed us. All for nothing… Merzost. Merzost hear me, answer me. Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret.”

Oh. Oh. In a sickening moment of clarity, Alina understands. Betrayal. Botkin had mentioned something about a betrayal during one of his visits to her in the Infirmary while she had been recovering. He had told many stories during that lonely week, but this one had stood out, the words sinking in even as they had lulled Alina into a deep healing sleep. It had been about a man gifted with unique abilities and a resentful Tsar many years ago. A Tsar who had been only too pleased to use the talents of the man for his own ends, winning unwinnable wars and defeating any who opposed him. Together the man and Tsar united the disparate lands of Ravka into a united country and pushed their borders out into Fjerdan and Shu territory. It had been a halcyon period until, that is, the time came when his weapon grew too powerful, too popular, and then the Tsar, driven by jealousy and paranoia, had turned on him, betraying the man’s trust as he sought to annihilate both him and the people who shared the man’s gifts. The kindly instructor had told her it was the origin of the Grisha, but she hadn’t understood, hadn’t put the pieces together, and now she had it broke her heart.

The Black Heretic hadn’t been trying to summon an army, he had been calling for something to save his people – their people – from genocide, and Merzost had answered. An iridescent tear slides down her cheek. “Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret.” Merzost had done that. In creating the Fold it had saved the Grisha, even as it had doomed so many others, but there is still that nagging feeling that something is missing. She has come so far tonight in understanding, but still there is an illusive piece missing from the puzzle she has been set.

Beneath her, Kribirsk is expanding; row after row of identical tents rippling out as the army encampment grows. It’s almost the Kribirsk she knows now. Above her the sun shines weakly and she feels its pain, its fury. The whispers are louder now. “Make them see. Make them see.” It isn’t a request.

The comforting rays embrace her, and she feels the cold receding as she basks in the loving warmth of the sun. “She sees. She sees the middle, but not the start. Back, back we go,” the voices in the light hiss, the words make Alina feel sick and dizzy as if she is being spun round and round and she catches glimpses of a starless sky giving way to blinding day. “In the beginning there was only light and darkness, nothing else existed. But light and dark were lonely…”

 

Someone is shaking her arm. No, correction, someone is shaking her arm and sounding increasingly cross. The sensation is dragging her from the dream and with each movement Alina feels herself wrenched further from the dreamworld. This time, however, the images do not immediately start fading, creating a bizarre disconnect as her mind struggles to reconcile two very different realities. Next to her the arm shaker lets out a curse and an unfortunate comparison between Alina and a horse’s backside. It’s enough to galvanise the Sun Summoner, and with rapidly increasing annoyance Alina forces her eyes open to glare at the offending individual. Kira, stares back at the visibly angry sun saint with the smug look of someone who has just achieved a personal best at something.

Turning her back, the curmudgeonly maid adds insult to injury by informing someone else that, “The Sun Summoner is now awake and ready to be seen to,” and a whole bevy of her compatriots descend, plucking her out of her warm covers with a ruthlessness Alina hasn’t seen since that first never to be repeated morning of her stay here in the Little Palace. Since then, Alina has mostly been left to her own devices. Genya usually appears sometime after Alina has started getting dressed for their usual morning routine of tea and a chat, but that is all the assistance she is subjected too. This morning, however, there is no sign of her friend, and it makes it all the more bewildering as Alina is bundled into a too cold bath before being rushed out to don an outfit she has never seen before. The dress the maids try to force over her head is like those court monstrosities she had glimpsed the day of her presentation and it makes her even more resistant as she is pulled and pushed around with bewildering force.

“Enough!” she shouts as one of the maids pulls the corset strings so tight it nearly stops her breathing. The sun sparkles beneath her skin, and as one the group shy away from her, awe in their eyes. “What in the Saint’s names is going on,” Alina barks, patience well and truly at an end. “Why am I wearing this and not my usual kefta, and where’s Genya.”

“Your pardon, madam,” one of the quieter maids finally ventures, sending a nasty look at Kira and Olga who still look far too pleased with themselves. “We thought you knew. The Tsarina has requested you join her for breakfast. Madam Genya is of course with her Imperial Highness, assisting the Tsarina with her preparations.”

“What?” Alina demands, feeling more than a bit faint. “What do you mean breakfast with the Tsarina. Who, what…”

“Kira was meant to tell you, madam.” And Alina can’t quite suppress the smile that wants to break free as the unknown maid cheerfully chucks the unpleasant Kira under the proverbial carriage.

“There was no time,” Kira sniffs, her expression haughty and promising vengeance as she casts a glance at the other maid. “The Sun Saint would not rouse herself, and there was not time after to explain, the Tsarina awaits.”

Alina growls low in her throat, the sparkles along her skin growing brighter in her annoyance. “You should have made time. Things would have gone a lot more smoothly if you’d bothered to explain.” Kira’s eyes are dark and narrowed with contempt as they watch her the mirror. “Forgive, me, madam,” she says, voice showing no contrition whatsoever. “I had thought you would be well versed in the demands of your diary… as any proper Ravkan lady would be.”

In the grand scheme of things it’s only a little dig, and certainly nothing to what she has had to put up with over the years, yet the casual derision burns Alina, turning her blood to acid as she feels the sun flare inside her mind. Such disdain, such contempt, and yet Alina would bet all the money she has that Kira still expects Alina to destroy the Fold, to lay down her life if required in pursuit of the destiny expected of her. She doesn’t have enough Ravkan blood to merit politeness, or kindness, or even consideration, but she is Ravkan enough to do their bidding and die for their desires. The bile stings her throat as she considers the contradiction, and it makes her sharper than she would normally be.

“But then I’m not just any Ravkan lady,” she says, voice low and dark with unspoken promise. In the mirror her brown eyes look almost golden as she raises her bowed head to look at the maid. She meets Kira’s stare head on, a part of her rejoicing in the hiss of fear as the truculent servant steps back in shock. “I am the Sun Summoner.” Her skin shimmers with inner light as she lets the sun slip out of her tight control. The maids all step back, visibly unnerved by the display, and Alina feels sadness tug at her. With a long sigh she lets the light go, her skin dimming to its normal human tones, but her eyes are still hard as they stare at Kira. “I will not be bullied or belittled. I’m quite aware of what you say about me and my parentage and I say no. Get. Out.”

There is a faint noise of protest, but another look at the uncompromising expression on Alina’s face has Kira and her posse scampering from her rooms, faces pale and lacking their customary hauteur.

Already tired, Alina rubs a hand over her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her.  This isn’t how she wanted to spend her morning and remorse is already curdling in her stomach, her mother’s voice ringing in her mind about proper conduct and the importance of rising above such behaviour. Another sigh escapes her as she realises that having dismissed the maids she will have to work out how to get into the awful gown herself. Court dress is costly, impractical and, in her opinion, a ridiculous waste of time and money. How on earth is anyone meant to do anything in a dress with a corset that reshapes your organs and has a hoops to poof the dress out on either side of the wearer so that they can’t walk through a door without having to turns sideways and scuttle through it like a crab. Even the colour is horrid. Green has never suited her complexion.

She has no wish to have breakfast with the Tsarina and is quite certain that no good will come of her attending – especially given the less than pleasant introduction she’d had to the primping consort of the Ravkan throne - but without Aleksander’s protective presence she has no idea how to turn down what is clearly an imperial order.

Looking up, she’s greeted not with an empty room exactly, but certainly one that is far emptier than it had been five minutes before. The quiet servant from before is still standing there along with one other, faces serene as they wait for Alina to finish having her minor meltdown before introducing themselves as Elizaveta and Greta. She likes the pair immediately, they remind her of Genya with their soft, carefully hidden wit and playful personalities masked by the dull white of the uniform that seeks to sap individuality from the wearer, and the process of preparing goes a lot more smoothly without the peanut gallery ‘helping’.

 


 

Breakfast is just as horrid as she had feared and the only good thing going for it is the absence of pickled herring so often found on offer in the Little Palace. There are six courses, each more sumptuous and costly than the last, but instead of making Alina’s mouth water, it makes her stomach churn with anger. The expense of the breakfast is astonishing, breath taking, nauseating. Across Ravka people are starving. Winter is always hard, but winter in Ravka is especially hard since the creation of the Fold. Food is a precious resource, but here in the Imperial Palace it’s wasted without thought. She remembers the bite of hunger in the First Army, the feeling that there was never quite enough to stop the feeling of gnawing emptiness, and seeing the waste before her nearly makes her sick. This breakfast could feed a whole battalion and instead its being wasted on the ten guests present, the Tsarina and her unpleasant looking son, the Tsarevitch.

If the food weren’t bad enough, the accommodation makes it a hundred times worse. The salon she was escorted to is garish and cluttered in that fashionable way; with far too many chairs and tables which makes walking around the room in her ridiculous court dress nearly impossible. Orange upholstery clashes with the yellow and green wallpaper and, just to make it worse, it is suffocatingly hot. For a large room it is surprisingly airless and claustrophobic, and Alina hates it immediately, especially once she has a chance to see who else has been invited to this ‘intimate breakfast’. All the guests, with the exception of the Tsarevitch, are female, and are seated in groups around the ridiculously undersized tables, their eyes fixed with rapt attention on the crown prince as they titter behind their fluttering fans each competing for his attention.

As Alina is escorted to her chair she has a horrible suspicion that this breakfast is less about eating and more about something else entirely.

 


 

With each new course brought in, Vasily changes groups in what is clearly a choreographed dance. She had paid little attention to the preening peacock over the first course, but by the second her attention had been caught as he drifted to a different group, whispering in the ear of one lady as another leaned forward showing far too much cleavage in her bid to get his attention. Over the third course she watches with growing dismay as the Tsarevitch schmoozes another girl, his hand resting on her arm with a familiarity that makes alarm start to simmer in Alina’s heart. But it’s the fifth course when she starts to feel truly concerned, as Vasily makes his way over to her group.

Alina has never been the most social or gregarious of people. She’s not shy, not in the truest sense of the word, but she is naturally reserved; preferring the company of close friends to large groups and, like her mother, she has always disliked loud parties. The company in the Tsarina’s breakfast room are divided between six tables, with two or three ladies being placed at each tiny table. Her breakfast companion is a girl not much older than Alina, but one with a far better pedigree – as she makes sure to inform the Sun Summoner. She is the Countess Gabrielle Belosselsky-Belozersky, daughter of the Count and Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky, second cousin three times removed of the Tsarina. Alina just nods her head at the introduction before replying with a teasing grin, “Alina Starkov, Sun Summoner, the one and only.”

It does the trick, and she watches as the girl next to her wilts slightly, her haughty grin turning real as she bows her head slightly. “Well met, Santka Alina,” she murmurs, a light blush bringing a flash of colour to her pale cheeks. She is a typical Ravkan beauty, all blonde hair, pale skin and blue eyes – the opposite of Alina. The ice is broken now though, and the only part of the decadent feast Alina enjoys is her new companion’s commentary as she guides the Sun Summoner through the daunting task of working out which silverware to use and which glass to drink from.

Once knocked off her perch, Gabrielle is more relaxed and is happy to regale Alina with tales of life in the Imperial Palace, the balls and parties, the hunts and Masques. That changes as the fifth course is wheeled out and Vasily starts to make his way over. As soon as she spots the Tsarevitch approach Gabrielle is gone and in her place is Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky as she simpers her greetings to her second cousin four times removed. Vasily looks much like he did the first – and only – time Alina had seen him; bored, irritable and slightly vacuous, as if the power supply needed upgrading to his brain.

He bows low over Gabrielle’s hand, making a great show of his courtly manners, before he turns to Alina, lifting her hand without her permission to place a long lingering kiss on the back of it, light blue eyes burning into her own. The sensation makes Alina shiver, and she tries to pull her hand back, but it’s to no avail, for Vasily has a strong grip and he is determined not to let go. Ignoring his distant relative, he seats himself by Alina in a vacant chair that has miraculously appeared, his grip tight, bordering on the point of painful as he stares at her, his eyes slowly raking over her features before they travel lower, lingering on the wide open neckline of the court gown with blatant appreciation.

“Mother has been kind to me today,” he murmurs as he completes his inspection. The churning in Alina’s stomach picks up the pace and she has a sudden, very real fear that she might be about to throw up over the crown prince of Ravka. “I knew mother was going to ask you to one of her breakfasts, but I had no idea she would also make sure you were dressed appropriately for the occasion – and in my favourite colour no less.” His appreciative gaze slides over her again, pale blue eyes fixing on the low cut of the dress, making Alina shy away in distress. She’s not a stranger to male attention or lust, has seen it before in the boys who tried to woo her, but it’s never been like this – invasive, proprietary, predatory. It makes her uncomfortable and uncertain, her skin flushing in discomfort.

“Yes, mother has been very kind.” One hand lets go of her to reach over and finger the delicate brocade of her sleeve. “It suites you,” he says, his voice pitched deliberately low and intimate. “You should wear court dress more often. It suites you better than that dreadful uniform they make you wear in the Second Army. You should be dressed in silks and satins, as befits a living saint, not whatever riff-raff they use to make those coats.”

Alarm has kept Alina still and quiet up to this point, but Vasily’s questing fingers are a step too far and with a forceful tug she pulls her left hand free, intertwining it with her right and folding them in the safety of her lap as she steadies herself to reply. “Quite possibly, your highness, but it’s much harder to save the world in a dress – say what you like about our keftas, but they are wonderfully practical.” For a moment the Tsarevitch is still, like a snake about to strike, and Alina wonders if her impertinent comment is about to land her in more trouble, when he throws his head back and laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. The shivers are now racing up and down her spine like a relay race and she curses her instinctive need to defend Aleksander in all things, even his fashion choices, as the Tsarevitch continues to laugh. The whole salon has frozen, watching the crown prince.

“A wit as well as a beauty and a saint. You are a rare gem, my Lady,” Vasily shifts forwards, his knees now pressing against Alina’s own, as one hand rests carelessly on her chair mere millimetres from her arm. “I like rare things,” he says in a low voice, dark with heat and promise. Alina freezes, her breath stolen from her as his fingers brush against her arm. Next to her Gabrielle stirs, a practised whine distracting the prince as she calls his name and redirects his attention to herself.

It gives Alina breathing space, for which she can only be supremely thankful, as she gulps down air like it’s been rationed. The tight corset digs in, restricting her breathing and for a moment she worries that she’s about to faint, but then a glass is pressed into her hand, cool and refreshing and it grounds her. Looking up to find and thank the helpful servant, her eyes land not on an unfamiliar face but into Genya’s concerned eyes. Her face pale with something that might be fear or could be fury as she glances at the now distracted Tsarevitch before she leans down, head close to Alina’s ear whispering softly, “you need to get out of here, Alina. This is not a place you should be. Get out now!”

“Ahh, Genya,” Vasily drawls, “what can we do for you?” the question is innocently phrased but his tone is decidedly hostile, and Alina suddenly feels like an insect caught in a large and dangerous web that she only partially understands. “Apologies, Moi Tsarevitch,” the redhead says, her head bowed low and eyes on the floor. “The Sun Summoner looked unwell, I was concerned.”

“Is this so, my lady?” he asks, his eyes fastening onto Alina’s with lightning speed and with an intensity that makes her feel breathless again for all the wrong reasons. “Yes,” Alina gasps, the corset murdering her ability to take a decent breath. “I’m not used to such rich food,” she manages as she desperately tries to control the sun that wants to wrap around her and protect her from the darkness in his gaze. She likes the dark, has always feels safe in it, but this isn’t like the darkness in Aleksander’s eyes, this is something else, something predatory, and it scares her to the point where her heart is pounding and the faintness lingering at the edges of her mind is very real.

“You do look pale,” the Tsarevitch concedes with narrow eyes, one hand reaching out as if to touch her face, making her skitter back to maintain her distance and depriving her of yet more precious oxygen. Distracted from her own conversation, the Tsarina looks over and calls out in a strident voice enquiring what the disruption is. The servants hovering around the room in anxious silence wish to clear the fifth course and lay the sixth, but the addition of two additional persons at her little table has rendered this impossible. With a light laugh that betrays the concern in her light blue eyes, Gabrielle answers, “The Sun Summoner has been taken ill, aunt.”

“Ill?” The Tsarina shrieks in concern, one hand holding a frilly, flimsy handkerchief that is more lace than substance waving about her nose as if to dispel a foul odour.

“Nothing contagious, I’m sure,” Gabrielle continues, her voice soothing, “she just isn’t used to such a lavish table.” The surrounding ladies laugh and the Tsarina titters, her handkerchief forgotten as she coyly flutters her fan as if to conceal the amusement she feels at such a demonstration of the Sun Summoner’s lowly origins. The unkindness brings a flush to Alina’s pale face and anger makes her eyes sparkle with suppressed power, but she allows the remark to pass her by, her desire to leave stronger than her smarting pride.

“Of course,” the Tsarina laughs again, “The Sun Summoner has our permission to withdraw. Next time we will make sure there is more suitable fare available for her.” It’s as ominous a statement as it is unkind and Alina grumbles under her breath as she dips a curtsey before Genya whisks her from the room.

 


 

Out of the perishing warmth of the Tsarina’s breakfast room and away from the heated gaze of the Tsarevitch, Alina feels better, the ache in her chest reducing as she draws deep lungful’s of heavily scented air.  If she had hoped that this was the end of her horrible morning, she’s quickly disappointed. The walk back to the Little Palace is fraught and strained as Genya hustles Alina as fast as her corset will allow across the paths and laws and through the vestibule doors. Huffing, Alina finds herself towed into her bedroom and pushed onto the plush velvet of the dressing table stool, out of breath and feeling like she could do with a bath… or several.

What is normally a companionable moment between the two girls and time for sharing laughter and jokes is full of unspoken tension Alina still doesn’t understand as Genya picks up the brush and starts attacking Alina’s hair. Instead of calming her, each stroke of the brush seems only to increase the Tailor’s agitation, until she is almost vibrating with it. “Can’t believe he did this.” She mutters under her breath as Genya yanks the brush through a particularly tangled section, making Alina yelp and glance reproachfully at her friend. “What was that mutton head thinking? They never would have dared if he was here. Never. How could he be so stupid as to pick now to leave!”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess who he is, even if Alina is lost as to what Aleksander’s presence, or lack thereof, has to do with this morning’s unfortunate misadventure.

“Genya, what’s wrong?” She asks her friend for the third time. The Tailor stops, the brush hanging limply by her side as she stares at the Alina in the mirror, still decked out in her borrowed finery, her eyes worried as they watch her.

“You mustn’t go back there, Alina,” Genya says forcefully, her eyes deadly serious as she starts to smooth the tangled and pulled hair in silent apology for the hurt she has caused. “The Imperial Palace is a dangerous place. You must promise me, you’re not to go back there. Do whatever it takes, but don’t get caught in the…”

There’s more here than Alina knows, and she feels it pricking at her; the sense of something not right gnawing away in her stomach.

“Why Genya,” she presses gently, “I didn’t want to go today, of course I’ll do my best, but why is it so important, surely they wouldn’t let something harm me?”

“There’s more than one way you can be hurt, Alina, and I couldn’t bear it if Vasily does to you what…”

“What?” she asks softly, eyes sad and watchful as she tries to understand what has shaken her brave friend so much.

“What his father does to me.” The laugh that escapes her friend at that moment is bitter and holds so much pain that all Alina can do is leap to her side, enfolding her in a tight embrace as the tears of rage and shame escape – and with them the whole sordid tale of a beautiful child with an unusual talent and a Tsar with a taste for depravity, youth and power.

“He likes it,” Genya explains softly once her tears have dried. “He gets off on making people feel powerless. Sex is just one way he does it. For a stupid man, he is very inventive when the mood strikes.” Her fingers run over the bare, unmarked skin of her arms and Alina feels sick as the dots connect in her mind. “It helps that I can hide what he does, it means he can do what he likes and no one knows.”

“But surely, Ale-the General, surely he could protect you.” The faith and trust in Alina’s voice almost makes Genya smile, but instead shakes her head. “The General did his best,” she explains softly, “when he saw the Tsar’s eye turn in my direction he tried to stop it by giving me to the Tsarina – she knows her husband is a philanderer, so she long ago set the rules so he wouldn’t dare to touch her household, but it only delayed the inevitable,” she shrugs and looks away, her discomfort clear. Up until now shock has kept Alina’s emotions frozen, but as the new reality seeps in so the ice in her minds thaws. She thinks of her beloved mama who even now after all these years still fears the attention of men, and she thinks of Genya; the fierce, funny, wonderous girl who had been her first friend in this strange place, and rage burns through her veins like a tornado. This. Is. Wrong.

Genya - beautiful, funny, kind - Genya doesn’t deserve this. This isn’t right. The powerful should protect; not abuse, not hurt, not harm those under their protection. Hate is unfamiliar emotion to Alina, she was too young when her family had been attacked and her father killed for that feeling to take root, but she is old enough now and her fury is like a living thing roiling and snapping insider her, desperate to avenge her friend and lay waste to those who took pleasure in hurting such a bright, beautiful soul. The riot of her emotions distracts her, and it almost makes her miss what her friend says next.

“It’s too late for me now. What’s done is done, but one day I’ll have my reward for it.” Genya grips her hand tighter, eyes bright with devastation. “It’s you I worry for, Lina. I thought you at least would be kept out of it, that the General could manage that much, but when I saw you in that room today, I realised that the apple truly doesn’t fall far from the tree and it’s all happening again. Only this time it isn’t me, it’s you. The Tsarevitch wants you, and I’ve heard enough tales and seen enough ruined maids to know that he won’t take no for an answer.”

The Tailor swallows roughly. “The Imperial Palace is his playground, his domain. So you must promise me not to go back there. Plead illness, hide, do whatever it takes, but do not go back there before the General is home.”

Alina can only nod in agreement. Her morning has been a chaotic whirlwind of unexpected revelations and unwanted events. She knows she ought to be worried about the dire warning Genya has just given her. She knows she ought to be frightened to have caught the attention of a man like the Tsarevitch, but instead all she feels are the burning flames of her anger. How dare they. How dare that family abuse those under their care. How. Dare. They.

Alina protective fury erupts at this. “How can you bear it?” She asks, her voice quivering with suppressed emotion, “why didn’t you just run away? You could be free, away from this place and that… that vile, despicable man.”

Genya looks away, fear flashing across her face, “because leaving would mean I’d have to leave the only home I’ve ever known. I can’t deny that the thought has crossed my mind, but it’s not a simple choice, Alina. I-my family were not kind like yours, they were only too pleased to get rid of me. This place is my home and there are people I love here, like you. I’d lose so much more if I left, and I won’t let him take anything more away from me…” she looks away, eyes pained and distant, there is a long pause and then she snarls, “and because I was promised,” and Alina sees true fear in her eyes as Genya meets her questioning gaze. “The General promised that I would have my revenge.”

It takes a long moment for Alina to understand what her friend is not saying, but then she does and suddenly her friend’s fear at telling her makes sense. Aleksander hadn’t been able to save Genya, so instead he’d promised her the means to save herself - a way to right the injustice done to her, to take back some of what had been stollen from her. It’s a very Aleksander like solution and for a moment it makes her smile in nostalgic affection. Then the second part of the promise sinks in and her smile turns dark and shark like. “Good,” she says firmly, surprising the Tailor, who has already turned away in the certainty that the Sun Summoner will condemn her plan.

“Good?” the redhead questions, and Alina reaches over to clasp her hands where they are knotted in the hateful white uniform of her slavery. “Yes,” she says with a nod, “very good. He should pay. And on that day, I’ll burn every white uniform they gave you and you’ll wear the kefta that should always have been yours.” The vow is pulled out of her, and she feels the glow of the sun burst through her control to enfold Genya in its loving warmth.

Distantly, as her friend pulls her into a fierce embrace, she wonders what it says about her – about who she is becoming – that she is so readily accepting of murder; for that is clearly Genya’s plan. Shouldn’t she be feeling guilt or even some desire to save their sovereign – the man ordained to rule them by the Saints?

Perhaps if Alina hadn’t come to know the Tailor as well as she has, or perhaps if there had been more secrets between them, Alina would feel differently, would feel horrified and disgusted at such coldly premeditated revenge. But she doesn’t. Instead, a cold resolution is forming in her mind. A certainty that if ever such an action was merited, this situation did.

One thing she is certain of is that she won’t be like the Tsarina and look away. She will stand with Genya and she will honour her choice. Murder may not sit comfortably with Alina, but then she hasn’t endured what her friend has, and with a man as powerful as the Tsar what other option is there. He is not a man who can be contained – or constrained – as she had done to Zoya. No, this isn’t just justice, this is necessary. How can Ravka heal and become the nation it ought to be with such an abhorrent excuse for a human as its head? The answer is it couldn’t. The rot in Ravka came from the top and that meant for all their sakes it had to go.

Starting with the Tsar.

Notes:

*hides behind the sofa*. Please don't hate me - Aleksander is back soon, I promise... as is Zoya, but that's fun for a few chapters time.

Poor Genya, I just want to give her a big hug. I really thought the series should have done more around the whole Genya child sexual exploitation plotline. It's frankly an appalling abuse of power and Alina's reaction wasn't very understanding. So I wanted to change/address that in this chapter as it was one of the storylines I was most disappointed by.

Enter a new villain stage left. What did everyone think of Vasily. I know he's often cast as a villain, but I couldn't resist this twist. Aleksander's reaction is pretty priceless when he finds out. And then there's our little Apparat, creeping about the Little Palace...

As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter :D.

Next up: The Court of Night and Day (part 2)
Dark secrets are revealed and darker plans are slowly inching forwards. Life is growing perilous for the Sun Summoner.

Chapter 15: The Court of Night and Day (part 2)

Summary:

There is an old Ravkan saying: three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Unfortunately for Aleksander his mother is very much alive, and she’s in a rare communicative mood. Dark secrets have a bad habit of coming to light, usually at the most inconvenient time. In the Little Palace truth has got her boots on, and it isn’t just Aleksander’s secrets that are being revealed.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first time it happened it seemed like a happy accident. The second time a strange coincidence. By the third time it was starting to seem a bit suspicious, but by the sixth occasion it was definitely looking like a conspiracy.

After that first ghastly breakfast at the imperial palace and the even more horrifying things she’d learnt after it, Alina had every intention of avoiding that awful place and every member of the Lantsov family. Unfortunately for Alina and Genya, the royal family had other ideas.

Every morning for the past fortnight an invitation for breakfast had arrived and every day Alina sent back her polite refusal with the increasingly sour faced Kira. Far from upsetting the Lantsov’s, or dissuading them from issuing invitations, Alina’s continued absence seemed to excite the Tsarina and her creepy son to new heights as they tried to tempt her back into the lion’s den.

Invitations for breakfast became invitations to lunch or to join the Tsarina for afternoon tea. When food failed to illicit Alina’s interest the approach changed again - now she was beset with invitations go riding with the crown prince, to be driven in one of the Tsarevitch’s racing carriages through the beautiful gardens of the Imperial Palace, or even for him to escort her to the grand cathedral in Os Alta for them to hear mass together.

When that failed as well, Vasily started popping up in odd places, ambushing the Sun Summoner as she walked across the grounds to Baghra’s cottage or to the stables. At first, she had written the crown prince’s sudden appearance in the grounds of the Little Palace as a strange one off, but by the sixth occasion she’d been forced to let go of that thought and accept that Vasily’s perfectly timed appearances were less unfortunate coincidence and more outright stalking.

Alina has always loved the outdoors. Perhaps because of her illness as a child which led to her spending so much time inside, she has always seen the outside world as a wonderful place, one full of adventure and joy. Being immersed in nature has long been her refuge when she starts feeling stressed or anxious. It was no coincidence that Aleksander had taken her to that glade on their first ride – she had seen in his choice of destination his acknowledgement of the pressure she had been under and his desire to give her what solace he could.  Now, however, instead of being her refuge it has become a prison. A large, open plan prison where at any moment she could be hounded by entitled crown princes with more hormones than brains.

It makes her angry. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times she politely – and not so politely – refuses the Tsarevitch. The stupid boy seems immune to the word ‘no’ and incapable of understanding her lack of interest. The only thing holding her back from making her point more forcefully is her fear of what will become of Genya, for surely the crown prince would tell his father. But even if he doesn’t, there’s a cruelty to Vasily that Alina has seen - a monster lurking just below the surface - and she has no doubt if he thought it would buy her compliance that he would use any tool at his disposal to get his way.

Already he’s made comments about her friend. Leud remarks written off as humour, but Alina sees them for what they are – a bully testing the water, trying to see where her soft belly is. Unfortunately for the Tsarevitch, where his iron fist in an overpriced velvet glove approach may coerce others into doing his bidding, Alina has too much experience of bullies to show the reaction he’s looking for. Years of exposure to misogyny and hatred because of her heritage has given her a thick skin and taught her how to appear bland and disinterested.

In some ways it’s a pyrrhic victory. Genya is safe, but Alina’s unusual lack of interest and outright refusal to fawn over him seems only to excite the Tsarevitch further.

The gifts start ten days after that dreadful morning in the Tsarina’s breakfast parlour. The first one is a miniature of Vasily, dressed in his full court regalia complete with a crown. Its arrival drives the colour from Genya’s face so fast that for a horrifying moment Alina thinks she’s about to faint. That it is a message is only too clear – a visual reminder, as if Alina needed one, of who she is refusing. The painting is rewrapped and handed back to the maid with a polite note saying that while she is grateful for the crown prince’s generosity a lowly Grisha such as herself could never accept such a costly gift.

The second gift arrives that afternoon. One hundred yellow roses – the official Lantsov flower - from the Tsarina’s personal hothouse. It takes ten servants to bring the enormous vases across from the Imperial Palace and they are presented to her at dinner with enough pomp and circumstance that it causes her to flush a bright scarlet with embarrassment. The note does little to improve her blush as she reads the ornate cursive script: “Golden roses for our golden saint. A small token of my esteem that I hope my saint will accept.” It isn’t signed, but then it doesn’t need to be, the imperial servants are enough of a giveaway even without the enormous gold stamp of the double headed firebird that takes up almost half the space on the parchment.

Perhaps on another occasion – and from a different sender – Alina might have been touched by such a display. However, even if she didn’t dislike Vasily to the extent that she does, the flowers still wouldn’t have done much in the way of winning her favour. She’s never cared for yellow flowers, particularly yellow roses, and now she has a hundred of them in gaudy gold vases cluttering up the senior dinning hall and giving her fellow Grisha yet another thing to gossip about.

Unsure, she looks to her friends, but they are all cooing and drooling over the flowers as if they see nothing wrong with such a present. In the end, she gets the waiting servants to gather the roses from the three enormous urns and directs them to distribute the roses at the public gate that leads to Os Alta with her good will and blessings. Fedyor told her only a few days before that peasants have been gathering at that gate for weeks, hoping for a glimpse of the Sun Saint. She has no need for the flowers but she hopes that they bring someone joy and it seems a little enough thing to share with those so much less fortunate then herself.

It had been a kind gesture, meant to make the best of a bad situation. What Alina had not expected is the level of reaction. Overnight Alina’s fame skyrockets and in addition to her title of Sun Summoner, she is now known as Sankta Alina the kind, and Sankta Alina the merciful. It’s enough to make her want to hide under her blankets and not come out for a week. If Vasily is annoyed by her redistribution of his flowers he shows no sign of it, instead accosting her the next day with an extremely cringe worthy sonnet composed by his own hand, lauding her beneficence and magnanimity towards the undeserving poor. And that is only the start. Inspired by her generosity and kindness, the Tsarina has decided that she too will give a number of blooms every day to the poor gathering at the public gate, and sales of yellow roses shoot up across the capital as everyone wants to be seen wearing the saint’s rose.

Any hope that the flowers might have been the end of Vasily’s gift giving extravaganza is quickly extinguished as two days after the debacle of the earache inducing sonnet – and just as Alina starts to let out a sigh of relief – gift number three arrives. The horse is beautiful, there’s no denying that, with her golden palomino coat and soft white mane. She’s a costly and extravagant gift, and for a moment Alina wavers. With so many of the horses at the Little Palace taken by Aleksander for his hair-raising dash across Ravka, there are precious few horses left in the stables for she and her fellow Grisha to ride, and she misses the freedom and peace she would find during those few hours a week she could escape with Beauty into the wider park of the Palace. Behind her Marie and Nadia are whispering excitedly about this latest gift and the symbolism of giving a golden horse to the only Sun Summoner. They think its romantic. Sweet. Something out of their trashy penny dreadful romances novels that they like to read after lights out.

Alina flushes and closes her eyes as Marie giggles, “just wait. How amazing will it be when the Tsarevitch declares his love and marries Alina, then there’ll be a Grisha on the throne of Ravka. How romantic, he’s willing to throw away centuries of tradition to follow his heart.”

It’s this comment which cements her resolve and with a hard glint in her eyes, she shakes her head, dismissing the groom and sending both him and the palomino back to the Imperial stables. She will not be bought. Where Marie sees romance, Alina sees a trap. Where Marie sees it as a declaration of marriage, Alina sees it as political trickery. Where Marie thinks there could be no better outcome than Alina married to the Tsarevich and the future Tsarina of Ravka, Alina knows it will be anything but, such a marriage will destroy her and any hope in Ravka of change.

No, she would not be bought, and the price for accepting the horse would likely be far more than she is willing to pay. No good would come from accepting a gift from one of the Lantsov’s. There’s an old saying the commander of the Medical Corps was fond of – before accepting a gift horse, make sure to check its teeth. The devil, as the lawyers like to say, is in the detail and until she knows exactly what Vasily wants and what his plans are she will not accept anything that might indebt her to him.

The ongoing battle with the Tsarevitch’s attentions is draining and consumes far more of Alina’s attention than she is comfortable with. It also has the unfortunate side effect of making her miss Aleksander all the more. She misses his steady, comforting presence, misses the reassurance he provided her and the security of knowing he would not let another harm her, but most of all she misses his political acumen and the surety with which he can navigate political waters. Alina is afraid – afraid of the danger that might come from her saying no, but more afraid still of what it might mean if she gives in and says yes.

In sticking with ‘no’ she is safe, but she risks everything – everyone – else. It’s a horrifying position to be placed in, balancing on the edge of a knife as she dances to maintain her precarious position just outside the Lantsov reach without falling – and it makes her miss Aleksander fiercely. Genya is right, Aleks would know what to do, he would be able to guide her, show her, how to maintain this dance, but he isn’t here, and she worries incessantly about stumbling.

The only place she finds peace now is in Baghra’s little cottage, a place which is soothing in its familiarity and unchanging appearance. Not even the crown prince would both her here, not after his last meeting with Aleksander’s mother anyway.

 


 

Genya’s warning haunts her, the words echoing round her mind. She feels hunted, trapped. She’s lost and in desperate need of advice and yet she can’t quite bring herself to speak of it - as if voicing her fears will make them real. The thoughts dog her steps, but they are worst at night. In the darkness with no distractions she has plenty of time for them to run riot – and riot they do.

She tries meditating, as Botkin has shown her, but with little effect - there are too many thoughts, too many worries. Finally, a month after Aleksander left and two weeks after that dreadful breakfast, Alina breaks her silence to ask one of the questions plaguing her. She can’t yet talk about the events of the breakfast, the worries Genya has left her with, or Vasily’s concerning behaviour, but she can tackle this fear. Her mama had always told her it is better to know than to wonder, and on this she has to know.

“He left because he fears me, didn’t he? That’s why he wouldn’t let me go with him.” She asks Baghra during one of their lessons, the question slipping out of her before she can second guess herself again. The miniature sun cupped in her hands should warm her, but it only feels cold and dull, a fitting metaphor for how she’s felt since she watched Aleksander ride away.

Baghra harrumphs. “That is one interpretation, certainly.” She answers. But Alina has not spent over a decade with this woman without learning that with Baghra what she doesn’t say is often more important than what she does. The sun flares brighter in her hands as unruly hope flashes through her.

“What other interpretation is there?” Alina’s voice soft and hushed in the quiet room, but her heart is pounding within her chest as she waits to see if the older woman will continue. Her mentor has a mercurial nature and is just as likely not to explain as she is to answer her favourite student.   

Baghra sighs, her dark gaze fixed on the dancing flames and for a long endless moment Alina fears that this is one of those times when she will not answer. “When Aleksander was seven he made what he thought were his first friends.” Though the voice is clinical, Baghra’s eyes are pinched and Alina can see that her knuckles are white where the grip her walking stick. It’s an odd non-sequitur, but then Alina is used to tangents and riddles during their conversations, and so she sits back and forces her impatient heart to wait and listen to what Aleksander’s mother has to say.

“He was always a quiet boy,” the old woman reminisces, “with our gifts it was dangerous to stay in one place too long - especially as no seven year old, no matter how brilliant or powerful they are – has the control to conceal such abilities. Normally we would on stay a few days, a week at most. This time though we stayed for some months, and Aleksander made friends with the village children - some were even like us, though we had not yet been given the name Grisha by which to identify those who were gifted.”

The old woman sighs again, her tone turning darker as her shadows creep around her shoulders giving her an otherworldly look. “For a time all was good, but then something happened and they found out his unique gift for amplification. I found them one day, holding his head under the water in the pond just beyond the village. They intended to murder my boy to gain his bones, believing they would amplify their own gifts.” Baghra looks up, her eyes filled with pain and the still simmering embers of anger never forgotten. “We both learnt a lesson that day.”

Alina’s hands tremble in horror and fury, her breath coming in fast pants as she wrangles with the sun burning through her veins as it tries to escape her control. To murder another for their bones is an unthinkable sin and her heart aches as she thinks of the damage this will have done to her dearest friend. She knows so little of Aleksander’s past that she is greedy for any information, knowledge or insight into it – yet for all she hungrily hoards this information, tucking it away safely inside her mind, she cannot see why Baghra has confessed it.

As if she heard Alina’s confused thoughts, Baghra’s gaze leaves the flames and fixes instead on her student, face hard and resolute.    

“So, no, girl. I don’t think he fled this place because he feared you. I think he fled as fast his horse could go because he feared for you. The incident with Shu Han gave him an excuse, a way to turn prying eyes away from the Little Palace and from you. He knows better than many the terrible price you pay for being born different.”

“But he said…” Alina began only to be cut off by a sharp shake of her mentor’s head.

“Think, girl. Use that brain of yours. If he feared you, he would be looking for ways of controlling you and controlling your power. He wouldn’t have left you alone in his home. That incursion is an opening gambit for a war – a war his Imperial Uselessness will almost certainly want to send you to fight. I’d say he was trying – albeit with his usual ineptitude – to protect you. And that doesn’t sound like he fears you, to me.”

Baghra sits back in her chair, her ice white hair almost glowing in the darkness of the cottage, her eyes returning to the fire in a clear dismissal. She’s said all she means to say, has given Alina the pieces she needs in order to figure out the puzzle before her, and now she expects her student to go away and assemble it.  

Alina leaves, pressing a kiss to Baghra’s smooth cheek as she passes on the way to door. The old woman’s words spinning and dancing, in her head.

 


 

Perhaps because there have been so many revelations recently, but it takes Alina longer than she thinks it should have to spot an oddity in Baghra’s tale. She knows Aleksander is old - older than he looks anyway. In appearance her friend appears to be in his early thirties. It’s common knowledge amongst the otkazat’syas that Grisha can live longer – a lot longer in some cases – than those not blessed with Grisha magic and that Grisha age slower and heal faster. Aleksander, she knows has been in charge of the Second Army for more than forty years already, which would surely make him above sixty or seventy years of age, yet he is still young and vital, with the appearance of a man half that age.

Baghra said that the terrible incident occurred in a time before Grisha had been given their collective name. But how could that be? Grisha is a name given to them centuries ago, not long after the creation of the Fold, when the Tsar discovered his need for those born with special abilities in order to cross the dangerous dark of the Fold safely. Either Baghra is mistaken… or,… or Aleksander was born before the Fold – but that’s impossible, that would make him a contemporary of the Black Heretic, of the man she sees in her dreams.

Her dreams.

Oh.

Her dreams. Dreams where she is never close enough to see the man’s face and yet she feels drawn to him, desperate to soothe his pain and anguish. The words from the dream echo in her ears. “Make them suffer. Make them fear. Betrayed. They betrayed us. Show them. Show them. Make them feel our pain. Make them regret.”

Oh.

Oh, her poor Aleksander. A single tear slides down her cheek and she roughly brushes it away. That poor, darling man. What a burden he’s carried, and for so many years. She thinks again of Botkin’s impromptu history lesson, of her mother’s disdain towards the history of Ravka, of the way the Black Heretic is reviled and hated for what he did, and yet there is no attempt to understand, nor compassion shown, to the point where even his name has been obliterated from history.

Perhaps if she hadn’t known Aleksander for most of her life, or if she hadn’t seen in her dreams a different perspective on the official version of events, she might have felt differently; might have been afraid to know that the man she has grown to love – who she loves above all else – is the Black Heretic. Instead, she only feels relief. She knows his secret now, the dark thing he has tried so hard to keep from her for so many years and at last she understands the crushing sense of responsibility that has long weighed him down, the desperate need to atone, to save their people, which has influenced all his steps – for good and for ill. She sees it and she understands it. That poor, poor man.   

 


 

She’s dreaming again. It starts off the same way as all the others, with white tundra and dark forests, but then it changes and a new sight meets her curious eyes. Instead of mountains there is only darkness. This isn’t the fogginess of The Fold, but something different. It’s more like a void. As if in a play, she sees two thrones, illuminated against the dark, standing tall and proud. The thrones are strange, not at all like the carved monstrosities the Tsar and Tsarina sit on with the Tsar’s so much larger than that of his consort to emphasise the disparity in their station. These two are equal in size and oddly delicate, made from some strange golden substance that seems to glow from within. Unlike the rigidity and straight angular lines of Tsar’s throne, these are all soft curves, the backs arranged in a low, half a circle, so that the spines only come up to midback. Separate, Alina thinks they look odd, but when placed together they make up a perfect circle that glows like the stars.

Carved into each throne is an image: a sun on one and on the other there is what looks like a new moon. Upon each throne sits a crown, both glowing white, and made of what could be bone weaved together to form a perfect circlet designed not to sit on a head – like the Ravkan crown – but around it, lying gently above the ears with the front resting against the forehead. One is decorated with myosotis and irises , the other with Antirrhinum and ivy. Both are beautiful and draw the eye, luminescent and otherworldly in appearance.

The images fade to be replaced by the crowns broken upon the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces, no longer glowing in that unearthly way. Alina is just stooping to look closer at the debris when the dream changes suddenly and she feels as if she has been wrenched away, propelled or called with such force that her mind spins. Gone is the void like dark of the previous moment and in its place is weak afternoon sunlight, the sound of clashing swords and pained grunts. There’s musket fire and smoke and when vision returns Alina almost wishes it had stayed in darkness. All around her is blood and death amidst a sea of Ravkan green and the red coats of the Shu army. Next to her she sees a boy, younger than she is, die as a Shu officer spears him with his bayonet. Behind her there is shouting and cursing, while in front is carnage such that it turns her ghostly stomach.

There’s a whoosh from somewhere on her right and Alina’s eyes are drawn to the swirling darkness lashing out in all directions, a one man battering ram that is disseminating any before him. She can feel his anger from across the battlefield, the desperation with which he is fighting and she knows that they are losing. The Shu are pushing the Ravkan forces back, their numbers so much greater than the original report had suggested and far too great for the small number of reinforcements that the Tsar had authorised to support the Second Army.

Again she hears Baghra’s voice: “That incursion is an opening gambit for a war – a war his Imperial Uselessness will almost certainly want to send you to fight. I’d say he was trying – albeit with his usual ineptitude – to protect you.” Whether the old woman is right about Aleksander’s motivations, she’s on the money with regard to Shu Han. This isn’t an exploratory force testing border defences, this is a full-scale invasion.

And Shu Han has upped the ante even more. Something is wrong. The spinning shadows lack Aleksander’s normal elegance and control, appearing wild and frenzied. Stretching out her mind she tries to sense Aleksander as Baghra has been teaching her too, and promptly wishes she hadn’t because she can feel it now - the tortured howl of Aleksander’s shadows, the pain and panic as he desperately tries to retain control, control that he is rapidly losing.  

It takes only a thought for Alina’s spectral form to materialise next to the General, cutting through the inky whirlwind as if it were a gently summer wind and not a lethal storm of barely restrained power.  

“Nonononono!” Aleksander groans, eyes wide and wild as they look straight at her. “She can’t be here. Can’t be. Can’t be. It’s the drug, making me see things. Alina is safe, I know she is. She’s safe, far away from here in the Little Palace. This is a trick. Has to be a trick.”

“Aleks?” she asks desperately, fear gnawing at her. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” She’s never seen her friend so uncontrolled, almost hysterical, as he rocks back and forwards, hands tearing at his hair. There’s a deranged look on his handsome features, an encroaching madness that sends chills down her spine.  

“You’re not here,” he spits, the shadows roiling and writhing about him growing darker by the second. There’s a difference in the air, a different type of darkness infecting the murky depths of the shadows – they’re blacker, thicker, more ominous somehow.

Unconsciously, Alina steps forward in concern, only to flinch back as her friend throws up a commanding hand. “Stay back,” he yells, his voice hoarse with pain and fear. “Don’t come any closer.”

Rocking back on her heels, Alina pauses uncertain and unsure. This isn’t her Aleksander, this isn’t her best friend. Desperation makes her ask again, her voice sounding plaintive and anxious as she calls his name, begging him silently to tell her what’s wrong.

“Stupid, stupid fool,” Aleksander moans, one hand leaving his hair to claw at the ground, his fingers sinking into sticky mud.

“I am here, Aleks. You’re not alone,” she steps forward again, hovering anxiously just out of his reach. “Tell me what’s wrong, please, you need help.”

“No help for me, precious,” he gasps, his head jerking back as a horrifying spasm jolts through him. “My fault, didn’t see.”

“See what?” she demands, his eyes have a brittle light in them, fevered and no longer lucid.

“The assassin…” he waves a hand at a needle lying a few feet from him, panting with exertion and pain. “Clever bastards…used…jurda parem…now I’ll…kill…them…all,” he giggles at the end, an unnatural high-pitched sound that grates against her ears and brings tears to her eyes at the wrongness of it.

“What can I do, Aleksander?” she’s already looking around, her eyes scanning frantically for something, or someone, who might be able to help, but all she can see is the oily, inky vortex that surrounds them.

“It’s…too…late…going…mad already.” He’s on his knees before her, mud stained hands tearing at his hair as he fights against the drug burning through his mind. He giggles again but it’s a short lived hysteria that’s choked off by another spasm, this one longer and more vicious than the first. His eyes are fixed on Alina, the feverish light burning brighter now. “Still…if I…have…to die…at least…I got…to…see you one…last…time…even if…it’s…just…me going…mad.”

“You’re not mad,” Alina snaps, frustration and panic making her voice sharp. “Stop saying that. I’m right here.”

His face contorts in pain, but where before there had been a feverish light, now he looks raw and wrecked, devastated by her words.

“No… you should… be…safe…How?” he croaks, the arm that had been supporting him in his semi-sitting position giving out under the strain of another tremor, forcing him to the ground as he shakes and cries, biting his lip in an attempt to stop the sound escaping.

“I don’t know,” she answers absently as she tries to remember what she’s been taught about jurda parem. “I’ve been having strange dreams lately. I went to sleep tonight and now I’m here.” There’s a lot more to it than that, and if Aleksander were in a better state she would happily debate metaphysical reality and true dreams with him until the cows came home. But he isn’t, and Alina has a terrifying feeling that time is running out if she wants to save Aleksander. The clock is ticking, she can feel it in her blood. There has to be something she can do, some way to save him, there just has to be.

She’s heard Botkin and the other teachers talk of the drug in hushed tones as they warn the students of its dangers. It was invented some years before by Bo Yul-Bayur, one of the many scientists employed by the Taban government to find and control the source of grisha power. In that aim they failed – the drug couldn’t give the giver control over grisha power, nor could it suppress it, but that didn’t detract from either its potency or the harm it could cause. Jurda parem is highly addictive and often fatal to grisha, even after only one dose of it, but that’s the least of what the detestable compound does. What’s worse is what it does to the mind and body of any grisha unlucky enough – or stupid enough – to take it, as it twists the mind, corrupting it so that the imbiber can no longer recognise friend from foe, while turning their grisha gift into an aberration of itself. Shu Han might not have been able to usurp control of grisha, but with this drug they could turn them into a walking liability – who would want to fight alongside someone who once dosed with this drug would turn into a psychotic and unpredictable monster, one with devastating powers and no control.

To her mind it is the ultimate insult, the ultimate sin of her mother’s homeland – they have taken something beautiful and made it turn in on itself until it becomes sick and diseased, lethal to any and all around it. They have made the gift of being a grisha a ticking time bomb and it is a battle that Aleksander is losing fast.

The sun crackles in her veins with her despair and impotent fury. What she wants is to lash out, to decimate and destroy those who have taken Aleksander from her – for even if he survives the carnage he is about to cause he will never be the same after it, this will take something precious and irreplaceable from him. Her poor love, he has lived through so much – survived so much – and now he will be destroyed by his very essence. It’s a bitter irony - one made worse by the fact that for the first time in one of these dreams Aleksander is aware of her.

She is desperate to act, but she is powerless in this strange dream state; unable to interfere, and that is ironic too – so much power burns through her veins, and yet in this moment when she is most needed, she is powerless. It makes her want to scream with rage at the unfairness, the injustice of it all.

Alina is jolted out of her thoughts by Aleksander’s pained cry. “I don’t know…how you…came to be here, but leave…Alina. Leave now…Before I cannot…control it.” His beautiful dark eyes are pitch black from the drug and haunted, so very haunted.  

Even if she wished to she could not – would not – leave him. “No!” Her voice is resolute and full of steel. She will not leave him to fight this alone. Through the swirling cyclone of Aleksander’s powers, Alina can just make out the fighting going on around them and it tears at her. How many will he kill – how many of his own grisha? Even if she cannot stop him or help him, she can be with him to the bitter end.

Aleksander cries out, his back bowing until his head is almost on the floor, around them his shadows swirl faster and faster until it looks like they are in the middle of a black tornado. Instinct drives her forward, forgetting in her haste that she cannot touch in her ghostly state. The moment her translucent hand makes contact with his bare hand, devoid of his habitual gloves, it’s like a circuit has been completed – she can feel the drug rampaging through his blood, twisting and deforming as it goes on its merry way, unstoppable and inescapable. She feels the pain he is in. The torture of knowing what will happen if he gives in and lets the jurda parem consume him.  

She feels the thousand razor sharp shadows kept at bay only by a tremendous – almost inhuman – act of will power. She can feel the battle her love is fighting and losing as with each breath the drug gains more ground and a surer foothold in Aleksander’s mind. She can feel it all. A tear slides down her cheek at his pained gasp, a final desperate plea not for himself but for her. “Please, saints no. Not…my Alinochka. Not her too. Saints…preserve me. I cannot…hold it. I…cannot…hold…it.”

Aleks is shaking now, writhing in agony on the sticky, blood drenched mud of the battlefield. Around them the fight continues unabated and unrelenting. Inside the maelstrom of swirling shadows Alina is still, her hand clenched firmly around Aleksander’s, her eyes fixed on his. She has never feared his darkness and she won’t start now. She can still feel the tenuous grasp he has on his powers and the tumult of them as they attempt to evade and escape the inexorable pull of the jurda parem. It’s a link though, a connection. Intuition drives her forward, the sun singing through her mind, as she finds the seat of Aleksander’s powers, encasing his shadows in light so bright it burns the compound to dust as it batters against the shield she’s wrapped around him.  

Exhaustion forces her to her knees, panting for air, the world tilting alarmingly around her, and yet still she won’t let go - her hand wrapped around Aleksander’s like a lifeline anchoring him to her.  

Vaguely she’s aware of the dark whirlwind that has been shrouding them from view of the battlefield slowing, the winds dropping until all she can see is the weak winter sun, low on the horizon, its gentle light setting the red streaks in the sky ablaze with colour.

As if from a long way away she hears a voice that sounds like Ivan barking orders and hands not her own grasping the still figure in black next to her, pulling him from her, his hand slipping out of her own phantom hold.

The world swims, but Alina is too tired to move, or even to care. The Sun croons to her as it bathes her in its warmth, her vision washing in and out like a guttering lamp. Familiar darkness hovers, welcoming in its embrace and finally she sleeps.

 


 

Screaming is what jolts Alina from her exhausted sleep. Something – someone is screaming – normally this would concern her, probably quite a lot truth be told as it sounds like someone is screaming bloody murder in her bedroom, but Alina is too tired, her eyes too heavy and her head too foggy to care and she lets herself be once more pulled under the dark waves of unconsciousness.

 


 

She wakes to the sight of Garin leaning over her, his ear pressed to a tube that’s resting on her chest, and the familiar blue walls of the Vezda suite. Only one of these two things is reassuring and it isn’t Garin’s presence. Her hands feel like lead weights have been attached as she tries to push the healer away, earning herself a scowl and a swift rebuke as he returns to whatever has caught his attention.

The look he gives her when he finally steps away some minutes later is considering and worried. “Wha-?” she tries to ask only to be stopped by a poorly timed coughing fit, her throat is burning and red raw when the coughing finally stops.

Garin shakes his head as he passes her a glass of syrupy looking water, “best just sit quietly, lass, and get that down you. Your throat will be a mite painful I’d think, after the way you were screaming last night.”

“Scream…ing?” her voice agrees with the healer’s assessment. It’s horribly painful to speak, but she pushes through, confusion overriding her body’s desire for caution.

“Aye,” the normally jovial man says, eyes stern as he checks her over. “you gave us quite the scare last night. I’ve seen a lot in my time as a healer, but I’ve not seen anything like that.” Seeing the look of lost confusion on his charge’s face, Garin sighs. “You were screaming, lass. Screaming like a banshee is how Marie put it, and then there was the light show. We couldn’t even get near you for close to half an hour and by the time we did you had almost exhausted your reserves of power to the point where your energy levels were so low your heart was going into distress.”

He notes something on her chart and pats her hand comfortingly, “still, no harm done from what I can tell. Your heart sounds fine now, but repeated stress like that isn’t good for any organ and there are limits to what even Grisha healing can achieve.”

“Can you tell me what happened, Alina?” he asks gently. “That’s what we don’t understand. Fedyor says you had a headache last night and that he gave you one of the standard tinctures we keep in stock, but that shouldn’t cause a reaction like this.”

Alina sips her water, jumbled memories and thoughts trying to piece themselves back together in some semblance of order. “I… I…dream…ing,” she manages to croak at last. “Dre…aming, bad things. War. Death. Blood.”

Garin nods, his face full of compassion and understanding. “Well, valerian root is known to sometimes cause powerfully vivid, almost lucid dreams, and there is a goodly sized dose in that particular headache tincture. Valerian can also affect heart rhythm, so maybe that’s the answer. I’ll put it in your notes that you shouldn’t be given any of the medications containing valerian again.”

The healer sounds satisfied by his deduction, but Alina is uncertain. Snatches of the dream return to her, the horror, the smell of blood and death – could this really just be an unfortunate reaction to one of the herbs in the headache tonic. She’s certainly had cause to use it frequently over the last two months – is that why she’s been having these odd dreams? But no… she’s sure there’s more to the dreams, they aren’t just products of her confused and fevered mind. She knows it, feels that if she can just remember the one from the night before that she will know for certain whether they are real or imagined, but the images remain illusive, always just out of her mental grasp and the more she tries to force herself to remember the more they slip away.    

 


 

The Tsarevitch’s fourth gift arrives three days later. This time it’s another court dress, dark verdant green in colour and even more richly embroidered than the dress sent to her prior to the first breakfast that got Alina into so much trouble. While the body of the dress is emerald, the embroidery is all in gold with the front panel of the skirt a golden lamé that matches the intricate detailing. If the horse had seemed extravagant then this gift is even more excessive.

She sends it back, but not before she sees the note, the writing etching itself on her brain. ‘To my dearest one. How eagerly I await our next meeting when I hope to see you in my favourite colours. The first step, I hope, toward you wearing my colours.’

For a long moment Alina is paralyzed as her mind digests the words. It cannot mean what it’s implying. It simply can’t. It would be going against centuries of convention and the royal marriages act signed over a century ago that prohibits any prince of the main Lantsov line from marrying a commoner. But what other interpretation is there? For her to wear the Tsarevitch’s colours would be tantamount to a declaration that she is his.

Fuck.

Double fuck!

Marriage is the only honourable inference of that note - but there are other down right dishonourable ones as well. Genya’s words of caution are ringing in her ears as she goes over the wording of the note again.

Vasily has declared his intention that she be his, but the form of ownership - and ownership is what it will be - is deliberately vague. Without her meaning to, the note starts to curl and brown at the edges, the paper reacting to the light radiating from her as she wrestles with the desire to call the sun and decimate the architectural monstrosity that is the Imperial Palace.

The note leaves a bad taste in her mouth for the rest of day, destroying her appetite and her concentration in one fell swoop. Though the dress is sent back four times, it keeps reappearing in her bedroom, the ever surly Kira only looking more irate as the day goes on. By the fifth time she gives in and sends a letter that Genya helps her write, tactfully but firmly declining the gift.

She’s so unsettled by the battle of the gifts and the persistent attention from the Tsarevitch that by dinner a headache has started to pound behind her eyes, one made worse by the happy chatter in the dining hall. Tonight is the senior only games night and the senior grisha are buzzing with excitement at the prospect of a night off for frivolity and fun. With so many of their number away on the Shu border or still in Kribirsk, games night has gained even more importance in the diary of the Little Palace. It also helps that the senior only game night is the only time that alcohol is permitted for the older grisha outside of feast days.  

Like her friends, this is usually a night Alina enjoys, especially now that she has got to know many of the senior grisha. But the thought of staying in a room full of happy, playful, increasingly drunk people, trying to match their mood and conceal her own worries is more than she can manage, and she escapes to the safety of her bedroom citing a bad headache. Alina knows Fedyor is concerned about her, she sees it in the shadow that falls across his face when she gives her apologies and in the way he's taken to watching her with a thoughtful look when he thinks she’s distracted. As her head of security, the Heartrender knows about some of the gifts, but he doesn’t know about the notes, or how persistent her admirer is – and Alina doesn’t know how to tell him without making the situation all the more precarious.

Fedyor is a wonderful friend, devoted and kind, but he’s also hot-headed at times and passionate in his defence against anyone who would harm those under his care. This is a potentially lethal mix in a situation fraught with danger and peril, as Genya had pointed out that morning when Alina had raised the prospect of informing the Heartrender.

“Fedyor is wonderful, he truly is, but you know as well as I do, Lina, that if he knew what was going on he’d probably storm the Imperial Palace demanding Vasily leave you alone. Any intervention from those the Tsarevitch sees as beneath him will only escalate matters. The only grisha with the clout to get that disgusting worm to stop is the General, and he’s 100 leagues away.”

As ever Genya’s advice is sound and pragmatic. However much Alina might wish to share her concerns with Fedyor the probability of it making the situation worse is too high for her to go through with it. The Tsarevitch’s behaviour is isolating her, she can feel it getting worse with every gift he sends, and the notes make it worse, pushing her further and further away from the giggling grisha who think his behaviour as sweet and romantic. If it wasn’t for Genya steadying presence, Alina thinks she would be quite afraid of the spider’s web she has landed in. Strangely though, for all the worry it causes her, this dangerous dance is also starting to show Alina her own strength – it’s a sink or swim challenge as  she navigates the perilous waters of court politics, but she’s learning: learning and growing in confidence. For all that the unknown scares her, for all she worries incessantly over what Vasily is planning beneath that vacuous exterior, she knows that she can handle him. She can manage on her own and she can defend herself.

It's a heady thought, and one that warms her as she sits in her bedroom, looking at the empty space where the garish dress had been returned so many times. She isn’t some poor powerless serving girl or some brow beaten woman who will capitulate to the Tsarevitch’s wiles and demands. She is the Sun Summoner, and by all the saints she will show him what that means if he tries to force her.

With the newly prescribed, valerian free, headache tincture inside her the painful pounding of her head slowly recedes, leaving her feeling calmer and more alert. Her nerves are still too unsettled by the day for her to sleep yet and she still has no desire to join the others in their revelry. As she looks around her room, wondering what she should do to settle her mind, her eyes land on the little red book the Apparat had pressed into her hands that day in the library.

It takes only three steps to move from the window she has been looking out of to the table where the book sits, the familiar feel of it soothing her like an old friend. Taking her prize to her bed, she climbs into the nest of pillows before cracking open the Lore of Old Ravka.

The book is much as she remembered it from her childhood lessons with each chapter telling a different folk tale. When she was little her mama and Aleksander would act out her favourite stories for her at bedtime, Mei-Xing adopting different voices for the different characters while Aleksander created their forms with his shadows so she could see the story play out in front of her like it was her own private stage. She loved those times, particularly in the early days when the loss of her papa was as still so very near, as it was one of the few occasions she would see her mother smile.

Tracing the contents page with a gentle finger, Alina spots something she hadn’t noticed before, there is a place marker on one of the pages. The fine ribbon rests between the third and fourth stories, partially obscuring the title and the beautiful illuminated drawings that border it.

Looking down at the golden cloth, Alina frowns, tempted to ignore the fable so clearly marked for her attention. She’s never been fond of this particular tale, finding it a sad reflection on humanity that they could willingly destroy such beauty in order to claim its power. Her fingers itch to flick to the next story in the book, the one about a piper and missing children or the one beyond that about the beggar woman who taught a cruel king humility and compassion. Those were the tales she liked best as a child, the ones where good triumphed and people got what they deserved.

This story though is a different kettle of fish, a tale about selfishness and greed. Her teacher at the time had said it was a celebration of human resourcefulness, but Alina been unconvinced then and remained unconvinced now.

As far as creation stories go, it’s okay and nothing much out of the ordinary, except that it’s old, ancient really. So old that no one could remember whether it was Ravkan, Shu, Fjerdan or even Kerch in origin. It’s one of the few stories that transcended culture and could be found across every country. Details might differ between regions, but the base story is always the same, telling the tale of the fabled Court of Night and Day.

Mei-Xing had told her once that in the Shu version the legendary Queen of Day and King of Night were lesser gods who were captured - not killed – by humans and enslaved by their new masters. In Fjerda, they were evil spirits sent to torment and trick humanity, while in the heavily atheistic Ketterdam they were mortals gifted with fearsome powers.

The Ravkan version is different again. In this account the King and Queen were gods… gods that the Ravkan people killed in order to steal their power. It’s by far the darkest of the translations Alina had heard but it did perhaps explain Ravka’s rather bizarre relationship with religion; which ignored gods and instead deified Saints – ordinary people born with special abilities and even more special destinies.

Alina hesitates just as her fingers are about to flick past the marker. The temptation to ignore one of her least favourite tales is strong, but… the Apparat had surely placed the bookmark there for a reason. He had been so insistent that she needed to read this book that there had to be a reason for it.  

She sits there for some minutes trapped by her irresolute thoughts, fingers tracing the careful illuminated title of the tale. It’s as she’s debating the merits of skipping versus slogging through the book in order that Alina spots the curious detail hidden within the beautiful border of the title page. There on the title page is a sun and a new moon, woven into the repeating flower pattern edging. It’s like one of those magic images – at first all you see if the first image, but once you see the second hidden one, that is all you can see and you wonder how you ever missed it. Once noticed, she can clearly see that the pattern is repeated around the border, but more than that, hidden within the twining flower stems is another image – that of a stag.

The imagery is strange. Strange but also intriguing. It’s the mystery that finally convinces Alina to settle herself comfortably and start reading the story as her curiosity gets the better of her.   

 

In the beginning there was nothing and everything. All that was, all that wasn’t, all that might be, all that might not come to pass. There was nothing and there was everything. An endless moment of total Potential. Then it exploded. Potential became reality and new things were created. Out of the nothing came light and its companion darkness. Stars were born and worlds created and slowly infinite Potential started getting smaller as new rules came to govern the new reality. With each new law, with each new creation, Potential shrunk further until it only existed in the future, in the worlds and decisions yet to be. As reality spread the force known as Potential disappeared into the cracks between the building blocks that made up reality.

At first only light and dark existed, but then life came into being - a final act of Potential to create beings of infinite potential, even if they, like their creator were doomed to lose their potential even as their strove to realise it. With each decision made, Potential disappeared even as other potential was created.

In this void of power two gods came into being: one had power over night and one who controlled the day. As life grew and expanded, they nurtured it with their powers. So the world continued, life spinning on under the care of the gods. But as time passed they grew lonely and confined in their solitary domains, until one day they left the heavens and instead journeyed to the land they had for so long kept watch over. There they enthralled the humans and animals they found, binding them to their Court of Night and Day. With their presence the land around them was prosperous and verdant, a beautiful garden filled with bounty.

But outside the territories claimed by the King and Queen the other lands languished, becoming a desolate and barren wasteland. Slowly, the humans from the desert grew jealous of the abundance they saw in the lands of the Court. They coveted the prosperity and wished it for themselves. They envied the plentiful food and the easy lives of those that lived in the garden. But most of all they grew angry at the power the King and Queen could wield – power that could defeat starvation, that could banish sickness; power that could win wars, decimating any who stood against them.

It wasn’t fair, the people of the wilderness cried, that the protection of light and dark should only be extended to some. It wasn’t right that people in other lands should starve so that some would never go without. It was unjust that the whole world should be subject to the whims of beings who cared only for a part of it.

As the discontent grew, more rallied to the cause and came to see that far from saving them, The King of Night and the Queen of Day had enslaved humanity, and people questioned whether gods should be the master or the servants of life.

Time passed and the rebellion grew, but as yet they had no way to right the injustice done to them, until one day the opportunity finally arrived. There was to be a grand celebration held, hosted by the Court, to celebrate the end of a particularly bad winter – one so fierce that even the Queen of Day had not been able to fully protect her beloved garden from the winter’s wrath.

The rebellion, led by a brave man named Nikolai, hid themselves inside a gift for the King and Queen - a statue of the legendary double headed firebird – and there they waited until the perfect moment. As the King and Queen left their thrones of power to join the celebration, Nikolai’s men jumped out from their hiding place and bound the gods. There in the legendary court, the King and Queen were stripped of their powers and cast back into the sky from whence they came, forever cursed to be apart, always chasing to catch a glimpse of the other but never again to meet.

As a final act, the people of the court tore asunder the crowns of the King of Night and Queen of Day and broke their golden thrones, scattering the pieces across the world so that never could the power of the gods be remade or regained.

In joy all the peoples of the land celebrated their reunion. No longer was there the garden and the wastelands, but instead all could enjoy the bounties of day and night. In reward for Nikolai’s cunning and skill he was named King of the now united people and adopted as his symbol the double headed firebird that had won them their victory.   

 

There’s a horrid churning in her stomach as Alina finishes the story, an acidic, burning sensation as she fights against the nausea rocking through her. Oh gods. Her fingers tremble where they grip the edges of the book. It can’t be true. Surely it can’t be true. It’s just a story. A stupid fairy-tale. Old folkore that’s more nonsense than fact. It’s clearly made up, especially that bit at the end involving Nikolai, the founding father of the Lantsov dynasty – they’ve only been ruling Ravka for some six hundred years, but this story must predate that by centuries. The first saints, for saints’ sakes, were thought to have lived well over 1500 years ago. So no, that lovely imagery and symbolism at the end was clearly hogwash - probably inserted by one of the Tsar’s greedy ancestors as a way to claim legitimacy

And yet… and yet the story speaks to her, calls to her as if it’s a half forgotten memory of something that she ought to know but can’t quite remember. The déjà vu is as disorientating as it is disturbing, and Alina cannot help it as she slams the book shut and throws it across the room, as if the act will somehow distance her from the words she has just read.

It’s too much. Too much. Too much. Too much. What does it mean? Is she mad to see the parallels between the Queen of Day and her, the Sun Summoner. She feels mad, like her sanity is tumbling and tearing around her. It can’t be true. It can’t be.

Her mind is too chaotic now for sleep and the book, lying innocently on the floor, taunts her with every breath she takes.  It can’t be true… and yet she feels a horrible certainty that it is, or rather that parts of it are right. She feels the truth of it in her bones, in the sparkles shimmering along the bare skin of her arms.

Panic and her roiling thoughts drive her from her warm bed and, half in a daze, she pulls on her kefta over her thick winter nightdress before padding out into the dark, empty hallway. Her feet know the way and before she has consciously decided on where she should go, she has already reached her destination, her hand raised to knock on the familiar door. The Botkin who answers a second later looks as he always does, as if it isn’t a quarter to the midnight hour and long past the time all Grisha should have been tucked up in their beds.

With a gentle smile, the giant man steps back, waving her into his rooms and towards the warmth of the fire still blazing in his hearth. As she settles herself in one of the two chairs before the fire, her teacher presents her with a warm cup, the familiar herbal scent doing more to calm her anxious nerves than her walk or the deep breaths she has been trying to surreptitiously take.

Her hand is shaking as she puts the book on the table between them, open to the title page of the Court of Night and Day, the gold lettering gleaming in the flickering light.

Botkin glances at the book and then resumes his careful perusal of Alina’s features.

“You are troubled, daughter.” He says softly. Alina can only nod. Troubled is an understatement.

“You know this story?” she asks the older man, tone oddly defiant and her jaw set in a stubborn line, as if she’s expecting a battle to gain the answers she is certain her teacher holds. Why she is certain, she cannot say, but certain she is and it burns within her, keeping her back straight and her gaze unwavering even in the face of Botkin’s silence.  

Without words, Bodkin calmly walks over to a cupboard and removes a covered board and box from the dark shadows within. Still serene and calm he sets the board on the low table between the two chairs, methodically setting out the lines of white and black pieces on their squares.

“If it is answers you seek, daughter, then we play.”

Alina’s eyes drop to the tiny army glowing dimly in the reflected light of the flames, curious fingers reaching out to touch the white pieces he has placed before her. “Why?” she asks, her confusion clear. The chess set is beautiful and unusual. The pieces are all familiar and the usual form, but the detailing is unique, special. It is evidently a costly set, hand carved and with exquisite care and attention to detail. While the white king and queen have the large upright crowns of the Tsar and Tsarina the opposing monarchs are painted black and gold and have circlets of silver white interwoven with flowers set around their heads. They remind her of something, and she thinks of her the dream a few nights before, the one that is still fragmented and illusive. One of the few images she has since remembered is of crowns lying shattered on the floor, seeing the black king and queen before her, her mind jumps to the story that had brought her to this room at such a late hour, and she knows. This is no coincidence.

Without conscious thought, Alina spins the board, abdicating the white army in favour of the black and gold side. She’s had enough of being cast in the white role to last a lifetime and something about the unusual detailing of the black army calls to her. Botkin nods and settles back, a pleased grin on his face. “You are anxious, daughter. Shock, I think. Chess will help – good for calming the mind and allowing time to think. Questions you have. Some I can answer, while other must be found. Be careful though, daughter,” the larger man cautions softly, “in what questions you ask, for you may not like the answer.”

He reaches a large hand over the board and moves the queen’s pawn forward two squares. If Alina has any doubts about the sense of her teacher’s plan they are quickly put to rest as in moments she feels her pounding heart start to calm and her jittery nerves start to still as her mind focuses on the game. Chess has never been one of her preferred games for all that she is a good player, reminding her of long days locked in doors when she was too poorly to go out. Still, Botkin is a challenging opponent and it takes all of Alina’s skill to avoid the traps he neatly lays for her.

For a time, the only noise in that little room is the soft thunking sound of wooden pieces moving about the board.

At last, after half an hour of intense battle, Alina feels ready to ask the questions swarming around her mind. “You know the story?” She asks again.

Botkin nods, moving his castle three places and taking one of her pawns.

“You were expecting me,” the thought troubles her. For all his serenity, surely even Botkin should have shown some surprise at her turning up at his door at such a late hour, yet he hadn’t. He hadn’t looked surprised – not by her presence and not by the book she had thrown on the table.

Again, Botkin nods, but this time he also elucidates. “Yes. Once I knew the book had made its way to you, I knew that sooner or later you would seek answers.”

Irritation sweeps through her at the non-answer, the feeling that once again people are keeping things about her secret makes her heart twist and her stomach burn. Along her arms she feels a now familiar tingle as her skin starts shimmering with a bright, cold light, the sun reacting to her emotions.

With practiced ease Botkin moves his queen into play, distracting Alina from her frustration as she sees the danger to her knight. Swift fingers move a pawn, protecting the knight from the queen and increasing the pressure on the white king. If all goes to plan then she will have the white king in check in four moves.

And then Alina understands. The chess is there as a distraction, a safety net, to protect them both. Since her altercation with Zoya, the sun has been easier to call, but its also far more closely linked to her emotions then before. Genya has told her that when she’s happy her skin glows, but it’s also true when she’s angry or frustrated. The light then, however, is not a gentle glow, but a gleaming, glittering light, like a thousand shards of glass are imbedded in her skin.  

“You fear me?” her voice sounds numb to her own ears, flat and lifeless. It was too much to hope after her talk with Baghra that this would not come back to haunt her.

Botkin’s eyes narrow as they watch her. “Yes,” he says at last. “You have the power of a god, but the control of a human. It would be unwise not to fear. Fear is there for a reason, it is a caution to keep us alive.”

“You fear yourself, also.” Alina can only not her agreement, the words sticking in her throat, choking her.

“That is wise,” the large man says gently. “The powers of a god, wielded indiscriminately and without care, can do much harm.”

“Power must be yoked with compassion,” she murmurs softly, recalling her father’s favourite aphorism, one that has often been repeated throughout her life by her mama.

Botkin’s smile is almost a benediction as he inclines his head, his approval clear. “Our General has forgotten this. Our Tsar as well. Too many men there are now in power who have become corrupted or lost. It is an important lesson, daughter. One you must remember.”

“You say I have the powers of a god…do you think I’m a god?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds thin and plaintive.

Botkin moves one of his pieces and studies the board. “What is a god?” His knight is challenging her castle now and one of her bishops. Either move she makes will result in the loss of one piece, the question she struggles with is deciding which is the least important in her greater strategy.

“I don’t know,” she answers after a moment, her fingers hovering above the castle, “something bigger than us, something ineffable.” She’s never been a religious person, and her mother’s lack of enthusiasm on the subject meant it was often ignored and unacknowledged during her childhood.

Her hand moves like lightening to nudge her own knight to put the white king in check, earning her an approving nod from her teacher.

“Answer me this, daughter. Does it matter what you are?”

“I…I - I don’t want to be a god – especially not like the ones in the book,” she says softly as Botkin moves his king to safety. This is the crux of her problems, the same one that has dogged her steps since that day in The Fold.

“No one should have that sort of power.” Botkin agrees, “that is what the storytellers wished to convey. Always more than one side to a tale though, and the one we have was written with purpose.”

This makes Alina pause in the process of moving a pawn, her index finger resting gently on its curved head. It’s one of the things she’s always struggled with and was the most common cause of friction between her and Baghra when she was younger. Alina for all her intelligence is not naturally a critical thinker, she’s not like Aeksander and his mother who can see circles within wheels, who can sniff out a plot at 600 paces, and think in spirals.

It’s not that she’s particularly gullible or innocent, it’s just that, for the most part, Alina thinks in straight lines, and she tends to assume that the rest of the world does too. This tendency had caused no end of arguments between Alina and Baghra as she grew up - especially as the old woman seemed to get more cryptic with each passing year. At the time she had resented the endless lessons in critical reasoning that Baghra liked to spring on her, now though she can see the benefit and importance of what her teacher had been trying to explain in her own inimitable way.

That legend had been written, if not by the Lantsov’s, then with that family in mind. It had been written to defend the decision to murder their gods to steal their powers. She thinks of her original feelings when she saw the marker, of the disquiet this tale has always caused her. Of course it was going to portray what the rebellion did as the only right course of action, this was a piece of carefully sculpted propaganda - it had a story to sell, one promoting the current order.

Something of her thoughts must show on her face as Botkin smiles again - his grin full of approval.

“Then it does not matter, daughter. You are as you are. What does the name matter? To an ant a human is a god. It does not mean that he is, nor change how he behaves.”

The image this creates in her mind brings a smile to her lips. It is a fair point.

“Labels do not define us, daughter.” Botkin’s eyes are stern as the meet her own, holding her gaze until she looks away, conceding. It isn’t a point she agrees with completely. She understands the point her teacher is trying make, the importance of not letting what other people think define her, but labels do have power – they create expectation and change how people behave around and to the object of the label. Labels are like an invisible force controlling the movements of people caught in their orbit.

Botkin is only part right. She might not think she’s a god, but other people did – do – and that is dangerous. Already people are clamouring for her to destroy The Fold. No one had consulted her about what her plans were, what her thoughts were, or if she’s even capable of it, they had simply assumed: she is the Sun Summoner, therefore she must destroy The Fold. Quod erat demonstrandum. The name of Sun Summoner is a noose around her neck, one she is desperate to escape.

In her mind’s eye she sees again the broken thrones, the shattered crowns and for a moment she catches a glimpse of something else, of swirling black shadows and a bright golden light, before the images once more disappear.

“Do you think the story is true?” It’s a painful question and one she’s in two minds as to whether she wants answered. She knows this version has been written with an audience and purpose in mind, but the question niggles at her - what if the original Sun Summoner, for that is who she thinks the queen was, used her powers for evil. What if she was a cruel dictator as the story suggested. What if that is to be her fate - to save Ravka and then be murdered by the very people she had fought to save. There is ice in her veins at the thought. Many of the Saints so revered by the Ravkan people had met untimely and unpleasant ends by those they had tried to help.

“True enough,” is all Botkin says as he puts her king in check mate. There is troubled frown on his face that does little for the nervous butterflies futtering in her stomach.

With trembling fingers she knocks over the black king and bows her head in the traditional Shu gesture acknowledging defeat. There’s a sharp scraping sound as a chair is pushed back and then a warm hand rests on her shoulder.

“That does not mean though that her end will be your end, daughter. There are many who will not allow it. I will not allow it.” It’s a vow - an oath - the weight of which sinks into Alina’s skin as her eyes lock with her teacher’s. Botkin’s expression is serious, with a fierce resolution burning in his eyes. “Trust that we will not let you fall to corruption, nor that we will allow others to hurt you. Long has the Soldat Sol stood watch, long have we waited. We will not fail now.”

 


 

It’s only later after Alina has been returned to the safety of her room that the oddity of Botkin’s words strikes her. She has heard of the Soldat Sol before, but where she cannot think. The name has a familiar ring to it, a resonance that reminds her of something - of another strange conversation in a room full of books and secrets - but the thought fades as she slips at last into the welcoming embrace of sleep.

Notes:

So, a couple of interesting for facts, for people like me who love them 😊. The imagery in this chapter was chosen with a lot of care, particularly around the crowns and thrones. The flower interwoven with the crown of night is Antirrhinum – also known as Snapdragon. Snapdragon is associated with grace, benevolence, strength and protection. However, it can also symbolise indifference, deception and denial. While ivy is thought to symbolise the trust, affection and the bond between married couples. The crown of day is wreathed in Myosotis and irises. Myosotis, also known as forget me not, represents hope, remembrance and true and undying love, they’re also associated with death and rebirth. Irises, which are Alina’s favourite flower, commonly symbolise wisdom, power, faith and purity.
If you want an image of what the crowns look like, think Thranduil’s circlet in the Battle of Five Armies, only made of glowing white material and interwoven with flowers.

In other news, what did everyone thing of the villainous Vasily? Originally he wasn't meant to be in this story, but he's just sort of writing himself at the moment. And then there's poor Aleks. So question for you lovely readers -the next chapter is written and ready to go. I could post over the weekend or I could wait until next week when I've written more of Chapter 17. The reason for asking is that Chp. 16 ends on a a little bit of a cliff hanger. So... would you rather have an early update now knowing you'll have to wait a tinsy while until 17 is done, or would you rather wait and have 16 and 17 together?

As ever, thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter. It really makes my day hearing what people think of the story and knowing that they're enjoying it. I'm having a hoot writing it, but as a writer it's always nerve wracking not knowing if others are enjoying reading it as much as I do writing it. So thank you to everyone who clicks that little button and leaves a comment, not only do their inspire me to write but they also give me ideas :D.

Chapter 16: All that Glitters

Summary:

They say that trouble always comes in threes. With perplexing puzzles, cryptic clergy and the attentions of an increasingly persistent prince, Alina’s in for a difficult couple of days.

Notes:

Hi everyone, thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter. It really thrills me to see how much people are enjoying this story.

Just to clarify, I’ve change jurda parem quite a bit from what it did in canon – mostly because like a lot of grisha verse it wasn’t used consistently and seemed to evolve through the books. In this version it only affects grisha. If a non-grisha were to come into contact with it, it would be a mild irritant, nothing more. In canon, the drug acts as an enhancer but it comes with a price, twisting the minds of the imbiber and causing a wasting effect on the body. In this story, jurda parem isn’t an enhancer, but it does change the mental state of the user – it effectively takes away all conscious control and unleashes grisha powers, in doing this it also turns the grisha’s powers on themselves, which is why it is so often fatal. Think of it like a petrol fire, it’ll burn until its run out of fuel – in this case the fuel is what the body can sustain, a lot of which depends on how powerful they are. Hope that makes sense 😊

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The news arrives during lunch on a cold and blustery winters day. Since that last, only part remembered dream over a week ago, Alina has finally been blessed with dreamless sleep. Instead of reassuring her though the absence of the strange dreams leaves her unsettled and oddly anxious, as if part of her is missing but she can’t explain what, or where, or why. It’s so unsettling that she even ventures to the infirmary to ask a healer about it. Something feels wrong – off – but trying to articulate her nebulous worries only makes Alina feel foolish and uncertain, leaving her tongue tied and unusually inarticulate. Garin and Sonia, the two healers on duty at the early hour she drops by listen to her with varying degrees of scepticism.

Anya thinks that it’s delayed shock from all the change of the last few months while Garin thinks she’s suffering from a case of pre-display stress and performance jitters.

The Winter Fete is only three weeks away now, the date for her grand display edging ever nearer and nearer. Maybe a few weeks ago this would have made her anxious, but now with her newfound control Alina just looks upon the Fete as a necessary evil to be endured rather than something to be feared. She has no doubt she will be able to pull of a suitably impressive show that will dazzle and wow the Imperial Family’s guests.

Both are wrong. Alina knows this in the same way that knows that she’s the Sun Summoner. She’s not feeling stressed, or even particularly concerned about the Winter Fete and the pomp, circumstance and disruption it will bring with it, and for the first time she’s actually quite relaxed and accepting of all the upheaval her life has undergone recently. There’s something else, a niggle she can’t quite trace, a feeling of something being wrong, an absence that unsettles her, and the dreams are only part of it. She hasn’t heard from Aleksander in nearly three weeks.

With the distance between Os Alta and Caryeva, lack of regular news is not particularly surprising as it takes three days on fast horses to journey between the two points. In the six weeks since Aleksander left the Little Palace, Alina has received two letters from him - both brief, hastily scribbled notes telling her not to worry - along with the weekly update from Ivan sent to both the Tsar and the senior officers in the Second Army who are deputising for the General. What is surprising though is the lack of any form of update in nearly two weeks.

Alina, like many of the senior grisha, has been relying on those updates to reassure her as to their leader’s wellbeing and how the war is going, so the sudden silence is both unusual and unnerving, and she’s not the only one to feel it.

In the last week the mood of the Little Palace has changed, growing more sombre and restive as each day passes without the expected update. For Alina though there is another element to it – that dream. There is much she cannot yet recall – and maybe never will – but she keeps seeing flashes in her mind, of a battlefield, of mud drenched in blood and a sea of dead bodies in Ravkan green and Shu red, of swirling darkness and pain. Oh saints, so much pain, and the heart-breaking certainty that whatever was about to happen would be a cataclysm. She sees roiling shadows, writhing in agony, as they fight some unseen foe.

Without information Alina has no way of knowing if what she has seen is somehow true, or whether the dream is just that – a dream, a horrible, horrifying nightmare of a dream, but still a dream all the same. The waiting makes her tense, anxious for reasons she can’t explain to anyone lest they think her mad – not even Genya, who she trusts, knows about the strange dreams she has been having. Later, Alina will wonder if perhaps part of her, the subconscious part that remembered the dream, had been preparing her for the news as she was half expecting it when it finally arrived.

The dispatch rider arrives just as the senior dinning hall is finishing lunch on that cold Thursday afternoon. The day has been overcast since sunrise, dull and gloomy – the sort of weather befitting the news they are about to be told – when the rider, dirty and dishevelled from the road, practically falls into the dinning hall in his haste.

The sight of a corporal in the First Army falling flat on his face in the Little Palace would normally bring about raucous laughter from any grisha around to watch the comedic moment, but today there is only bemused silence as David and Anatoli help him to his feet.

Once vertical again, Alina can clearly see the dark stains on the green uniform, the crusty dark brown of dried blood, and she feels her face pale. Around her, her fellow grisha are rapidly coming to the same conclusion she has reached, and she feels Nadia and Marie both grip her hands tightly as they huddle closer together as if finding strength in proximity.

“Forgive me,” the boy blushes as he attempts to straighten his ill fitting uniform. He’s so young, is Alina’s first thought, once the shock of seeing the old blood starts to fade. This isn’t a soldier, this is a boy, one who is probably not yet 16 if she were to guess. There were rules in the First Army, setting the age for recruits. Any who wished to join the Imperial Army had to be over 16 years of age. In practice though boys are young as 12 or 13 would sign up believing that they would get better food and have a higher chance of survival in the army than living in poverty outside it, and the recruiters turned a blind eye, too desperate for canon fodder to do the due diligence their honour should have demanded.

“Could someone tell me where to find Second Commander Fedyor Kaminsky?”

“Here, boy,” Feydor calls as he rises from the table next to Alina’s. “What news do you have?”

“I have an urgent message, Commander – from First Commander Sokolov.”

At the mention of his lover’s name, Fedyor’s face changes, paling slightly before becoming emotionless as he pulls his emotions under rigid control. “He is alive?”

“Aye, Commander. Alive and on his way here. He bid me bring you this letter.”

Walking around the table, Fedyor grasps the boy’s arm, directing him out of the hall. “Come,” he says, in a tone of voice that brooks no opposition. “We will talk somewhere we will not disturb the others and you can tell me your message.”

There is complete and utter silence in the dining hall as the heavy door closes behind the pair, then chaos erupts as everyone starts talking.

 


 

Genya finds her a few minutes after her escape. The red head has a steely look in her eye as she guides Alina towards the quiet comfort of the library.

“I heard a rumour that there’s been a messenger,” she says by way of a greeting. Alina nods, “he arrived a little while ago.”

“Any news?”

“Not yet,” Alina’s reply is quiet and filled with worry. Anxiety is gnawing and swirling in her stomach, making her wish she hadn’t had lunch with how unsettled it now is.

Genya plops down onto on of the benches, tugging Alina down with her, so that they are sitting side by side near Alina’s favourite window.

“I’ll wait with you then,” the Tailor says with a grin, and they settle down to wait.

 


 

As it turns out they don’t have to wait long, as little more than half an hour after they entered the library, Fedyor appears, a worried frown on his face.

“Where’s the messenger?” Alina asks as Fedyor seats himself on the bench opposite her and Genya.

“In the kitchen, eating his fill.”

Alina smiles, “that’s kind of you.” But Fedyor only shakes his head, “The boy has more than earnt it, and saints know he will not receive such compassion when he goes to the barracks at the Imperial Palace. He risked much coming here first with his message, such loyalty should be rewarded.” The Heartrender sighs, a melancholy expression flitting across his face.

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” Genya asks, softly.

“Worse.” Is all he says. For a moment he rests his head in his hands, heaving a huge sigh as his fingers dig deep into his scalp, then he straightens - his sad eyes meeting Alina’s confused gaze.

“We won the war. The Shu have been pushed back,” he starts, but then trails off, uncertain how to finish what needs to be said.

“But surely that’s a good thing?” Genya levels a piercing look at her friend, frown in place as she fiddles with a book marker that has been left discarded and forgotten on the table.

“Our losses were very great,” although his voice is distant and controlled, there is pain in his eyes and the way his fingers drum against the wood belies the calm tone he is striving to maintain. Through it all, Alina sits quietly, hands balled into fists in her kefta, as her thoughts whirl.

Next to her Genya gasps, her face paling. “The General?” she cries, turning to look at Alina like she expects her to crumble at any moment.

Fedyor nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Alina’s, full of unspoken compassion that only makes her heart pound harder with worry. Still, she can’t bring herself to speak, as if her asking the question she so desperately needs answered will make her greatest fear a reality.

“He was found unconscious on the battlefield,” the Heartrender says gently, trying to soften the blow Alina knows is coming. “He’d been injected with jurda parem.” Next to her she hears a cry and feels a warm hand wrap around her own. They both know what that drug is, and what is does. For a grisha it’s a death sentence – death by torture and torment, survival is rare and those that do not succumb are left with but half a life.

“That he has survived this long is nothing short of a miracle given how strong he is and the dose he was given, but Ivan writes that he is very weak.”

“What of the healers who went with him?” Genya demands, voice full of the pain Alina can’t express.

Fedyor shakes here head solemnly, “both dead,” he confirms sadly.

“Then what can be done?” Another tear slips down the Tailor’s cheek.

“Ivan is bringing the General home,” he answers. “He hopes that the healers here will have some solution, but truthfully it is in the hands of the saints now.”

“Where?” Alina croaks, then coughs, clearing her throat before saying in a stronger, clearer voice, “how long until they get here?”

“A day, maybe more,” Fedyor’s eyes are searching as they flick across her features, he must see something for he reaches over the table to cup her cheek. It’s an astonishingly intimate action, more so for a Heartrender for whom touch is integrally linked to their own gifts, but he keeps his hand there soothing her aching heart with his gentle hold. “Do not lose hope, Alina,” he says firmly, “that the General still lives after six days shows his strength, and if any grisha can recover from this then I know it will be our General.”

For some minutes the three friends sit in silence, two worried and one numb, until at last Fedyor stands and takes his leave, the noise echoing all the louder for the deafening silence in the library. Next to her Genya also gets up, wrapping her arms around the brunette in a fierce hug. The great bell is ringing a quarter to three and Alina knows that the Tailor is expected by the Tsarina on the hour. That she has stayed so long is a mark of her affection for Alina and one she appreciates even if she can’t speak it at the moment.

On her own the silence is piercing and Alina feels the numbness grow as she stares out of the window, Fedyor’s words ringing in her ears. Beneath the numbness though is something else, a strange sense of déjà vu, as if the news that has so shocked everyone else is something she already knew.

Still she thinks to herself, her damp eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the trees near the south gate, the worst has happened now, surely her day can only get better.

 


 

As if to prove Alina wrong, twenty minutes later the next gift arrives.

 


 

It’s exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. That’s what Alina will say later to a highly amused Genya. It’s one present too far on a day when all she desperately wants is to be left to fret in peace. Alina doubts she has ever felt less like being given a gift than at that moment with the news of Aleksander so raw and her mind full of worry. What turns her eyes molten gold with ire though is the callous insensitivity of the display with which the present is presented.

It isn’t that Alina is a naturally short-tempered person, or even one who is normally quick to anger, it’s just that the Tsarevich is finding new and interesting ways of pushing her buttons and doing it with a gusto and lack of care normally seen with small children who have no appreciation for the possible consequences. Who knew that being given presents could be so vexatious.

Vasily’s next offering arrives with as much ostentation and pageantry as possible. Six servants clad in immaculate imperial white uniforms appear at the door of the Little Palace, complete with a man who must have been a town crier in a previous life with the way his voice resonates through the vestibule and attracts attention. This man then proceeds to demonstrate his talent by bellowing through the doors for the Oprinichki to open up and allow them to enter as they have a gift for the Sankta from his Royal Highness, Prince Vasily Alexander Pyotr Ludovic Lantsov, Crown Prince of all Ravka. This proclamation is then followed by the sound for three horns blowing and boots thumping on the flagstones, before they start the whole bloody cacophony all over again.

Even under normal circumstances such behaviour would not have impressed Alina, nor for that matter, would it have encouraged Aleksander’s exceedingly loyal Oprinichki to do as asked and ‘open the doors’. As it is, all it achieves is to embarrass and annoy the Sun Summoner - who has the misfortune to be crossing the vestibule at exactly the wrong moment - and anger the guards who look at each and remain exactly where they were.

Their duty and instructions are clear. No unauthorised person is to be admitted or given entry to the Little Palace. They are once again on lockdown.

The knocking and hullabaloo continues, attracting yet more attention as curious grisha start milling around wondering what on earth is going on.

Eventually, to save all their ears, Alina strides towards the doors, murder flashing in her eyes, as she prepares to deliver a set down that will send the racket makers running for cover. Unsurprisingly, this decision is met by three unimpressed stares from the two Oprinichki and the newly arrived Fedyor, and whole lot of sighing from the group of girls and boys watching the show with keen interest, but it doesn’t stop her.

Heaving an annoyed sigh, Alina opens the heavy front door and slips through before one of the guards has the wherewithal to stop her. She chose an unfortunate moment as she ends up with a horn being blown in her face by one of the enthusiastic trumpeters. It does nothing for her mood, which quickly becomes apparent to the servants who sensibly fall silent when they spot the storm clouds gathering on the Sun Saint’s face.

Once quite has returned, Alina channels her best Aleksander impression, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down her nose at the assembled group with a gimlet stare even Baghra would have been impressed by. “What in the name of all the Saint’s is going on?” she demands, voice cold and imperious, her skin glittering like she’s been painted with gold dust.

Now looking a little shamefaced, the town crier steps up, wringing his hat in his hands. “Beggin’ your pardon, my Lady. But the Tsarevich has a gift for you.”

Alina raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “And that required all this noise?” she asks acerbically. Internally, part of her winces at the blatant rudeness, her mother’s views on proper behaviour swimming round her head, but the rest of her is too annoyed to watch her words, goaded beyond any desire to control her temper or refrain from excoriating the source of her keen embarrassment. As the Tsarevich is wisely absent at this particular moment, that just leaves his lackies in the firing line.

“Aye, lady,” the town crier, who has evidently been elected as the spokesman for the group, says, looking apologetic. “His Highness said we were to get this gift to you and put it into your own hands and that we weren’t to come back with it, or t’would be our hides.” The man is pale as he twists his hat between anxious fingers. “He weren’t joking neither, not with what he did to old Roger,” one of the other servants mutters under his breath, so quiet it might have gone unnoticed if not for the Sun Summoner’s sensitive hearing.

Alina sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, her ire deflating like a popped balloon. Bloody Vasily. She should have known better than to think he’d give up after the dress. What is she meant to do now? She can’t send the gift back this time, not knowing that he might take his umbrage out on the poor staff, that wouldn’t be right, but she also can’t accept it. What a pickle. She’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t.

Behind her the door opens after a brief scuffle and Fedyor appears, righting his kefta and smoothing it back to its perfect fit - that in doing so it shows off the Heartrender’s finely toned physique and strong muscles is of course a complete coincidence, as is the way he casually flexes his fingers with a grin that would put a shark to shame.

“Alina?” there’s the question she’s been dreading, and unfortunately she has no answer. The devil or the deep blue sea. What a choice.

If she takes the gift then the servants will likely be okay, but it will also encourage more outrageous behaviour from the prince – behaviour she is already concerned enough about at the moment without it escalating further. If he thinks she can be manoeuvred by threatening to hurt others then he won’t stop here, he will use it and use it, backing her into a corner – a corner she knows instinctively she must not be caught in no matter what.

But what to do. Next to her wonderful, loyal Fedyor stands ready. That he can feel her stress and anxiety is clear, even if doesn’t understand it – he’s a Heartrender, she’d be frankly amazed if hadn’t been listening to her heartbeat the moment she stepped through those doors, monitoring it for the slightest change. In this open forum she can’t talk to him about it though, can’t ask for his advice, or what she should do. This is all on her. It’s a realisation that makes her heart speed up so that it feels like its galloping in her chest, beating against her ribs so hard it’s probably visible to anyone watching, her thoughts whirling faster and faster.

She doesn’t see him move, but she certainly feels the effects as her heart slows, returning to its normal steady rhythm and she feels calm creep over her. Now that her body isn’t full of adrenalin she can think clearly again, and she sees the beckoning glimmer of a third path.

With a nod to her friend, she steps forward, one hand raised for the package. Taking it from the servant she opens it. This time it is a scarf, beautifully embroidered with yellow roses and made from the softest cashmere. If it wasn’t for the green coloured cloth she might have even been tempted to keep it, but these are the Tsarevitch’s favourite colours and she won’t be tricked into wearing or accepting them. Turning to the gangly youth who had blown his horn in her face, she smiles and say jovially, “hello, and what’s your name?”

“Vasya, m’lady,”

“Well met, Vasya. And do you have a lady love at home?”

The youth nods, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “Yes’m. Katryne. Prettiest lass I’ve ever met, she has the blondest hair and the bluest eyes.”

Alina smiles, thanking the saints for her choice and the predictability of young men. “Wonderful,” she says gently. “And are you thinking of getting married?”

“Oh yes,” the boy replies, his head nodding so fast she thinks for a moment it might come off from the force of it. “In the spring.”

“Then I have a midwinter’s gift for your bride-to-be. Green is much better suited to fair hair, I always think.  Take this with my blessings.” And she hands him the scarf, watching with amusement at the way the boy’s eyes grow big and round.

“M…M’lady,” he stutters as he tries to give back the costly gift. “I can’t take this.”

Alina shakes her head, closing his hands around it. “I’m certain if he knew that the Tsarevich would wish you to have such a fine gift in celebration of your forthcoming marriage.” Next to her, Fedyor coughs, his disbelief telegraphed only too clearly. It’s a scepticism she agrees with, but she can’t see any other option available to her.

The town crier looks near tears as he says, “Please m’lady. It’s a kindly thought, but this is a gift for you. The Prince will be mighty angry if we return and you do not have it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ve done exactly as your master ordered,” she smiles blandly at the worried man. “You delivered the scarf to me, and you will not be returning with it. Those were the parameters of your mission?”

“Yes,” the man agrees miserably.

“Then I don’t see the problem. You’ve acquitted your duty – the scarf has been delivered, and you will not be returning with it. That I have given it to someone else is out of your control. If the Tsarevich is upset by this then it is me he should be angry with.”

That seems to reassure the troupe who are only too happy to return to the Imperial Palace, crowing over receiving the blessings of the Sankta.

Exhausted, Alina drops to sit on one of the steps, her head resting on her knees. What a saints forsaken day. Silently, Fedyor settles himself next to her, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” He asks softly.

Next to him, the Alina shaped balls lets out a dry, sardonic laugh. “Not particularly.”

“It’s a risky thing you did, Alina, baiting the Tsarevich in such a way. That item is a costly gift, likely worth more than that poor boy could earn in a year working in the Palace.

Alina can only nod miserably. “I know.”

“Then why? It’s a dangerous thing to play games with any prince, let alone this one.” It’s a sound caution and one Alina wishes she didn’t have to listen too.

“I’m already caught up in the game,” she confides softly. “I have been since that thrice damned breakfast.” Fedyor’s silence is telling as it takes on a chilly, foreboding quality.

“What do you mean, ‘Lina?”

“The Tsarina invited – ordered - me to breakfast a few weeks ago. Vasily was the there…”

“and the presents?”

“Started after.”

“Hmmm,” the thoughtful noise sounds more like a growl in the stillness of the afternoon. “But you sent the others back, why not just send this one back as well?”

“He threatened the servants,” its barely a whisper but Fedyor hears it and this time the noise that escapes him is definitely a growl, an inarticulate expression of rage.

Alina laughs, turning her head sideways on her knees so she can meet her friend’s eyes. “We’ve been in this odd dance now for three weeks. He sends me presents, I send them back, he sends something even more expensive, I send it back. We were in a holding pattern. Today he changed the rules. I couldn’t send it back, not without risking him punishing the servants.” The arm around her tightens and she feels more of that unnatural calm push through her.

“He is a despicable villain,” Fedyor growls lowly. “To treat those in his care in such a way. To treat you this way. It is…”

“I know,” Alina interrupts his angry speech. “Believe me, I know. But what can I do? If Al-the General was here he would be able to help, but he isn’t and even when he arrives he won’t be in any state to take on over-privileged princes who don’t understand the word ‘no’.”      

“Say the word, ‘Lina, and I will stop his miserable heart from beating.” It’s a tempting promise and Alina loves Fedyor all the more for it, but they both know it would only spell trouble.

Breaking Alina’s thought train, Fedyor’s looks her in the eye, dark and deadly serious. “I’m serious, Alina. I know the risks and I know the consequences of such an act. It is not a promise I would make lightly, but believe me, if he so much as lays a hand on you – may the saints have mercy on his soul, for I will not, and nor will any who know you.”

It’s a startling declaration and one that makes Alina flush, but Fedyor isn’t finished.

“You aren’t just the Sun Summoner to me, Alina. You’re my friend, the sister of my heart. Know that I will do anything to protect you – whether that is from murderous Fjerdans, random nutjobs or depraved princes. I will always stand with you.”

 


 

It’s only a little thing, but Fedyor knowing about her princely stalker helps. She didn’t expect it too, but it does. She feels as if a little bit of the weight that has been pressing on her has been lifted. She’s not alone in dealing with Vasily’s attentions, her friends are with her. In the absence of Aleksander, this is an unlooked for boon and it gives her renewed strength – she will not break and she will not bow, Vasily will not win this dangerous game he is playing.

The rest of the day passes smoothly and before she knows it’s bedtime and Genya is brushing her hair, soothing her like her mama used to when she was worried about a test or was missing Aleksander. The familiar comfort lulls her and within minutes she is soundly asleep, curled up amongst the warm covers of her bed.

 


 

The next day dawns bright with no hint of cloud in the sky. The ground is frozen with frost and crunches underfoot as Alina walks with Fedyor along the familiar path to Baghra’s cottage. The old woman, safely ensconced in her own private world has yet to be told about her son, and it’s with this in mind that Alina set out that morning. For all Baghra’s cantankerousness and sniping, Alina knows that she truly cares about Aleksander. This news will devastate her. No one should lose a child, it’s not the natural way of things, even if that child is well over five hundred years old.

Fedyor leaves her at the door. However much she trusts the Heartrender, this is not her secret to give, and she will not betray the trust given her by mother and son in being careless now. That Baghra is surprised to see her so early in the morning, far before her usual lesson time, is clear. Her black eyes are narrowed in her confusion, shadows creeping around the edges of her shawl. Suspicious and half shadowed in the dark of the cottage the familial resemblance between Baghra and her son has never been clearer to Alina, and she feels her heart quake at the thought of the news she must impart.

“Well, get on with it, girl,” Baghra says, her stick thumping on the floor as she walks over to her usual chair. “You clearly have a purpose for being here – just spit it out.”

With anyone else, such a speech would be rude, but with Baghra Alina sees only the worry driving her to be snappish.

Carefully, she sits on the wobbly visitor’s chair that the old woman insists on keeping, reaching out a comforting hand to grasp the deceptively frail hand of her teacher. “I have news, Baghra,” she begins gently. “Aleksander has been hurt.”

Whatever the older woman had been about to say dies in her throat as she stills, the shadows around her the only movement as they shift restlessly, coiling over her thin shoulders.

“He’s been hurt before,” she says at last, her voice lacking its usual bite.

Alina shakes her head. “Not like this,” she counters. “He was injected with jurda parem.”

“Then he is dead.” The words are wooden, lifeless, like the hand held between Alina’s own.

“No!” she denies sharply, “he still lives. Ivan is bringing him here, they think the healers will be able to help.”

But Baghra just bows her head. “Folly and foolishness, girl. You know as I do what that drug does. My poor boy, my Sasha.”

It’s the most emotion she’s ever seen from Aleksander’s mother, and certainly the most maternal she’s seen her. The cottage is darker now, swarming with shadows. For a moment it reminds her of something, a flash of swirling darkness, of something held at bay by blood, will and light, but in another second the image is gone, disappearing back into the void as she is distracted by Baghra’s grief.

With an inarticulate cry, the old woman bends over in her chair, great wracking sobs shaking her frail frame, and Alina springs up to wrap her arms around her. “He will not die, Baghra,” she whispers fiercely against her white hair, “I won’t let him. Don’t give up hope.”

Immortality has its draw backs. No matter what Aleksander had done in the past, it must have been a comfort to the old woman to know that she wouldn’t be alone throughout eternity. To have that suddenly threatened is a shock the likes of which she hasn’t had since that night 15 years ago when she stumbled upon her son’s greatest secret stashed away in a tiny house in Os Alta.

Alina leaves half an hour later, having tucked an exhausted Baghra back into her bed, a warm cup of tea on the stand within easy reach. Aleksander’s mother is not a woman prone to emotional displays – or emotion in general – and the short time she’s spent with her has clearly fatigued the older woman and depleted her limited emotional reserves.

Tidying up the little cottage, Alina leaves it stocked with firewood and with a plate of food waiting for Baghra should she wish it. It isn’t much, but it’s all the comfort she can provide, and it helps her aching heart to care for Aleksander’s mother.

 


 

There are no lessons that day. With Baghra in bed, the only other lessons Alina is due to have are self-defence with Botkin and Theory of the Small Science, with Madam Anya Keremsinov, but both are cancelled. Madam Keremsinov is also a healer and all healers are with Garin in the Infirmary brain storming and frantically searching through every medical tome in the Little Palace. Botkin on the other hand takes one look at Alina and decides that for his – and everyone else’s – safety that it would be better to postpone training for that day. It’s a wise decision. The sun is glittering just under skin, burning and itching for a fight. She’s angry and restive, agitated and anxious, thrumming with nervous pent up energy.

Instead of a lesson, Botkin sits with her and meditates. For hours on end she sits with her teacher trying corral her uncooperative thoughts into peace and tranquillity. By the end of the third hour, Botkin sends her away to eat lunch with orders that she is to rest that afternoon, she may have stopped glowing, but her thoughts are no less dark and she feels the sun simmering, just waiting to escape.

Lunch is a desultory affair, with grisha flowing in and out of the senior dining hall.  Normally, they all eat together, but today there is too much to do and instead people flit in and out in pairs or on their own. It creates an odd atmosphere, one full of tension, and turns the food to ash in Alina’s mouth.  It’s both a symptom and a foreshadowing of what’s yet to come. Most of the grisha still do not know about their General, but unease is spreading rapidly, and with it go the rumours, which in some ways are far more damaging. Even Marie and Nadia, who are normally irrepressible, are quiet as they eat, and Alina can’t help but miss their usual giggling as they debate whatever sordid romance novel they are reading at that moment in time.

Her afternoon is just as dull. Until, that is, an enormous carriage pulls up in front of the Little Palace and Vasily gets out. The Tsarevich's arrival is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

The first she knows about this latest development is when Marie comes screaming into her room and starts rummaging through her wardrobe. Nadia appears only a few moments later, but even she is unsuccessful in restraining their bubbly friend, as Marie pulls garment after garment out, holding it up briefly against Alina and then flinging it away. In amongst the excited babble, the news comes out, the Crown Prince is here, standing just outside the vestibule doors and asking to see the Sun Summoner.  

Perhaps if Fedyor had been there she might have avoided the meeting, but as it is, he’s in a meeting with several First Army Generals and is no where to be found. The Oprinichki standing guard are concerned, but these are younger men and less experienced than the pair who had been with her the day before, they do not know what to do or how to turn away the Tsar’s son, and with Marie’s excited approval there is little for Alina to do but go down and see her royal guest.

“I have come to take you to a ball celebrating our glorious victory,” he announces grandiloquently as Alina steps out of the front door and before she has even worked out how to politely ask him why he’s there disturbing her again. There is an ingratiating smile fixed on his face as if it’s been glued on that unnerves her, but it’s his eyes which truly ignite her concern. Normally a vacuous light blue, they are now dark, the pupils expanded so that there is almost no iris visible around them.  

Alina stares for a moment in disbelief, not trusting she heard correctly – surely she must be mistaken.

A ball. A ball tonight. A ball on the eve of the army’s return. A ball celebrating the Tsar’s grand victory while the very same men who paid for that victory in blood and death are limping home without so much as a thought given to their comfort or condition. And don’t get her started on the so called ‘glories of war’ – there is nothing glorious about war, it’s all blood and death, missing body bits and broken minds, its pain and suffering. Anyone who says that war is glorious has clearly never experienced it first-hand, just like the spoilt princeling before her.

Shock and revulsion have so far kept her still and silent. The Tsarevich wants to dance and cavort… and… and party while so many loyal men are lying dead or wounded, while their General – her Aleksander – fights for his very life. It disgusts her and makes her head swim with anger.

The prince smiles again, evidently taking her horrified silence to be one of surprised pleasure at such an invitation and maidenly modesty at the condescension which he is showing in making it, for he steps forward with a courtly bow, and reaches for her hand. “Yes, a ball. Mother has been beside herself these last two days with preparing for it since we heard the news, and who better to open it then Ravka’s Crown Prince and very own Sun Saint.” The smile changes, transforming into a self-satisfied grin, one full of entitlement and surety that lowly peasant that Alina is, she will never deny him.

The ice in her mind thaws as fire races through her veins. As if the harassment isn’t bad enough, as if the embarrassing presents doesn’t cross a line, as if threatening servants in order to force her to accept them doesn’t show what a shallow villainous creature he is. This is beyond all of that. The callous lack of consideration, the blatant disregard of the human cost of the victory, the smug certainty in his own superiority. Gold flares in her eyes, the sun burning within her as it begs to be unleashed.

Sense reasserts itself just before the cataclysm is released and Alina takes a deep steadying breath, forcing both anger and light back down to simmer in the pit of her stomach.

 

“I… that is, I must decline, your highness,” Alina tries, the distraction of her pent up fury and her seething powers making her tongue tied. “I’m not dressed for a ball, and I have doubt there is anything suitable in my wardrobe.”

“Nonsense, my dear. My mother’s dresser will see you right. I would not have my Sun Summoner embarrassed or lacking in anyway.” He smiles again, an unsettling grin as if he is undressing her with his eyes. “My mother has set aside a diamond necklace and hair pins for you. They are known as the star diamonds, for they shine like the stars. You’ll be ravishing and quite beyond compare.”

The Tsarevich's voice is a gentle purr and without knowing how, Alina finds herself drawn away from the safety of the front steps and towards the waiting carriage.

“I can’t, your highness,” Alina tries again, the need to be tactful at war with the urgent desire to extricate herself from the prince’s hold. “I should be here, with my fellow grisha. I do not belong at a Royal ball.”

Vasily’s laugh is as unctuous as it is unsettling, one gloved hand running down the sleeve of her blue kefta. “How I would love to see you in my colours,” he murmurs, completely ignoring her resistance. “You are too fine for to be garbed in common blue.” His eyes narrow suddenly, his grip tightening as his fingers circle her wrist. “I hear you did not like my gift, Sankta.” His voice is low now, an ominous quality seeping into it as he looks at her.

Alina’s breathing speeds up, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. “I… that is, while I am honoured by your gift, sire, it is far too fine for one such as me. Better it be used to celebrate a wedding. What better use could there be for it and what praise there will be for the generosity of our prince.” It’s a gamble, appealing to the Tsarevich's vanity, but in that moment it’s all she can think of.

Whether it works or not, Alina can’t be sure. There is an odd look on the Tsarevich's face and the guards hovering behind him don’t help. For a moment she thinks there is something dark and dangerous hovering just beneath the surface, but then Vasily throws his head back and laughs.

“Moi Sankta,” he breathes, bending to kiss her hand. “Generous to a fault. Such a flare for dealing with the ordinary people.” Though his words might be complimentary, his tone is anything but; especially when he mentions ‘ordinary people’ – which sounds far more like a curse.

“Forgive me,” he says, as he straightens, still holding her hand in his. “I should have realised. You are no common girl to be clothed in green – it is not your colour. Something far more unusual is what our Sun Saint requires.”

Unease trickles down Alina’s spine.

“Now come, we must away, or we will be late. I know how long it takes you women to ready yourselves.” There is mocking tilt to the prince’s lips as he utters the words, a flash of something dark and unpleasant, but before Alina can think on it further, the Tsarevich nods at his guards to open the door of the carriage, and she knows the time for prevaricating has run out.

“No sir I will not,” she says firmly, the fingers of the hand not in Vasily’s grasp, balling into a fist behind her back

Vasily laughs, “Come now, you don’t mean that,” and once more tries to tug her towards the waiting vehicle.

Alina merely shakes her head, a dark look flashing across her eyes as she digs her heels into the shingle of the path. Tact has clearly got her nowhere so now its time to try being more direct. Either way, she will not be getting into that carriage.

An angry scowl starts to creep across the Tsarevich's face as his eyes darken, giving him what might have been a sinister air if not for the weak chin and heavy lidded eyes. “And why not?” He demands as his grips shifts from her hand to her elbow, trapping her with a punishing hold, “your prince commands you!”

It’s the first real show of temper from her would be suitor, but Alina is undaunted. She has stood toe to toe with Baghra and Aleksander before – Vasily is nothing to them.

Alina pulls her arm out of his grasp, her eyes flickering gold. “Because I will not dishonour our fallen in such a way. Even now loyal officers, wounded defending our homeland, are on their way here. I will not celebrate while my… friends lie injured, maybe even dying.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s the most she’s willing to say at the moment – and certainly the most she thinks she ought to say. She might be a novice to courtly intrigue, but she’s pretty sure that telling the Tsarevich that she would rather kiss a toad than dance with him, or that she’s been in love with the General of the Second Army for years and has absolutely no intention of being with anyone but him, would be a bad idea on the scale of poking a sleeping skunk with a stick. The best outcome would be an uncomfortable encounter, the worst would require a quick evacuation of the immediate area.

A gentle cough interrupts the tense standoff. Looking around in surprise, Alina sees the Apparat standing only a few feet away, a curiously disapproving expression in his dark eyes as they rest on the crown prince.

In a flash the scowl is gone, and in its place is the Tsarevich's usual oily and fawning half smile, as he nods a dismissive greeting to his spiritual advisor. “Of course,” he says, voice oozing with suggestion. “Your compassion does you credit, Sankta. We will dance another night – one where you are less…” he pauses, “burdened by your concerns.”

Alina shivers, eyes wide. Mercifully, the Apparat chooses that moment to place a gentle hand on the crown prince’s shoulder, distracting him from his heated inspection. “Forgive me Moi Tsarevich,” the priest says, bowing his head deferentially, “but you mother, her most serene highness, requested that I find you.”

“Now?” It’s impossible to miss the snarl in Vasily’s voice, nor the way his fist clenches at his side, at the interruption.

“Indeed, your highness. It is a matter of some import, I believe.”

“Oh, very well,” and with that the prince storms into his carriage, his two lackies trailing along behind him. The driver’s whip cracks and in a spray of gravel the Tsarevich is away, the vehicle lumbering off into the foggy night.

Now alone, Alina feels her heart start to pound in a delayed reaction, fear coursing through her. Turning to her, the Apparat has a serious look in his eyes. “You must be careful, Sankta. There are many dangers in the Imperial Palace,” his gaze turns in the direction the prince has just left in. “There are many who seek to use you, who do not care what they must do in order to possess your power.

Alina can only nod mutely, the courage she felt during the confrontation vanishing like mist under the noonday sun. Without the burning warmth of her anger, the cold starts seeping into her bones and Alina shivers. Without conscious thought she lifts her hands to start rubbing her arms but stops - her eyes fixed on her wrist. Already she can see the bruises from the prince’s touch starting to form. A vivid ring of black marring the skin like a band… or a brand. Another shiver wracks her frame.

The Apparat’s eyes grow darker and more troubled as he sees what has caught her attention. In the space of a few moment deft fingers have untied his heavy fur cloak to wrap it around the girl’s shoulders, enclosing her with foreign warmth.

It’s an unexpected kindness, especially as Alina knows it is the shock more than the cold itself which is causing her teeth to chatter and her body to shiver.

The priest utters a word under his breath, his tone full of suppressed fury. “Forgive me, Sankta. I was not here in time.”

“Not your fault,” Alina stutters, the tremors are calming now, but she still feels the icy fingers of shock running over her.  The man only shakes his head, a deep sadness carved into the lines of his face.

“No, my dear, your safety is my responsibility, my duty. I was lax in my vigilance.” It’s a curious comment, but before Alina can question it, the priest continues. “Tell me, Sankta, do you know the meaning of the double headed firebird?”

Alina frowns, confused by the non sequitur, “the symbol of the Lantsov’s?”

“Indeed,” there is that flickering smile of the Apparat’s again, as he if wishes to smile but his face can’t quite remember how.

“It means nobility and royalty,” she says, dredging up the childhood lessons her teacher had spent hours upon hours droning on about. “A mythical creature once thought to live in Ravka – and the means by which Nikolai and the rebellion overthrew the King of Night and Queen of Day.” She shrugs, not understanding the relevance of the question. “That’s all I can remember.”

Far from looking disappointed, the Apparat is nodding approvingly. “Very good, Sankta.”

His face becomes troubled again, “you are quite correct in what it means now, but many years ago it meant something quite different. It was not a symbol one would wish to be associated with for to be marked with the crest of a double headed eagle was a sign that you were not trustworthy.”

Seeing Alina’s confusion, the man continues. “The original meaning of the double headed firebird was to show that the bearer had two faces. It was a symbol branded on those who were found to have double crossed oaths, been double-dealing, or deceitful. In an age of illiteracy, the brand was a literal way to show untrustworthy characters.”

“Then in the story?” Alina starts, her voice trailing off as her mind spins. There it is again, that story. It feels like she is being shown the piece of a puzzle, but she can't yet see where or how it fits with the rest of the jagged, part completed picture.

The Apparat nods again, eyes warm as they watch her. “An ironic image,” he says softly. “Though they have all but forgotten it themselves, the symbol they laud now was not given to them as a reward, but a punishment – a testament to their betrayal, a betrayal which later won them their throne.” He shook his head sadly, “It is one family trait that has, alas, stayed true throughout the centuries. But it is why you must be all the more careful. So far your innocence and integrity has kept you out of their reach, but as time moves on men get careless with frustration. Lantsov’s are not known for their patience, nor are they known to only take that which is freely offered. It may not be long before he tires of the dance and seeks to end it.”

There is a heavy silence in the air at the priest’s pronouncement. Wrapped in the Apparat’s heavy cloak, Alina is warm, her mind calmer now as she turns the warning over in her mind. It isn’t a surprise to her but having someone else say it makes the danger feel far more real than it had, even moments before with Vasily’s hand wrapped around her arm. That her resolute refusals have frustrated the prince had been evident,  no matter how he tried to mask it behind humour – but Alina knows what she saw in those unguarded moments when the mask slipped; behind the veneer of civility, the Tsarevich is merciless, vindictive and domineering.   

“Then what do I do?” she asks. How do you manage a man like that, one who has the power of royalty behind him. The Lantsov eagle is truly an apt symbol for that family – a family who all have two faces. Up until now she has been treated with kid gloves, and only shown Vasily’s ‘public’ face, tonight though… tonight she has caught a glimpse of the other side – and it terrifies her.

The Apparat’s eyes are full of concern as they meet her own. “You do as you must, Sankta. You dance until the music stops, knowing that your friends are with you, and they will not let you fall.”    

 


 

The worry dogs her long after the Apparat escorts her back inside the safety of the Little Palace. For all that she was only ever a few steps from the front door of her home during the altercation with Vasily she felt the distance. The Oprinichki stationed just inside the doors would have come running if she had screamed, but what help could they really be against the Crown Prince of Ravka – or the prince’s royal guards. Such an act would all but have guaranteed a war between the Imperial and Little Palace and with Aleksander injured the last thing they need is an escalation in tensions.

Already she feels like the vultures are circling, waiting for word that the General has died so that they can benefit from the loss – and Alina has no doubt whatsoever that the pompous prig on the Ravkan throne would use the opportunity to assume control of the Second Army – especially if they were suspected of sedition. An act which would almost certainly spell disaster and ruination for her people.  

It doesn’t bear thinking about what would happen to the grisha if that corpulent fool took over. She thinks of the children in the junior wing, so young and beautiful, so full of promise, and she thinks of Genya and the age she was when the Tsar first started noticing her. Without Aleksander’s protective presence how many more girls will suffer the same fate as her beloved friend, how many more will be forced to whore themselves for the sick pleasure of a morally bankrupt monarch. Protective fury burns through her veins at the thought, and Alina has to grind her teeth to keep to keep the sun from escaping her control and levelling the Imperial Palace – something she no longer doubts she could do if properly motivated, and at this moment in time her motivation has never been greater.

As she stares out of the large windows of the upper landing towards the imposing structure of the Imperial Palace that is just visible through the thick fog, she makes a silent promise to herself: the Second Army and the grisha here at the Little Palace will never be under Lantsov control. Even if she has to rebel and declare civil war on the whole corrupt regime, the Tsar and his son will not touch another grisha. She will not allow it.  

 


 

Time moves oddly, jolting forwards in fits and starts, as Alina waits anxiously for any word. At some point she does sleep, although how well or for how long, she could not say as every sound makes her twitch in anticipation. Part of the problem is her anxiety over Aleksander’s condition. She knows its bad, that he’s been given what should have been a lethal dose of jurda parem, and yet she feels itchy as if there is something she’s forgetting. Snippets of that dream keep replaying over and over in her mind, but she feels no closer to understanding it now than she did before, and she can’t even be certain that her dream was anything more than the fevered imaginings of a stressed brain and an unfortunate side-effect of a medicine taken just before sleep.

Of all her friends in the Little Palace, only Genya and Fedyor seem to suspect her feelings for the General: Fedyor because he’s a Heartrender, and Genya, because of course she does, she’s Genya. No matter how busy they are, both have taken to checking on her at frequent intervals, so regular, in fact, that Alina rather suspects a timetable is in operation. It’s kindly meant and Alina loves them for it, even if the constant interruptions do little but increase her apprehension and nerves.

The mood is still sombre and tense in the Little Palace. Although Aleksander’s condition is a closely guarded secret, rumours still abound and the senior grisha know enough to be able to guess that the General must at least be wounded. It’s hardly the first time. Over the years Alina has seen some of the scars marring her friend’s skin - some of them he has even told her the story behind – so she knows how strong he is, how hard he’s fought over his long life and that he’s survived what should have been fatal injuries before, but this time it’s different. This time the injury is a drug that is designed to twist the very essence of a grisha, changing that which makes them hardier, more resilient and live longer than non-grisha into the thing that attacks their bodies and destroys them cell by cell. It’s the ultimate irony: Aleksander is being killed by his own power and there is nothing they can do to stop it. There is no known cure, no medicine or treatment.

Fedyor is right – that Aleksander is still alive after a week is nothing short of a miracle, but for how much longer can this miracle last? Still, she can’t write her oldest friend off. Others may have to plan for the unthinkable, but she will cling to hope. Yes, it’s exceedingly rare for a grisha to survive jurda parem, but then they aren’t a centuries old Darkling. As long as his heart beats then there is hope.

 


 

Aleksander arrives much as he left – like a wraith in the night. Exactly as planned, the convoy reaches the Little Palace just after the midnight bell. The timing carefully determined by Ivan so that the group should arrive under the cover of darkness and when most are safely tucked up in their beds – or meant to be, anyway. Alina sees them though, sees the torches moving backwards and forwards in a great hurry as wagons are unpacked and the wounded brought in via the back stair. Genya has not yet returned from her duties at the Imperial Palace, and it is yet another worry to add to the growing weight on Alina’s shoulders. It has been several weeks now since the Tsar last waylaid her friend and both girls had hoped that it meant his interest in the Tailor was starting to wane, but with the late hour and no Genya, Alina fears that the weeks of peace were merely a brief respite.

Along her arms she feels the tingle as her anger ignites the sun in her veins. Looking down she is unsurprised to see her skin shining, the light a harsh, cold thing, like sunlight on a mirror. In the courtyard below her vantage point she sees two Oprinichki bearing a covered stretcher between them. At this distance she can’t see more than the vague outline of a body covered by thick blankets, but she doesn’t need to, she knows who it is in the same way she knows when he enters a room. This is her Aleks. Next to him, Garin is walking, his face noticeably grave even at this distance, and she feels her heart plummet. Something is very wrong.

Notes:

Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry *hides behind sofa*. Please don’t hate me, this was only meant to be a short chapter and it’s already pushing 10k, so this was the natural place to stop it. I promise the next chapter, A light to Live by, will be up soon.

Good news though – next chapter you start to get some answers. Anyone want to guess whether a) Alina’s dream was real, and b) what she did to Aleks if it was.

I have to say, I’m having so much fun writing Vasily. I’ve missed writing a villain – and he’s shaping up to be a grand one 😊. More on the villainous Vasily and his plots coming up later. We may even be able to sneak in Nikolai. Poor Aleks, what a thing to wake up too.

Chapter 17: Shadow and Bone

Summary:

In which miracles do sometimes happen, rumours get out of hand and Alina meets a new friend

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There are few things more torturous then waiting, especially when it’s bad news you’re expecting. If Alina had thought the two days waiting for the injured Aleksander to arrive had been bad she had not accounted for the entirely new level it would reach once the convoy had made it to the safety of the Little Palace. Every moment she expected a knock on the door and every noise startled her. It destroyed her concentration and tore at her self-control. Though few outside of the healing staff new that the General was here and the state he was in, Alina did - she had seen him with her own eyes, laid out on a stretcher being carried by two Oprinichki - she knew he was here, she even knew where he was, and yet still she was powerless to go to him.

Needless to say, it was not for lack of trying. Almost as soon as Aleksander disappeared from her sight she had fled to the infirmary, intent on reaching it first so that she could be in position when they entered, desperate to be close to her dearest friend. But when she entered the stark whiteness of the infirmary she was turned away by a solemn faced Anya and escorted back to her room by one of the junior healers. She tried again a few hours later, and again some hours after that, both times to no avail. Frustrated and at her wits end with worry, she at last approached Fedyor in the hope that he could ask his lover. Ivan’s response had been typical and unequivocal. “The General does not need troublesome little girls hanging around,” he had said, scowl fixed firmly in place, and that had been that.

At least the umbrage his tactless remark had caused provided a distraction for a little while from the sea of worry that was drowning her, but soon enough her mind returned to fretting about Aleksander. With Baghra still refusing to accept pupils and most of Alina’s instructors busy in the infirmary or on rumour management with the younger years, there was very little left for her to do either.

Vexed, worried and increasingly anxious, Alina at last retires to the relative serenity of the library in the hope that there she might finally be able to settle, but even surrounded by the books she loves so much her fears continue to plague her and she feels unusually restless – as if there is something she needs to do but has forgotten about.

It’s Marie who suggests she goes for a walk after the sixth time of catching the restive Sun Summoner tapping her foot and fidgeting. Nadia agrees as well. Unlike Alina who has a specialised lesson plan, both girls still have classes and homework due that day – work which, true to form, they have both left until the last minute. They might not understand the cause of Alina’s disquiet and unusual behaviour, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t picked up on the undercurrent in the Little Palace and Alina’s agitation is a distraction they can do without as they puzzle over the tricky problem set by the mathematics instructor, Vasya Kuznetsov.

With a nod, Alina agrees and sets off - her usual guards in tow - for a turn around the sunken garden. It’s a favourite haunt of hers, especially as there’s a fountain that never turns off. The gentle tinkle of running water is soothing to her nerves and the sun beating down on her relaxes her with its calming warmth. The guards behind her are wrapped up in thick coats and gloves to ward off the harsh winter air, but Alina stands there, bare hands outstretched and dressed in only her kefta, as she soaks up the light. It's one of the odd perks she’s noticed since discovering her power, but she is seldom cold now if the sun is shining - all she needs is to feel the sunlight touch her skin and she feels instantly as if she’s in a warm bath. Even today with the temperature hovering only just above freezing, she feels comfortably warm.

She must have been sitting in the garden for nearly an hour when the sound of heavy boots on the stone path wakes her from the dose she’s slipped into. Blinking against the bright light, Alina’s eyes focus on the sour features of Aleksander’s Second in Command. Ivan is scowling, that’s the first thing her tired mind notices, but underneath the show of bad temper his eyes are lined with exhaustion and worry, and for all his usual surliness it has a defeated quality to it.

“Hello, Ivan.” Alina greets the Heartrender, as she pushes herself into a sitting position on the stone bench she had claimed as a place to rest.

A nod is all the return greeting she gets, but then from Ivan that is almost loquacious.

“You must come,” he says, stepping back and gesturing towards the path that will lead back to the Little Palace.

Now more alarmed, Alina stands, hands anxiously brushing dirt and debris from her normally immaculate kefta.

At her worried look the Heartrender’s glower softens minutely. “Not here,” he says in his usual gruff voice, as he starts to walk away. He sets a fast pace as they return to the Little Palace, one Alina with her shorter legs struggles to match without having to jog by the Commander’s side. It is a torturous few minutes as they speed along the carefully maintained paths but at last they reach the front door, the two guards on duty nodding respectfully as they enter the main building.

Any thought of getting answers once inside the safety of the Little Palace is quickly disabused as Ivan shows no sign of stopping and instead continues to lead Alina through the maze like corridors at a fast clip. The destination though is a surprise. With the Heartrender’s unexpected and harried appearance she had expected to be led to the infirmary, convinced that something dreadful was happening with their General. But that isn’t where Ivan has led her. The room she’s in is only vaguely familiar from the night after her presentation, but it’s enough to know that she’s just entered The General’s suite. No sooner has she entered though than Ivan leaves her – complete with a severe admonishment not to touch anything – before he hurries through the apartment with purpose.

The first time she entered this room she had been too fraught with nerves and exhaustion to take much in, but looking around now, she notes the layout with more interest. The rooms are arranged in a L shape, with access to the next only achieved through the room before it. It’s a layout designed to maximise security and she feels a pang of sadness at the fear – almost certainly well warranted fear – which led to this design, a design which speaks of isolation and a life of continual danger.

The room she has been left in is the first room, known throughout the Little Palace as the War Room. This is the room that Aleksander uses to discuss strategy and have meetings with officers from the First and Second Army. It is a dark, imposing room, one filled with books, maps and the accoutrements of war. There is only one other door in the room, one set into the dark wood panelling so that you might miss it if you weren’t looking for it – this is the door that leads to the room Aleksander had met her in that night. His private study couldn’t be more different in design and decor from the War Room. The study is light and airy, it still has the same wood panelling as the other room, but it is less heavy and ostentatious somehow, with a more relaxed feel to it; and while it is dominated by the grand desk, there are chairs and sofas scattered around the large fire, organised into a comfortable seating area.

Ivan’s return is as brusque as his exit had been as he stomps toward her, gives both Alina and the War Room a dark, searching look as if to see if she has touched anything she shouldn’t. Satisfied, his waves her through the study and towards another concealed door. Stepping through this last door, Alina’s eye blink as they taken in the gloomy atmosphere of Aleksander’s bedroom. It’s a large room, with a beautifully carved bed at the centre of it, but even for a room this size it feels small with the sheer number of people in it.

Garin is beside a dark blob hidden by the mound of blankets and covers. Clustered near to the Head Healer are three other healer’s she only vaguely knows, flicking through books at a startling speed and talking in hushed whispers. By the far wall is Fedyor, looking out of place in his bright red uniform, his eyes are closed in concentration and it only takes a moment for Alina to realise he must be monitoring Aleksander’s heartbeat. Near to him are two other guards and another unknown Heartrender who are in deep discussion. But it’s the last two residents of the room that really capture her attention – for there, half hidden in shadows, are Baghra and Botkin.

Something of her surprise must have shown on her face, for next to her Ivan mutters; “another troublesome woman. She just appeared and has since refused to move.”

For a moment, Alina feels a flash of amusement flicker through her and her lips twitch as she replies, “and you were what - too afraid to try and remove a little old woman?”

Ivan’s habitual scowl deepens, and one hand creeps down to rub his thigh, as he eyes the distant Baghra with a dark look. “She was not to be moved.”

Supressing a laugh, Alina nods, “I can see that.”

The moment between them is broken at the sound of a stick thumping the wooden floor with purpose. Around the room six men flinch before automatically stepping backwards.

“You’ve finally found her then.” Baghra’s voice cuts through the noise effortlessly, silencing everyone. It’s more statement than question and definitely hostile. Ivan’s scowl returns with terrifying ferocity, but it has little effect on the old woman, who remains stoically unmoved by a sight that routinely terrifies most of the inhabitants of the Little Place.

“And where was she?”

“In one of the gardens.” Baghra harrumphs, a derisive and faintly mocking look on her face. “Hmm. As I said then.”

Ivan choses to grunt and shrug rather than reply to the troublesome old woman, but Alina can see just how nettled he is in the rigid set of his shoulders as he makes his way over to where his visibly amused partner is trying not to laugh.

Fedyor’s amusement is the only bright spot in the otherwise sombre room, even the lamps in the room seemed somehow dimmer than normal, casting a gloomy pall. In the dim light the blue walls look darker, blacker, more ominous - like she’s wandered into the lair of one of the villains in those books Marie and Nadia giggle over. Unease itches at her, making her stomach churn and her hands tremble. She had known Aleksander was badly injured but she had thought – hoped – that hewould improve once he reached the safety of the Little Palace and the care of his healers. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this hasn’t happened. The man on the bed is dangerously ill.

“Well! Why are you all standing about in such a stupid manner,” Bahgra demands, her acidic tone jolting Alina out of her thoughts. “The girl is finally here. Maybe now we can actually get on with things.”

Garin lets out an exasperated sigh. “As I have told you multiple times, madam…”

As to what the healer had told her was to remain a mystery as the old woman interrupts, speaking over him. “And as I have told you – the jurda parem has not destroyed his power, it’s still there – I can feel it.”

“Even if that is the case, it’s too late, madam.” Garin’s tone is a far cry from his normal joviality and Alina suppresses a wince. Extended exposure to Baghra can do that to even the most cheerful and genial of people.

Thump. Thump. Thwack! “No it isn’t, you mutton headed moron. What he needs is Alina.” Next to her, Botkin rubs his shin and looks reproachfully at Aleksander’s incensed mother and the walking stick that is being brandished like a weapon with every irate gesticulation.

“Madam, please,” Garin says, his voice startlingly close to pleading. “It’s only my respect for you and for our General which has stopped me from have you removed from the room, but this situation is very grave. It is time for us to prepare ourselves and the other grisha for what is coming. You know what jurda parem is and what it does. He cannot last much longer.”

“Then there is nothing more we can do?” Fedyor asks unsteadily.

Garin’s eyes are full of pity as he looks at the younger man and shakes his head. “Even grisha healing has its limitations. No one has ever survived such a strong dose before. That he’s survived this long is nothing short of a miracle. There’s literally nothing left.” He sighs sadly, “pray to any gods or saints who may be listening, for there is nothing more any of us can do.”

It’s not the pronouncement anyone in the room wanted to hear and panicked whispers erupt almost as soon as the healer has finished speaking.

Left by the door and feeling increasingly like an intruder, Alina shifts uncertainly as dread starts to turn her ice cold. He’s dying, she realises, her heart aching and her vision greying at the edges. That’s what Garin means. The man under the mound of blankets - her Aleks - is dying. There’s nothing more Garin and the healers can do. They’re hoping and praying, but they just don’t know how to save him.

Near her, the three Heartrenders are already deeply involved in disaster planning - discussing contingency plans for control of the Second Army, notices that will have to be sent and how to manage the Tsar and royal court who will almost certainly seek to capitalise on this tragedy to the detriment of all grisha. Baghra and Botkin are arguing with Garin and the remaining healers, while the Oprinichki guards just look uncomfortable and edgy.    

What she wants is to check on Aleks. What she needs is for him to be okay. What no one needs – or wants – at the moment is this cacophonous disagreement. Now she’s concentrating she can feel the gentle tug she’s come to associate with her oldest friend, an awareness that is always with her. It’s the same sense she has that makes her look up to find him watching her, that calls to her in her dreams, and that binds them together. It's a bond, a tether, one woven as much by her affection for him as by their powers. Two sides of the same coin. Yet it feels oddly distant now as if something has muffled it. Frowning, she chases the strange sensation, following the ephemeral tug with her mind. There’s something… something just out of reach, something half forgotten, half buried. Something she needs to remember. It calls to her.   

Closing her eyes, Alina breathes deeply as Botkin has shown her and allows her mind to stretch and flow, to follow the path set before her.

It starts with darkness and blood and rage, and she understands. Again, she sees a flash of swirling black shadows and hears a pain filled cry. In her mind’s eye there is blood and mud, the horror of war all around her, but greater than that is the pain of the man hunched before her. She sees a pale Aleksander fighting to keep control of the shadows flying around them with lethal energy. She feels his pain, his desperation and the knowledge that when he fails – and it is a question of when, not if – the destruction he will wreak will be a hundred times worse than what happened when he unleashed the Fold. He will decimate not just the battlefield but for miles around. Enemies and allies and innocents alike will be obliterated under the onslaught of his power.

Next to her, Baghra and the team of healers are still arguing, their voices increasingly high pitched and fraught as they battle their wits and willpower, but she pays them no attention. It’s white noise, nothing, an irritation that she pushes from her mind as she focuses on trying to recapture the whisps of memory.   

She sees Aleksander’s anguished eyes as he begs her to leave him – to escape to safety before he cannot control himself anymore and she feels her response resonate through her body: her resolution that she will be with him to the end. Whatever end it is. She watches as her dream self reaches out and touches his ungloved hand and it’s like an explosion in her veins - she feels a tsunami of pure light like never before. The sun rushes out of her, encasing and enfolding the hidden core of Aleksander’s power in a golden glow that beats back the jurda parem and then she knows.

Her eyes blink open. The row has expanded now to include Botkin, Fedyor and Ivan. Of the room’s occupants, only the two uncomfortably looking Oprinichki are not involved in the shouting match as they hover near the door, clearly uncertain what they should do and just as clearly wishing they were anywhere else. With a wave of her hand, Alina dismisses the pair and waits for the tell tale click of the door shutting. It speaks to the heat of the furore that not one person appears to have noticed the guards leaving, but that’s in her favour.

She knows Aleksander will be cross with her for doing this in front of other people, but she can feel him slipping away. That he has lasted this long cut off from his shadows – the very essence of himself – is nothing short of a miracle, but it is a miracle with a countdown timer; one that is already perilously close to running out. It’s no wonder the healers have been unable to help him, not when grisha healing relies on the healer using the injured grisha’s own energy to fuel the healing process.

With a last cautious glance at the others, Alina creeps across the room, her footsteps soft and barely audible on the thick rugs. The man in the bed bears almost no resemblance to the Aleksander she knows so well. This man is gaunt, unnaturally pale and barely conscious. His skin is waxy and has an unhealthily look to it that speaks of a long illness, while his hair is unkempt and greasy, and he has the beginnings of a scruffy beard.

The Aleksander she knows is always perfectly put together and is fastidious – almost to the point of vanity - about his appearance. Even when on the odd occasion he ruffles his hair it at most looks artfully dishevelled and he is always cleanly shaven. To see the dense dark scruff on his chin makes the man in the bed look alien, foreign, like someone else has snuck in and is just pretending to be her Aleks.

Across the room the noise shoots up another few decibels, and Alina winces, grateful for the knowledge that these rooms are soundproofed. The bundle of blankets shivers again and Alina swallows, instinct telling her that it’s now or never. The argument won’t last forever and she knows with uncanny certainty that once it’s over her chance will be gone.

Swaddled as he is, there’s no chance of Alina being able to touch Aleksander’s hand as she had in the dream. Instead, all she can reach is his face, which is half hidden as it is in the mound of blankets. Another step forward brings her right to the edge of the great bed and she leans over, her left hand placed on the mattress for balance as her right gently strokes his hair before cupping his cheek.

Fever dazed eyes meet hers and she hears the man whisper her name as he stirs weakly. Unlike the last time there’s no rush of power and a for a moment Alina fears she’s made a grave error, that her dream was just that after all no matter the eerie similarities to the few details she’s learnt about the battle. But then she feels it; feels the warm glow that starts in her chest, her skin shining as her sun sings, and she feels as it sinks into the shivering man, warming and soothing him. Before, it had been desperation and instinct which drove her, pushing the reaches of her power in a frantic bid to save his life. Now, with him safe before her, her light is more like gentle wave as it washes through him, pulling free the shield of light that had protected his core, the secret part that gives all grisha their gifts.   

The effect is almost instantaneous and three things happen in quick succession: Aleksander jolts and arches in the bed, letting out a strangled gasp as his shadows explode out of him, swirling around and over him like a thousand inky snakes. Already disorientated and unsteady, this action unbalances Alina who wobbles for a moment before falling to the floor with a crash, just as the arguing comes to an abrupt halt. The silence only lasts a few seconds and then there’s a roar of noise and activity as the healers spring into action while Fedyor hurries to help the dazed Sun Summoner to her feet.

The Alina who stands is different to the one who had been escorted into the room a few minutes before by Ivan. This Alina looks drawn and tired, with a pallor to her skin that speaks to her exhaustion, and she sways where she stands beside Fedyor. The Heartrender keeps her upright with a steadying hand to her elbow as he escorts her to one of the deep padded chairs in the bay window.  

She knows she must look dreadful for even Ivan is looking at her with unusual concern, but there is little Alina can do at that moment except sink into the comforting embrace of the chair and allow her eyes to slide shut. It feels as if she’s run a hundred leagues, completed the Oprinichki obstacle course and then defeated half a dozen volcra just for the fun of it. She feels drained even as the sun burns inside her, blazing and triumphant.

The familiar tap-tapping of a stick makes her open her eyes blearily to see Baghra near her. “Well done, girl,” she murmurs softly with an approving twitch of her lips, before she turns to continue watching the flapping of Aleksander’s highly trained medical staff.

“But how?” One of the junior ones is demanding in a high-pitched, almost hysterical tone. “This isn’t possible. There’s no way…” he trails off as he furiously compares his notes against the evidence of his own gift. “His power was gone, destroyed, we checked. This isn’t physically possible!”

Garin’s eyes are closed as he breathes in deeply, his hand laid on Aleksander’s now visible wrist. “And yet it is!” he corrects sharply as his eyes open. “the General’s power has been restored and he is now healing. It won’t be long before he is at full strength again.” His eyes find Alina’s across the room and he bows low.

“I don’t know what you did, Sankta,” he says reverently, “and I won’t ask, but I thank you.” It’s the first time the steady healer has used that name and it makes Alina want to squirm in discomfort, but Garin isn’t finished. Squaring his shoulders, he also bows in Baghra’s direction as he says stiffly, “it would appear, madam, that you were right.”

Baghra just grins victoriously as she pats Alina’s hand and walks back to the seat she has claimed as her own. The mood is lighter, almost jubilant now that the danger has passed and Alina smiles as she rests her head against the thick cushion placed there by an unusually considerate and attentive Ivan.

Aleksander will be fine now.

All will be well.

 


 

Time drifts on. Alina sleeps for two days following her intervention and in that time rumours run rife through the Little Palace. With so many people in the room some of what occurred was bound to get out sooner rather than later, but still it’s with considerable annoyance that Alina finally awakes to discover that the gossip mill has well and truly outdone itself this time.

It’s Genya who has the dubious honour of telling the Sun Summoner what is being said about her and its only their close friendship which saves her hair and eyebrows from Alina’s explosive reaction. Still tired and out of sorts, Alina’s control of her powers was never going to be the best, combine that with her having been woken up unusually early to fit in a dress fitting and all things considered it probably wasn’t the best time for the Tailor to broach the subject.

Head in her hands, Alina can only listen in horror as Genya tells her about the rumours which can’t seem to decide if she’s some sort of two-timing harlot who’s carrying on a relationship with both the General and the Crown Prince, after she was seen being escorted from his private rooms dishevelled and clearly exhausted, or a warrior saint who saved their General from near death.  

The latter was the nearest to the truth and could only have come from the healing staff or the unknown Heartrender who she had last seen trying to keep out of reach of Baghra’s walking stick after he’d irritated her one too many times. Another rumour explains her exhaustion as Alina having nursed the Darkling for three days straight after he lost a duel with the Crown Prince over her.

However, it’s the final rumour that nearly has her setting the Vezda suite alight in mortification.

According to this version of events, Ivan had discovered her trying to sneak into the General’s private rooms to steal Second Army secrets for her First Army lover. The Heartrender had over-powered her and what had been seen was the Sun Summoner being escorted to a prison cell where she would wait for her trial and that was why she hadn’t been seen for two days.

Genya had told her all this with a chortle – clearly amused by the ludicrous and overactive imaginations of the inhabitants of the Little Palace.  

“Where are they getting these ideas?” Alina moans into her hands once the fire has been put out. “I don’t even know how some of them would physically work. I mean who in their right minds would think Ivan and I were carrying on some torrid affair behind Fedyor’s back – I mean, they have met Ivan right? He loathes me and I really don’t think he’s secretly carrying a flame for the fairer sex either. And don’t get me started on that one about espionage. I don’t have a lover – secret or otherwise. When would I have the time to be conducting all these clandestine meetings they seem to think are happening, and someone would surely have seen me sneaking off to them as well. It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Gossip rarely bothers itself with probability, truth or even reality, Alina,” Genya murmurs gently as she tries to tug her friend’s hair into some sort of order. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” is the piteous response from Ravka’s Sun Summoner. “I’m the one who’s got to sit there are breakfast knowing all the rot being whispered behind my back. And I thought the First Army was bad.” Her head hits the dressing table with a loud thunk.

 


 

Breakfast is indeed as bad as Alina fears it would be and it is with a long sigh of relief when she can finally exchange the heated stares and whispers of the Senior Dining hall for the relative quiet of her lesson in Advanced Grisha Theory. Sonya, the teacher for this class, is a no-nonsense woman of around sixty years. She dislikes noise, dislikes young students and particularly dislikes any question that she considers either obvious or stupid. As such she’s mostly assigned to the older students and ones who won’t try her patience too much.

For all her foibles and idiosyncrasies, Alina rather likes Sonya – and never more so than today when she stops the persistent whispers and gossip mongering with one quelling glare, and that’s that. The rest of class passes in blessed silence. The rest of her morning follows a similar pattern, and it quickly becomes clear that the teachers are aware of the rumours and not impressed. Battle Strategy and Field Medicine are both uneventful and she almost starts to relax, but then it’s lunch time.

Lunch today is more pickled herring, much to Alina’s revulsion, and the food doesn’t improve her temper which starts simmering almost as soon as she sits down. The whispers are louder now than they were at breakfast, the stares more obvious, and it sets her on edge. She’s never liked being the centre of attention. It was bad enough those first few weeks in the Little Palace where she felt like a caged animal put on display at the Menagerie in Os Alta for the enjoyment of those with the money to pay. Back then she’d understood the attention – even if she didn’t care for it. They didn’t know her and the curiosity was – mostly – benign interest. Now, however, after living with these people for nearly three months it feels personal in a way it hadn’t before.

Even the grisha she’s been at pains to befriend like Marie and Nadia are enjoying the gossip at her expense. The fact that Aleksander has apparently been in non-stop meetings since his official return the day before only seems to incite the wagging tongues to new and even more outlandish levels. She knows what Genya will say when she moans to her friend later. She should ignore it, rise above it. This will all blow over soon enough.

It’s good advice, but it doesn’t help… especially when she has Etiquette followed by her daily session with Baghra to look forward to as her afternoon’s distraction.

 


 

Etiquette, is taught by a tall blond goddess of a woman called Countess Aneka Solovyov. She has the porcelain features and blue eyes so prized by the Ravkans and is the one lesson the royal dolts at the Imperial Palace insisted on when they agreed to leave her under Aleksander’s care. Alina hates it.

In the last three months she’s been taught six different ways to curtsey, how to use the never ending cutlery properly (although this is still a work in progress), how to address an Archbishop, a lot about court fashion and the importance of communicating via her fan rather than with her words, and even more about suitable topics of conversation. All of it total rubbish in Alina’s opinion.

The only vaguely useful bit of the lessons that Alina has enjoyed is learning to dance. She’s not a natural dancer, but for all that Countess Solovyov has agreed she is at least proficient and shouldn’t embarrass her partner. As she sweeps around the practice room to the notes of the waltz she can’t help but dream that it’s Aleksander’s arms twirling her around the floor and holding her close ,and not those of her instructor. It seems silly when she’s never even seen him dance before, but she knows instinctively that he will be a graceful partner, and it’s the one hope she has for the Winter Festival that somehow she will be able to finally see it – experience it - in person.

With the exception of the waltz, the lesson that day is particularly galling to her already short temper. The Countess is clearly aware of Vasily’s attentions and spends the whole hour lecturing her on the appropriate comportment and acceptable topics of conversation for the next time the Crown Prince honours her with his company. That there will be a next time is unfortunately apparent in the frown on Solovyov’s lips and the praise with which she lauds the generosity of Ravka’s Tsarevitch in deigning to even recognise her.

It leaves her in a sour mood. She hates court games and this one is fast spinning out of her control.

 


 

The walk to Baghra’s cottage cools her simmering temper, and by the time she arrives at her teacher’s door her humour has improved to the point where she feels almost like her normal happy self again. She expects a grilling about her actions in Aleksander’s bedroom, but that at least gives her break from the persistent whispers that are following her around the Little Palace and in some ways it’ll be a relief to get this interrogation out of the way.

True to form, Alina has barely sat down on the rickety visitor’s chair when the old woman launches into her questions.

The first is easy enough to answer. Is she fully recovered? It’s a question that makes Alina feel warm all over at the evidence of Baghra’s regard for her and she can’t help but smile as she answers it.

The second is harder to answer though, as her teacher asks shrewdly if she knows what she did. The phrasing is odd and it takes Alina a moment to realise that Baghra already knows – or thinks she knows – what happened. What she’s interested in is whether Alina knows what she did and how much control she has over the most alarming of her abilities.

The Alina of only a week ago would have been alarmed and anxious at such a question, but the girl who is sitting in Baghra’s cottage today is no longer that girl. This Alina is surer, more confident, because she understands now.  It’s not that grisha have an extra organ, secreted somewhere in their body, as the Shu have believed for years which allows grisha to manipulate energy, or that they are descended from demons as the Fjerdan’s believe. The secret to their power is hidden in their bones, in their very cells. It’s a little something extra that taps into specific forms of energy, and it’s this that determines whether a grisha is a Squaller, a Healer or a Durast, and why the bones from some animals can be used as amplifiers.

It also explains why grisha gifts are hereditary. You won’t get a Tidemaker from a line of Squallers, or a Heartrender from a family of Farbrikators – not unless they are descended from someone with those abilities.

Before, she’d been afraid because she didn’t know how she did it – or how it was even possible in the first place. She’d been terrified of being a suppressor because she didn’t understand. But now she does, and it changes everything.

Grisha is genetic – no different really to being born with blue eyes or brown. Except that some grisha, like Alina, can control it. It’s what she did to herself years ago, it’s what she unknowingly did to Zoya and what she realised as she tried to save Aleksander on that blood soaked battlefield.

Just as Aleksander and his mother have the ability to call forth that genetic x-factor to amplify a grisha’s power, giving their ability or control a temporary boost, so she can do the opposite and tap into a person’s cells to turn that ability off. And that’s exactly what she did when confronted by a drug that uses – needs – grisha power to fuel its deadly work.

People think of jurda parem as being one thing. It isn’t. It’s actually two chemicals put together. The fruit of the jurda bush which is known to cause psychosis, paranoia and total loss of control, and parem which was created in a lab using a mixture of other compounds. It’s this part that targets and interacts which the grisha part of a person, infiltrating their cells and amplifying the energy output to terrifying and lethal levels.

Alina remembers her mother talking to her about it at great length and how it’s discovery 30 years ago is what prompted her flight from Shu Han.

On its own, jurda is a dangerous but not necessarily lethal drug, and it’s one the body can filter on its own if given enough time. It’s also commonly used as a party drug among those wealthy enough and stupid enough to try it. Parem is similar - for an otkazat’sya - at least. If there is no grisha energy to interact with the chemical remains inert and is gone from the system within a day or so, and the most an otkazat’sya would experience is a faint buzz or a brief period feeling particularly energetic. It’s only when it comes into contact with grisha energy that it becomes active and lethal.

Combined, the drug corrupts the very cells of the grisha who ingests it, turning and twisting their power and control into something monstrous, but Alina could stop it; for Aleksander she could take away the fuel that was feeding the wildfire of the jurda parem and without it the drug would simply be absorbed by the body just as it would if an otkazat’sya had been injected with it.

It's a powerful and heady realisation and it makes Alina breathe easier to know that the gift she had most feared has a practical use and can be a force for good. She can combat jurda parem, one of the most deadly and feared weapons used against grisha and she is a living antidote to it.

So, yes. She understood what she had done and how did it. How she’d managed it over a dream though, that she was less certain how to answer.

Baghra hums thoughtfully as Alina finished explaining. “Interesting.”

The girl nods thoughtfully and the old woman smiles. “You’re less afraid,” she remarks after a moment.

“Yes,” Alina agrees.

The old woman’s lips twitch. “Good. You must own your power – all of it. There is no room for fear and doubt. Not now and not in the future. All gifts can be used for good or ill, girl, you must remember that.”

It’s a sombre warning and one that makes Alina sit up straight in worry as she looks searchingly at her mentor. “What do you mean?” she tries to ask, but Baghra only shakes her head, dismissing the question. “I’ve lived a long life, girl. A very long life – mark my words, the time will come soon enough when you will be tested and when that time comes you must not cavil.”

It’s an ominous remark to end on and it fills Alina with anxiety as she leaves Baghra’s small cottage. Her lesson has ended earlier than expected and her usual guards are nowhere to be seen. Setting off, she feels knot of fear inside her grow. Things are changing, events gathering pace, and Alina can’t help but wonder what will happen next.

 

 


 

It’s on the way home that Alina has another surprise. This one takes the form of a man. She meets him quite by accident while wandering around the formal gardens that separate the two palaces. At a loose end now that her final lesson of the day has finished and with no desire to throw herself back into the frying pan of gossip and intrigue that has become her home, Alina instead chose to meander through the gardens, procrastinating. It’s here that she meets him - or rather that he meets her, for it is he who comes over and talks to her as she stares lost in thought and the Imperial Palace.

“It truly is a hideous building, isn’t it?” A cheerful voice says just behind her, making her jump.

The intruder is a tall attractive man with a mop of dark blond hair, hazel eyes and the beginnings of a beard. His clothing is finely made and of excellent quality, but the dirt and mud also speaks of long days travelling.

“Excuse me?” Alina asks, not certain if she heard correctly. Outside of Aleksander and Baghra she’s never heard anyone criticize the Imperial Palace before.

He nods at the grand building in the distance. “Isn’t that just one of the most revolting buildings you’ve ever set eyes on?” He repeats. “Honestly, I’d have shot the architects for crimes against architecture if they’d brought me those plans.” He winks at her. “But then there’s no accounting for taste.”

The informality in the way he speaks is refreshing to Alina after months of court politics and having to pick every word with care, and the man makes her laugh - a proper full laugh that the Countess Solovyov would no doubt call indecorous but makes his face light up with pleasure.

“Are you here on business?” Alina asks, curiosity getting the better of her once she’s calmed down enough to speak.

“You could say that,” the man said with an odd smirk, melancholy flashing across his eyes. “I’m here to report and to see my family.” The latter isn’t said with much warmth or enthusiasm, and Alina feels her heart go out to the strange man. Having grown up in such a close-knit family, estrangement or strained relations are an anathema to her. She cannot imagine a world in which she isn’t delighted to see her Mama after an absence.

Full of compassion for the nameless man, Alina reaches out to clasp his arm, her eyes warm and gentle. “I’m sorry that such a visit doesn’t bring you joy,” she murmurs softly.

Surprised, the man glances down at where her hand is still touching him. Embarrassed and self-conscious, Alina moves to step back, but the man grasps her hand before she can. His eyes filled with unspoken emotion as he studies her with an intensity she doesn’t understand.  “The reports have not been exaggerated,” he murmurs as his eyes trace over her features.

“Sorry?”

The man shakes his head with an indulgent smile and bows. “Forgive me Sankta,” he says softly. “I was referring to the reports as to your kindness and beauty. I had thought that like so much that comes from this place that the stories would be exaggerated, but I can clearly see that on this occasion at least the reports are true.”

Alina blushes at such praise, the scarlet hue growing deeper once she catches the man’s appreciative gaze.

The man sighs as the great bell strikes four. Twilight is settling around them now and Alina knows she will soon be missed. Similar thoughts are clearly on her new friend’s mind as well as he turns from her to look regretfully at where the Imperial Palace looms large in the gathering dusk.

“It has been a pleasure, Sankta, but now I must away. Duty calls.” He gives her a courtly bow but then just as she thinks he is about to leave he presses a gentle kiss to the palm of her hand. It’s an unmistakably flirtatious gesture and despite herself Alina feels her heart pound and her skin pink as her blush comes roaring back.

The man grins again as their eyes meet, making him look younger and more boyish than she had first thought. Like this, the man looks only a few years older than herself.

“Beautiful!” She hears him whisper to himself and watches as he shakes himself like a dog before bounding back to where his tired horse is tethered on a rose bush.

But you never introduced yourself,” Alina calls as the man mounts the brown gelding.

His smile is cheeky as he shouts back over his shoulder, “don’t worry, Sankta, you’ll know soon enough,” and then he is gone and Alina is alone again.

 


 

Fedyor meets her as she steps into the vestibule, her skin still pink from her blush. His eyes are pinched with worry that relaxes when he sees her, and Alina feels discomfort squirm in her stomach. That the Heartrender has been looking for her is evident from his relief, and her guilt increases at her friend’s gently admonishment.

“Where have you been, ‘Lina?” Fedyor asks as he guides her out of the entrance hall. “We expected you back from Baghra’s over an hour ago. I was on the point of calling out the guards to look for you.”

Embarrassed to have caused such concern and bother to her friend, Alina ducks her head, hands twisting into knots in her kefta.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I never meant to cause such fuss. I was just… I wanted a walk.”

Fedyor smiles instantly and claps her on the shoulder. “I’d say that sounds more like an escape to me.” He grins. “I can understand that, but maybe next time let one of your guards know rather than just disappearing on us. Not that I don’t appreciate the fun of a palace wide game of hide and seek, but it would certainly save a lot of fuss and bother.”

If the rumours are bothering him at all then he hides it very well as he chats amicably with Alina all the way from where he found her to the door of Aleksander’s private quarters.

Surprised, Alina looks at her escort in mute enquiry. Fedyor shrugs. “Orders from the General himself. I think he wishes to make sure you’re alright after…” he waves an expressive hand, “you know.”

Nodding, she waits as her friend knocks on the door, waits for an answer and then opens it just wide enough to shoo her through before shutting it again.

The Aleksander waiting for her is much more as she remembers him. Standing by the fireplace, he looks tall and resplendent, dressed in his usual black, with his hair styled and his chin clean shaven. He’s still slightly pale and thinner than he was before he left for Caryeva, but that’s not surprising after such a taxing campaign. Looking at him now, no one would know how close he had come to death’s door only a few days before.

The smile he directs at her when he sees her enter is heart stopping and Alina feels her pulse pause and then jump as if on a trampoline at the sight of her beloved. He is here. He is really here and he is awake and healthy. It’s more than she could have hoped for only scant days ago.  

Rushing across the room, Alina throws herself into his arms, relief swimming through her when he immediately responds. Chuckling, Aleksander’s arm wrap round her waist, pulling her to him, while her own find his shoulders, her grip bruising as she presses her face into his neck.  

“Alina, my Alina,” he whispers against her skin and her heart sings with the warmth in his voice.

“You’re here,” she sobs, her tears wetting his collar. His only answer is to pull her impossibly closer, one hand moving to stroke her hair as he lets her cry out the fear, desperation and pain of the last few weeks

“I’m here my Alina,” he murmurs gently when at last her crying starts to slow. “I’m here, and I am well.”

Pulling away, Alina leans back so she can see his face, her eyes searching for any hint of illness or concealment. “You nearly died though.”

There is little Aleksander can do but agree to her statement. He knows only too well how close he was to death on this occasion, and he feels her pain as if it was his own.

“I’m so sorry, Alina. I’m so very sorry you saw what you did…” but his heartfelt apology is interrupted by Alina shaking her head – “No!” she says fiercely, “Don’t be sorry for that – I’m not. How can I be sorry when it meant I could… that you are now… and even if I couldn’t have saved you, I’d still rather have seen it for it meant that you weren’t alone.”

Her impassioned speech seems to have done the impossible and stricken Aleksander speechless, and so she continues, her courage running high. “You must know, Aleks. I’d do anything for you. Brave anything. You’re my family, and you mean more to me than anyone.” She smiles, “except possibly Mama and Beauty, of course.” The last is meant as a joke but it falls with devastating force.  

Still and silent with shock, all Aleksander can do is clasp the girl in his arms to him in a desperate embrace.    

Notes:

Hi lovelies, as it's Easter I thought I'd celebrate by posting a bit early so for those of you who have been eagerly awaiting an update could have an Easter treat.

Sorry for the hiatus, I hit a bit of writer's block. The good news though is that I've had a really good week writing and I've finished the next three chapters. The question for my lovely readers though is would you like a chapter a day over the bank holiday weekend and then have a wait until I've written chapter 21, or would you prefer it if I post a chapter a week so the updates are more regular but less frequent. Choice is yours :D.

Chapter 18: The Point of No Return

Summary:

“The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn. We’ve passed the point of no return.” 

Notes:

A/N Credit for the title and summary for this chapter belongs to the amazing Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice.

Fair warning folks, you might want the tissue box handy for the end of this chapter. Good news though – we’re getting towards the end of the angsty arc (finally) and things will get better.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s late when she wakes with a start. Since that last horrible and still only part remembered dream she hasn’t had anymore of what she’s taken to calling her waking dreams. Instead, her nights have been blissfully normal and filled with only the usual mix of nonsense dreams and the odd nightmare. Tonight is unfortunately one of the latter. The nightmare is an old one – one she has not had for years, in fact. It starts in a glade, dappled with light, filled with laughter and songs and a feeling of camaraderie and belonging. It ends in terror, blood and shadows. In it she sees again her father cut down by the faceless man she now knows to be one of the Fjerdan Drüskelle, she sees her mother pinned and screaming as her father’s blood pools around her, and then she is flying and hiding and waiting, hidden beneath a cart, as darkness gathers around her.

It's as this point she wakes, chest heaving as she gulps in air - her dazed, half asleep mind, struggling to make sense of her surroundings. It takes a few moments for the dark shapes to arrange themselves in a way her still fear-riven mind can make sense of and with a moment of wonder she realises that somehow while asleep she has managed to turn sideways in the bed so that the headboard is no longer behind her but instead by her right hand and she is facing the wall away from the window. No wonder the room looks strange, she thinks, as she rights herself – tucking her knees up under her chin as she steadies her breathing and calms her racing heart.

Now awake and more in her right mind, Alina summons several glowing balls of light. They hover around her, dancing slightly in the air, and for a few moments she distracts herself by sending them spinning into complicated patterns as she continues to calm down. It’s a nightmare she’s not had in years, and yet it always leaves her heart pounding with adrenalin and her mind wracked with fear. Sighing, Alina shifts, straightening her aching knees. There’s no hope of sleep after that particular dream, but she also has no desire to read and being on her own is just making her feel more anxious.

Glancing at the ornate clock on the mantlepiece, Alina sees that while it’s late, it’s still early for Aleksander who has always been a night owl and often retires long after midnight. At 23:30 it is late, but her friend should still be up and after the unsettling dream she longs for the comfort of his company and the protective presence of his shadows.

It’s the decision of a moment to pull herself out of her warm bed and wrap the heavy grey dressing robe around her thin shoulders. With her feet tucked into warm fur slippers, she makes her way out of her rooms and down the silent corridors and staircase to the ground floor to where she remembered Aleksander’s apartment is located.

Although the distance is not far, by the time she’s reached the familiar door she’s starting to second guess herself, and it’s only the light peeping out under the heavily polished doors which gives her the push to gently knock. Almost instantly she hears Aleksander’s beloved voice calling for whoever it is to enter and be quick about it.

“Am I disturbing you?” Alina asks softly as she steps through the door and closes it gently behind her.

Aleksander’s face brightens when he sees her, and he shakes his head. “Not at all, Alinochka. Come in,” and steps towards her, taking her hands in his and drawing her towards the warmth of the fire blazing in the large grate near his desk.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks gently as he passes her a generous glass of kvas.

Alina shakes her head, the details of the horrid nightmare rushing back. “Not exactly,” she hedges when it becomes clear that Aleksander expects an answer. She has no desire to go into or explain that particular dream, and especially not with Aleksander - not now that he is finally seeing her for the capable adult she is and not the child he remembers.

Instead, her eyes flit about searching for a distraction – something, anything, which could halt the questions she can see brewing in Aleksander’s dark eyes – when her gaze lands on a large, precisely detailed map that has been laid over the top of the large meeting table in the centre of the room.

“Is that a new map?” she asks, moving to get a better look at it. It’s a thing of beauty, that much is clear even to her inexperienced eyes. Every detail has been added with painstaking attention and thoroughness. Armies and battalions colour coded, the topography captured in exacting detail and through it all runs the thick dark smudge of the Fold. It paints a worrying picture – one of Ravka increasingly beset by attacks and with foreign armies closing in around them.

Aleksander nods. “It is.”

His expression is grim, and for the first time Alina sees how tired Aleksander looks, how worn out and defeated. There are new lines around his eyes, marks which speak of his exhaustion and of how hard he has been pushing himself. To Alina, it makes him look human for perhaps the first time over the course of their long friendship. To her, Aleksander has always been this enormous presence in her life, one who was almost godlike – wise, clever and powerful beyond reckoning and so very far beyond her, even as she claimed him as her closest and dearest friend. But here, tonight, in this dark familiar room, he looks less like the infamous Darkling and more like just another man worn out and stretched too thin by war.  Perhaps it’s the exhaustion to blame, or maybe Aleksander is just desperate for someone to confide in, but to Alina’s amazement instead of falling quiet as she expects, the man keeps talking - his voice gaining in volume and speed, becoming almost frenzied and despairing, as the words spill out of him.

“We’re losing, Alina. Inch by inch, day by day, we are losing ground, losing men and losing hope. Our enemies are threatened by your mere existence – by what it means to have a united Darkling and Sun Summoner - and they are seeking to move now, to hit hard and fast before you come into your own in the hope they can crush us before you become the new player on the board. The incursion east of Caryeva was just the opening salvo; a way for Shu Han to test our defences and they found us woefully underprepared. It won’t be long before they try again, this time with greater numbers and even crueller tactics – and they won’t be the only ones. Fjerda will try as well.  We’re fighting a war on two fronts, and I don’t know if we can win.”

Reaching out, Alina grasps his hand, holding it between her own as she wills Aleksander to look at her. “No!” she says sharply, “I don’t believe that. If anyone can do this, it’s you, Aleks. I believe in you and in Ravka. We can come through this. We will come through this!” Aleksander’s expression is bleak as he raises his free hand to brush a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, his fingers soft as a butterfly’s wing against her cheek.

“Oh, Alinochka, my precious girl, what spirit you have. If that was the end of it, I might agree with you, but there’s so much more going on that you don’t understand.”

“Then tell me,” Alina replies firmly. “I’m not a little child to be coddled, Aleks. I want to help.”He turns from her then, drawing her by their held hands over to the map and pointing at red dots of the Shu army and the blue-black dashes marking the Fjerdan forces. “There are two other problems, Alina. Our first is that the Tsar grows bored with these wars. They have dragged on too long, swallowed too many resources with too little gained. He grows impatient, and impatience leads to mistakes and poor decision making. Already he is pushing for riskier tactics with little care as to the cost it will have on both the First and Second Armies.”

He hands ball into fists by his side, eyes dark with worry and grief, as he stares sadly at the map. “The second problem is that Ravka’s only chance of surviving – of winning - is if we present a united front.”Alina frowns, studying the map as she tries to puzzle out the point Aleksander is trying to make. “And we’re not united?” He shakes his head as he taps the black line of the Fold with a long, elegant finger, dark eyes watching her expectantly. It’s like being back in those critical thinking lessons with the eternally impatient Baghra. Her eyes flit over the map again, this time falling on Novo-Kribirsk and West Ravka. Oh. A smile flits across Aleksander’s shadowed features when he sees her get it, but it dies quickly and is instead replaced by a look of dark despair.

“There is talk of an uprising in the West, one led by our esteemed First Army General Artem Zlatan, and supported by renegade Grisha. Our own people are turning their backs on us. I have been fighting this war alone for so long, Alina. I have buried so many good soldiers. Friends. The coffers are running dry, the noose tightens and the people of Ravka are turning against Grisha, just as their kin once did.”

The expression on Aleksander’s beloved face is pained and full of dark desperation as he stares at the large map. It’s the look of a man who has been pushed too far and for too long. He’s even said it - how alone he’s been for so many years, how he’s longed for a partner, someone to share his struggles with. Around them the room grows dark as his shadows react to their master’s anguish and fear, cocooning them in their dark embrace.

It’s heart wrenching witnessing such torment and Alina feels her heart pound in desperate sympathy for him. All her life she’s had her mama and Aleksander to buttress and support her - but who has Aleksander had? It’s a sobering realization that drives home the importance of her role as the Sun Summoner: she alone is his equal, and she alone can be his partner in all things.

Eyes molten and soft with the force of her love, Alina stretches to cup his face in her hand, her fingers stroking soothingly over the faint stubble on his cheek as light blossoms out of her, summoned by his pain to intertwine with his shadows and create a protective bubble around them.

She meets his wild gaze, her own firm and resolute. “You’re not alone,” she says fiercely, “not anymore - you have me,” And reaching up, Alina kisses him. For a long moment all is perfect and all she’s knows is how right this moment is, how right it is that they are like this, but then reality intrudes once more as hands gently but firmly push her away and the connection is broken.

Blinking her eyes open, it takes a few moments for Alina’s lust befuddled brain to understand what she is seeing.

Over the years she’s imagined this moment many times, she’s imagined passionate kisses, gentle kisses, kisses full of emotion, kisses that come with a declaration and kisses that are a declaration by themselves, yet somehow in all her imaginings this scenario never came up.

Instead of looking overjoyed, or pleased, or indeed any positive emotion, the look on Aleksander’s face is raw and wrecked. His eyes are dark fathomless pits of swirling shadows, and his hands are balled into fists. He looks… destroyed.

Confused and alarmed, Alina reaches for him only to stop abruptly as he steps back, hands raised to keep her away. “No! Alina.” He barks in a tone so foreign and alien that Alina cannot but halt, trepidation and anxiety curdling in her stomach until there is an acidic burning in her throat.

“Aleks?” Her voice is quiet, unsure, diffident - so unlike the usual way she speaks to the other man. She tries to move forward, the need for reassurance overriding the command in his voice, but again she’s thwarted as Aleksander steps backwards, shifting so that the war table is now between them with each on opposite sides.

The metaphor is not lost on Alina, and she feels the power of it and the wrongness. They are two sides of the same coin - partners, equals, each other’s balance - they should stand together, side by side, not opposite; they are not opponents and she is not his enemy. So why does it suddenly feel like she is?

Aleksander’s breathing is ragged as he stares across the gulf between them. He looks lost, she thinks as she watches him rake a hand through his perfectly arranged hair over and over.

“Aleks?” She tries again. Her voice is stronger now, and she sees him flinch as he looks away, breaking their silent stare.

He shakes his head again, hands dropping to grip the edge of the table with such force his knuckles bleed white. “Go to bed, Alina,” he says at last in a resigned, almost dispassionate tone.

“No.” It’s a simple word, yet the power of it resonates in the quiet room. The atmosphere has changed, morphing from their easy camaraderie to this charged uncertainty. “Not until you explain.”

“Explain what?” Aleksander demands dangerously, his eyes flashing.

Refusing to feel cowed by either his show of temper or the sudden ominous quality of the shadows around them, Alina straightens her shoulders and meets his heat filled glare. “This,” she replies, waving an expressive hand between them.

For a moment the fierce expression on his face softens, “go to bed, Alina. It would be better to forget this night.” His tone is more gentle now, but there is steel behind the soft words, steel which has the opposite effect to the one intended. Instead of soothing her and softening her upset sensibilities, it stokes her ire. She isn’t some child to be coddled and managed, she’s a grown woman and right now she wants answers.

“I kissed you, I can’t just forget it.” She points out wryly. “Especially now. I thought you…”

“What did you think?” There’s an ugliness to his tone, a snarl that reminds her of a wounded animal, but it’s his eyes that transfix her - they are like burning embers buried in shadows; dark, powerful and seductive in their intensity.

“I thought you wanted it, that you...” Aleksander looks away, his dark eyes fixing on the bookcase. “I don’t bed little girls,” is all he replies.

Alina stumbles back feeling the full force of his words. “Is that all I am to you?” She demands hoarsely, her heart aching and her skin tingling as the sun rushes forward to protect her.

He still won’t look at her. “I’m over 500 years old, Alina. You’re all children to me.”

“Such ethical qualms didn’t stop you bedding Zoya, though, did they.” She replies, jealousy and anger forcing the words out in response to his evasive non answer. She regrets them even as she says them, but what’s said is said and now all she can do is wait for the fallout.  

Aleksander laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but I know my limits. I will not taint you, Alina. I am not a good man, I’ve done terrible things, but forgive me if this is one sin I do not add to the weight on my soul.”

There are tears in her eyes now. Heart break is a terrible thing. Just days ago her heart had ached with fear that she might lose him to death, now it appears she will lose him anyway but to something worse - he will withdraw from her now. The peace and beauty of their friendship forever marred by her rash actions that evening.

He doesn’t love her.

He has never loved her.

The man before her looks exhausted as he leans against the war table. “Go to bed, Alina,” he says again. “And in the morning this will be but a bad dream.”

“A bad dream?” Alina croaks, “you think I can forget this?”

“We both will forget this night happened. We must. There is no alternative.” His words ring as hollow as his tone and still he won’t look at her. Her heart is breaking - he is breaking it - and yet he won’t even afford her the courtesy of looking at her while he does it. “You’ll thank me one day, Alinochka,” he murmurs softly as he turns and leaves, his black dressing gown swirling around him like one of his shadows. His reassurance is a poor and pale comfort to the pain coursing through her, one made worse still by the use of her his usual endearment for her. Hearing it now is akin to a poisoned barb, the final nail in the coffin of her feelings. His words slice through her with all the force of the cut and the same devastating effect. Still he sees her as a child.

How can everything be okay when it feels like this?

Still rooted to the spot, Alina is powerless to act as the man she loves sweeps from the room. The click of the lock to his private chambers is like a gunshot to her heart, echoing loudly in the silent room. There is a sense of finality, of a bridge not just crossed but torn asunder, in the ringing hollowness of the now empty space – the same space she had once hoped would become theirs.

How she makes it back to her room she later has no recollection. One minute she’s in the war room, the next she’s curled into a miserable ball amongst the familiar blue cushions of her bed.

She loves him - endlessly, passionately, devotedly, but he doesn’t love her, not like that, not in the same way she feels for him.

Aleksander is wrong. There is no going back, not for her, anyway. For Alina, nothing will ever be the same again. Something precious has been broken. Something she has no idea how to even start trying to fix.  

To Aleks, she will always be his little ghost, the child he rescued and watched grow up. It was foolish of her to hope otherwise. Sitting on her bed, Alina cries. She cries for the past that has chained her present, and she cries for the future she so desperately wants that is dissolving before her eyes. Yet for all the pain, still her heart - that cantankerous organ - refuses to concede defeat, it will not let him go.

She cannot let him go.

Notes:

*Author hides*.

I'm sorry, so very sorry. This chapter has been planned since the start and mostly written for six months - and I've been dreading posting it.

Next up: Fallout. Prepare for a very angry Genya

Comments keep me writing. Love it, hate it. Want to punch Aleks... let me know.

Chapter 19: Fallout

Summary:

There is an old Ravkan saying: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’.

Notes:

Happy May Bank Holiday :). As an extra treat there's a bumper number of chapters today, partly as a May Day treat, and partly because after last chapter (which was definitely a marmite chapter) I thought these chapters were best posted together so we can get this arc over and done with.

Chapter Text

The night passes slowly for Alina and she’s still awake as the sky transforms from indigo to periwinkle and the dawn starts to break. The world seems oddly still that morning with even the birds silent and the morning light stilted and grey.

To Alina, lying on her bed, it feels a fitting metaphor for her aching heart. She feels drained, spent, and stretched too thin - as if she’s been pushed through one of the terrifying mangles in the laundry room. Her mind is numb and she watches the sun rise with dazed disinterest. Her world feels washed out, as if something has swallowed all the colour and all that’s left is this monochrome reality. Every part of her is hurting, her throat feels swollen and like it’s been coated in sandpaper and yet she can’t muster the energy even to reach over to the jug on her nightstand. She knows she’ll have to move eventually, but at the moment it’s her dearest wish to never leave this room. The thought of facing everyone, of having to pretend while being followed by whispered comments is too much and another tear trickles down her cheek.

Not for the first time, Alina wishes that she had never come to this place, that her power had never been discovered. Then at least she would be free to live in obscurity and while she may never have had her dreams come true, they also would not now by lying in shattered pieces around her.

 


 

It’s Genya who finds her some hours later, eyes red and swollen from crying. It must be approaching the breakfast hour, but she has no interest in food and even less in moving. The knock on the door is ignored, as is the Tailor’s call to see if she is awake. All Alina wants is to be alone. The thought of another person – even Genya – is too much and she buries her head under a convenient pillow in the hope that the banging with stop and she will be left to her heartbreak in peace.

It's not to be. It could be minutes or seconds later, but there’s a click as the door is unlocked and then the sound of footsteps approaching.

“‘Lina,” Genya’s familiar voice calls and then light is suddenly burning her eyelids as the pillow is wrenched from over her head and she is confronted by her friend’s less than impressed stare. She looks a mess – she knows she does, even without the aid of a mirror or the horrified gasp that escapes the Tailor before she clamps her mouth shut.

Her hair feels horribly knotted, her face blotchy and eyes swollen. It’s a fitting analogy for the mess she feels inside.

Still buried in her mound of cushions, Alina feels the bed dip and then a cool, gentle hand stroking her head. “What’s wrong?” Genya asks softly. The question is kindly meant but it only prompts a fresh bout of tears and body wracking sobs. Through it all, the Tailor keeps a soothing litany of words and touches until, slowly, the tears start to ebb. 

It takes some time for the Tailor to extract and then understand the events of the previous night, but once she does her eyes flash and her normally pale skin turns an angry red as she vents her fury.

“I’m going to gut him,” Genya hisses darkly as she tightens her arms around Alina. “I’ll cut that spineless idiot’s heart out with a spoon! How dare he, how dare he!!”. The anger is strangely comforting to Alina, who watches in silence as her friend continues with her ever more creative threats and promises of retribution.

“He’s not a coward,” Alina says sometime later, once the redhead has calmed enough to stop planning the imminent and public vivisection of their great leader. “He just doesn’t love me. That’s not his fault.”

Genya pauses in her angry pacing, her mouth open in shock. “What?” She demands hoarsely. “Where in all the great saint’s names did you get that idea?”

“That’s what he said,” Alina replied calmly. Now her tears have stopped she feels an unnatural calmness, a distance as if these things and feelings are happening to someone else and she’s merely a spectator. In another context such a sensation might have worried her, but at this moment she’s too grateful that she can’t feel the hurt she knows is burning within her that she doesn’t fight the lull.

Genya frowns and crosses her arm. “Well, that’s just nonsense. Anyone who’s watched you two together can see he has feelings for you.” She glares at the mirror which has committed the egregious sin of being the first object she sees. “I mean, he can’t look away from you. Every time you’re in the same room it’s like you’re all he sees, like there’s no one else. I’d give anything for David to look at me like that.”

But Alina just shakes her head and shrugs listlessly. “It’s what he said.”

Instead of answering, Genya strides decisively to the door and wrenches it open with so much force it bangs on the wall before bouncing back into her hands. Scanning the corridor, the Tailor’s gaze fixes on one of her loitering attendants and snaps, “you there! Yulia - go and inform the Second Commander that the Sun Summoner is indisposed with a headache and is not to be disturbed today.” There’s the sound of scurrying feet as the attendant hurries away, but Genya isn’t finished and her attention lands on the luckless Kira with grim determination.

“And you,” she growls, “go and inform her Majesty’s dresser that I have unfortunately come down with a bad cold, and as I wouldn’t wish to pass such an affliction on to her Majesty I hope her Majesty will excuse my absence.” Kira is too far away for Alina to hear her response, however it can’t be positive – or likely polite - as Genya’s voice drops to an ominous whisper. “You will pass on my message - and only my message. If there’s so much as a sniff about the Sun Summoner I will personally ensure that you spend the next decade in the night laundry dealing with the very shittiest jobs you can imagine. Am I understood!” The maid must answer in the affirmative as Genya replies with a terse “very good,” before dismissing her and shutting the door with a firm thud.  

At the brunette’s look of confusion, Genya smiles. “Well there’s no way in the saints green earth you can go out and about looking like this. Not without starting a riot! And anyway, what you need is some time away from that lot,” she jerks her head in the direction of the door, “being pampered and spoilt… and planning.”

“Planning?” Alina asks weakly, as Genya starts trying to undo the bird’s nest that has replaced her hair.

“Yes!” The Tailor nods resolutely. “Planning. We’re going to plan.”

“Plan what?”

“How to make him suffer, of course.”

 


 

The knock on the door is unexpected, unwelcome and badly timed as Genya had been in the middle of running a hot bath and trying to convince a resolutely hibernating Sun Summoner that yes, she really should get up, and that, yes, a bath really will help her feel better.

Storming over to the door with the avenging fury of a Valkyrie, the Tailor wrenches it open and glares at the offending individual who has dared to intrude.

Standing in the corridor is a confused Fedyor holding a heavily laden tray full of breakfast food.

“Yes?” The redhead demands crossly.

Fedyor glances down at the tray and shifts it meaningfully. “I’ve brought Alina some breakfast.” Due to the force of the glare being levelled at him this comes out more as a question than a statement, and the Heartrender is visibly sweating under the Tailor’s intense scrutiny.

Genya relaxes enough to smile, but not enough to open the door which is what the man clearly wants, and instead takes the tray from his resisting hands - a skirmish she quickly emerges victorious from - and deposits it on the table just inside the door.

The look she gives Fedyor once the tray of goodies is safely stashed is so quelling it could melt an ice block, and it makes Fedyor shuffle uncomfortably as he tries to peek around the ferocious guardian blocking the entrance so he can complete his second task and check on the Sun Summoner.

“The General is concerned,” he attempts when it becomes clear that the red head has no intention of either moving or inviting him in, only to pale as Genya’s glares ratchets up several notches. He steps back. That was clearly the wrong tactical choice.

“Oh, he is, is he?” The normally friendly Tailor snarls. “Well bully for him.”

“He is most out of sorts this morning,” the Heartrender tries again. Genya’s eyes flash murder. “Good!”

Fedyor frowns. This isn’t how his morning was meant to have gone, and Ivan will be most upset at the disorder being caused to both his and the General’s diaries. His day had certainly started normally enough but it all came crashing down at breakfast. The first meal that the General had joined since his return from the Caryeva.

Breakfast which the General had attended, and the Sun Summoner had not.

That had sent the hares running and had been the first clue that his day was about to take a sharp nosedive.

Pale, with large dark circles under his eyes speaking of a long night and little sleep, the General had otherwise appeared to be quite his normal self upon entering the room. It had only been as the breakfast hour passed and still there was no sign of their errant Sun Summoner that things started to get odd. To the untrained eye, the General’s reaction to Alina’s absence might have been thought dismissive, uncaring even, with not so much as a twitch or a blink out of place. Yet for every Heartrender in the room his pulse told a different story, and Fedyor had not been alone in noting the increasing stress and anxiety that was flooding the General’s body. The longer breakfast progressed with no sign of Alina the worse it got.  

Finally, breakfast was over and Fedyor had made his escape in the hope that things would settle over the course of the morning. This was, of course, when the maid found him and told him Genya’s message. If he had been on his own the message would not have been a problem, but the cursed maid picked the moment when the General was passing within earshot to deliver it. Any question over the cause of the Darkling’s odd reaction was quickly put to rest. It had definitely been over Alina, and what followed was a bizarre ten minutes in which the General of the Second Army grilled the poor chambermaid to the point of a nervous breakdown, before suddenly rearranging Fedyor’s morning by dispatching him to the kitchen to procure every vaguely palatable breakfast food available with instructions take it to the Vezda suite and check on the Sun Summoner.

What Fedyor should have been doing - as Ivan had taken the time to remind him on three separate occasions - was chair the weekly supplies meeting. What he ended up doing was staggering up two flights of stairs with an enormous tray and then being confronted by an irate dragon who appeared to have possessed their resident Tailor. Needless to say, this was not a good morning

“Look,” he tries at last, voice embarrassingly close to pleading. “I don’t know what’s going on, but can I come in? Alina is my friend too.”

“Are you a man?” Genya asks, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorframe.

Fedyor shudders at the cold tone but nods, his confusion clear.

“and do you have a penis?” she demands, cold eyes flicking from his face to his belt with ominous intent.

“Err, yes?” The cool displeasure in the Tailor’s tone makes him shift in discomfort, and he has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s somehow failed a crucial test.  

Genya raises a derisive eyebrow. “Then no, you can’t come in today,” she announces in a tone of voice which heavily suggests the Heartrender should have known better than to ask.  

The penny drops with all the force of a sledge hammer to the head and the Heartrender winces.

“Oh,” Fedyor says as the pair share a speaking look. “Oh!” Bugger. Fuck. And damn. This is not a mess he wants to be either a part of, or indeed party too. As if there hadn’t already been enough drama and excitement over the last few months. Normally, he’d be delighted at the prospect of fresh gossip, but this? He shudders. A falling out between the Darkling and the Sun Summoner. This isn’t fodder for the Little Palace gossip mill, this is a situation that had the potential to go very bad very fast, and with Genya very firmly in Alina’s camp he’d be willing to lay money on the fact that their General has done something stupid. Fatally so, given the murderous expression his friend is currently sporting.  

“Right then. I’ll just go,” He waves a hand down the corridor, “and let everyone know Alina’s not well today and will be taking her meals in her room.”

Genya’s smile is beatific. “An excellent plan,” she says and then shuts the door in his face.

 


 

The bath does eventually happen, but only after Genya manages to force a few bites of the delicious treats down her recalcitrant friend’s throat, and the rest of the morning passes quietly with the Tailor trying to make Alina laugh by reading out choice sections of Marie’s latest penny dreadful romance.

It’s a start. Never one to be dragged down by melancholy for long, Alina feels her mood start to lift and she can’t help by smile at her friend acting out some of the more ridiculous scenes, complete with atrocious fake accents.

 


 

Garin magically appears after lunch with a concerned look on his face and his medicine bag in tow. Having failed with Fedyor, the General is clearly not above pulling rank and dispatching his medical staff to ascertain more about Alina’s condition. Genya is not impressed. Nor is she intimidated when the Head Healer squares up to her, his thick eyebrows beetled with displeasure, when she refuses to let him into the room.

It's only Alina’s timely – if hoarse – intervention which prevents the moment escalating into a full out altercation between the arguing pair, as Genya reluctantly steps aside to allow the man entrance.

Garin’s grin of victory fades, however, and his concern grows once he actually spots the Sun Summoner, but after a glance at the irate redhead he wise shuts his mouth and focuses on assessing his patient. By the end of the examination a deep frown has etched itself on his face. “Exhaustion, dehydration and your blood pressure is worryingly high.” He glances at the hovering Tailor in concern, but Genya only shakes her head and crosses her arms.

When it becomes clear that Alina will not tell him what’s happened, he clears his throat awkwardly, and gestures for the redhead to follow him into the corridor. “Matters of the heart?” He asks quietly. Genya raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t refute it, and Garin shudders. “The poor lass,” he murmurs. “I’ll have the kitchen send up chocolate and their specialty ices. Best medicine there is for an aching heart… and the company of a good friend of course,” he adds hurriedly when he spots the second brow begin on it’s journey to join the first. His addendum elicits the first smile he has seen from the Tailor in the entire visit, but Garin leaves feeling his age. Grisha healing can do many things, but it cannot fix a broken heart. He just hopes that the lad who did this to her is in as much pain as their Sun Summoner. Given the dark expression in Genya’s eyes he suspects that if the lad isn’t now, that he soon will be. Afterall, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

 


 

Time does not stop or slow down for the broken hearted, no matter how much they may wish it, and before Alina knows it two days have passed and its time she emerged from the safety of her room. The time secluded away has done her the world of good. She hadn’t realised how worn down she had been feeling, how exhausted the last months have made her until she had this moment to pause. She’s never been the most social person – oh, she likes being around her friends well enough, but she’s an introvert at heart, and being constantly around so many people is tiring and wearing. These past few days away from it all have helped to restore her usual equilibrium and humour and if her heart is still bruised, she no longer feels that first overwhelming pain of before.

Aleksander isn’t there when she arrives in the Senior Dining room to pick at the pickled herring placed in front of her. Her friends welcome her back though, solicitous over her health and commiserating about how awful it must have been to be so ill she couldn’t join games night the evening before. Marie and Nadia are both talking a mile a minute, eager to catch her up on the latest gossip – which has thankfully moved off her and is now fully focussed on the salacious news that one of the Tsarina’s ladies in waiting is pregnant and there are no less than three men who might be the father, none of which are her husband, who is a man obsessed with horses and little else.  

Alina listens with only half an ear, more out of politeness than any desire to join in, so it almost takes her by surprise when the conversation changes to the Winter Fete and the possible arrival of the Tsar and Tsarina’s youngest son, Nikolai. Along with the young and apparently attractive prince, delegations from West Ravka, Shu Han and Ketterdam are expected any day, with the Fjerdan representatives already having arrived while Alina was unwell.

It never ceases to surprise her the duality in politics, where you can be at war with a country and yet you still invite them to your festivals and events and sit down to dinner with them. Following the battle of Caryeva, a temporary peace has been won with their eastern neighbour, and the rumour is that Shu Han have sent three of their eligible princesses with their delegation in the hope of forming a marriage agreement with the House of Lantsov.

It's possibly the only gossip Alina hopes is true. With Taban princesses on the lookout for a husband, surely Vasily as the Crown Prince would be the ideal candidate. Even if nothing comes of the proposed alliance – as happens with so many – surely while they were here it would have a corralling effect on her royal stalker. The thought is enough to bring a smile to Alina’s lips. Her mama has told her many tales over the years of the rulers of Shu Han, and it amuses her to think of Vasily meeting his match in the fiercely matriarchal Taban family – a family where being born male is considered a misfortune and any children so afflicted are sent quietly off to join one of the many monasteries.

It’s another example though of the contradictory nature of politics that so frustrates Alina. For while Shu Han is ruled by women, few women in the country enjoy the same freedom or rights as the men do. It’s one of the many reasons her mother had made the dangerous journey all those years ago. Ravka, for all its many social problems, at least notionally supports some form of equality and independence for women, even if those freedoms are limited and only men are allowed to vote in the local elections or sit on the Tsar’s Council.    

It's a thought that stays with Alina as she finishes her herring and leaves the Senior Dining Room; and it continues to resonate in her mind and heart throughout the day as she puzzles over the gender disparity of a country that uses women to fight it’s wars, that encourages them to work, and yet says that if they are married that their possessions and any money they make belongs to their husband.

To be a woman in Ravka is to grow up knowing that you are secondary, lesser somehow, than men. Parents pray to the saints to have boys, not girls. Men are war heroes, never their female comrades, no matter how heroic the behaviour, how dangerous the mission, or how great the win. Wars are won by men. Women in the First Army are tolerated as useful but rarely respected by the commanding officers. The common troops are better, but even they tend to have a dismissive attitude towards an outspoke woman.

It’s a duality, a dichotomy, and it itches at her.  

Ravka looks to her to save them, but she can’t help but wonder what will happen if she does. Will she be lauded a hero or will she like so many other countless brave women be lost to time and written out of the story she helped write.     

 


 

Her lessons that day are easy, almost tediously so. ‘Basic Field Medicine’ passes in the blink of an eye, as does ‘Advanced Grisha Theory’ and even Botkin’s self-defence class seems less challenging than usual. That he is concerned is clear in the deep frown and dark eyes that follow her progress, but fortunately for Alina she can escape before he can ask the questions she can see being kept at bay by the presence of the others.

With the last lesson of the day finished, Alina sets off at a brisk trot into the gardens for a much needed walk. There’s two hours until the dinner bell sounds and after a day of being surrounded by her fellow grisha, she desperately needs the solace of being alone for a while.

Her wish isn’t granted for long, as just as she’s settled herself on her favourite seat in the sunken garden, footsteps interrupt her solitude, and the Apparat appears flushed and slightly out of breath. He pauses, shrewd eyes assessing.

“You have been unwell, Sankta.” It isn’t a question, or even a greeting, merely a statement of fact.

Alina shrugs. Her emotional state is not one she really wants to discuss at this moment in time, and certainly not with the Tsar’s spiritual advisor, no matter how kind he seems. Her lack of answer seems to throw him as the man falls silent, shifting uneasily on his feet as if uncertain as to what to say next.

“Why did you give me the book?” Alina asks after a moment. Although her chat with Botkin has eased her fears somewhat about the Court of Night and Day, this is a question that still niggles at her. Why was he so determined for her to have the book. She can’t make him out. He’s an enigma to her, a riddle. On the one hand he is aloof and not known to be a friend to grisha, and yet on the other he tries to befriend her and seems almost fanatical about her safety.

Unbidden, her mind conjures up the memory of the night Vasily tried to take her to the ball and the Apparat’s timely intervention.  It doesn’t make sense. Everything she’s heard about him suggests that he’s not a naturally kind man, although he is renowned for his compassion to the poor. If he were anyone else maybe she would be less uneasy about his strange overtures of friendship, but the Apparat’s position as the Tsar’s spiritual advisor and primary minister worries her.

There’s a considering expression in the Apparat’s dark eyes as he watches her. “Do you not know, Sankta?”

“You wanted me to read the story.”

“Yes.”

“And see the parallels.”

The Apparat nods.

“But why?”

“Because you needed to know. It is the beginning, Sankta - your beginning. Oh, there is much that is wrong with that version, much that has been changed - or lost - with time. But it is the start of your story, or rather your history.”

Alina’s head is tilted slightly as she watches the priest closely.

“And there are things you need to know – things which will not make sense unless you understand the history of events.”

“Such as?” It’s more a demand than a question, but Alina is too uncomfortable with the zealous light in the man’s expression to worry about politeness. She doesn’t like this, this feeling that others know more about her than she does. It’s unsettling. Unnerving. Irritating.

“For example,” he continues hurriedly, “not all the court followed the rebellion. There were those who stayed loyal to their gods, who fought to defend their King and Queen until their last breathes.” He pauses for a moment as if considering his next words carefully. “Tell me, Sankta, did you wonder how mere mortals were able to conquer gods with powers over sun and darkness?”

Alina shakes her head. She hadn’t wondered about that, but now that the question’s raised she can see how unlikely it is.

“The King and Queen surrendered to save those loyal to them from death. They gave their lives to protect those that loved them… and so that this brotherhood could protect the secret we have kept for over a millennium.”

That’s a very different take on a tale that made villains out of the gods. Alina is still and silent as the words sink in, but the monk isn’t finished.

“Though the books have forgotten, there are those who have not. The Soldat Sol has stood throughout the centuries, waiting for your birth. For the coming of the Sol Koroleva and the Starless Saint.” The Apparat smiles with sad resignation.

It’s those words again, that name, Botkin had mentioned them too, but before she can ask the questions now whirling through her mind, the Apparat is moving, turning to peer around the hedge. Some distance away she hears the solid thump-thump of booted feet moving in their direction and it’s with interest that she watches the priest become skittish and she wonders if he is going to leave now as he has every time others have been near.

As if echoing her thoughts. The Apparat bows low over her hand, not kissing it as Vasily would, but instead in an unmistakable mark of respect.

“I know you have questions, Sankta, but trust in two things. Firstly, that all will be answered in time, and secondly, that we will not fail you now. If you have need of us, you have but to call.” And with that hurried speech he flees out of the garden and into the maze that joins the gardens of the Little Palace with that of its Imperial brother.  

Seconds later four Oprinichki appear, saluting her. These are not her usual guards but instead one of the regular patrols that routinely checks the outside security of the Little Palace. Their appearance though is a timely reminder all the same. It’s near the dinner bell and soon she will be missed. Standing up, she nods at the men and starts walking back towards the Little Palace, the Apparat’s words echoing around her head.

 


 

The next morning two notes arrives along with her breakfast. One from Vasily inviting her on a horse ride, which she cheerfully ignores after a quick look at the window shows just how inclement the Ravkan winter can be, but the second one is not so easily put aside. It’s a summons from Baghra. It’s been five days since her last lesson and her tutor is not impressed. At this moment in time, it’s a tossup as to which appointment Alina dreads most. An hour with the Crown Prince or training with Aleksander’s mother.  

While time and distance have started to restore her natural cheerfulness and she no longer feels that first piercing hurt that seemed so unconquerable, the thought of a morning with Baghra is not a pleasant prospect. The old lady is not known for her compassion or understanding nature and Alina has no doubt that while the note said ‘visit’ what the writer actually meant is an interrogation the Tsar’s secret police would be proud of.

The sleeting rain mixed with hail doesn’t help either, and Alina has a moment wishing that Baghra would stir herself and come to the Little Palace for a change rather than making her students always undertake the trek to her tiny cottage.

Still, it cannot be put off forever, and so Alina resigns herself to trudging over the wet grounds. At least she’ll have a chance to dry off in the sweltering heat of the place. She has no idea how Tidemakers or Squallers manage in the airless furnace the old woman calls her cottage.  It’s a good thing she has the sun burning in her veins or else she might have ended up a desiccated crisp from how hot Baghra keeps her home.

 


 

Baghra’s greeting is as abrupt and to the point as always. “They said you’ve been ill, girl,” the old woman says before she’s even had a chance to take off her sodden cloak and sit down.

Alina nods as she wrings out the water, carefully hanging the garment so that it won’t get any of her tutor’s belongings wet.

“Well?” The old woman demands. “Let me look at you!” Standing before the fire, Alina submits to Baghra’s shrewd perusal. “Hmm,” she mutters as her eyes track the changes she can see.

“What happened?” she barks as she gestures angrily for Alina to sit.

“Sorry?” the girl replies, “I’ve been ill.”

“And I’m a goat,” Baghra replies, punctuating her response with a sharp thwack of her stick.

“You’ve lost your spark,” she accuses. “You don’t lose that from a cold. No. Something has happened. Something that is making you grieve.”

There are times Alina curses Baghra’s perspicacity, and this is just such a time, as on this occasion her astuteness hits far too close to home. Her tutor will know if she lies or prevaricates, and yet how can she tell the truth when it involves her own son.  

Talk about the devil or the deep blue sea.

It’s an invidious choice and not one she relishes making and so stays silent in the hope that the old woman will move on. But Baghra is a like a bloodhound who has scented blood and is hot on its trail. She won’t stop until she gets what she asked for.

Slowly, and with halting words, Alina explains that dreadful night.

“He did what?” Baghra splutters, and Alina is treated to the novel sight of seeing the older woman overcome with speechless surprise.

It doesn’t last for long.

“Oh, for the love of… that mutton headed moron,” Bagrha seethes, shadows roiling around her. “That ninny-headed nincompoop. Far too much of his father in him. Thought I’d beaten such foolishness out of him centuries ago.” Any other time, Alina would have laughed at such comments, but it’s still too close for her to feel the amusement she would ordinarily feel at seeing Aleksander’s mother hollering her ire to the world.

“That stupid boy!” Baghra exclaims with enough force to rattle the window. “That stupid, stupid, boy!” What is he thinking?!?”

“Awkward that he doesn’t feel for me what I feel for him,” Alina responds dryly.

“Of course he’s in love with you, girl.” Baghra snaps. “He’s been in love with you for years. What do you think that whole misguides episode with the Squaller was about? And come to that, why do you think he ran away four years ago. It was because he finally realised what should have been obvious to him from the start, and he fled to Kribirsk to spare you what he thought would be the horror of his feelings for you.”

“What?” Alina exclaims in surprise, “No, you can’t be right. “Why would he push me away if he-?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Baghra interrupts, visibly annoyed. “All men are idiots, my girl, and they are never more idiotic than when they fancy themselves in love. Best you learn that now, seeing as its going to be your job to manage his idiocy going forwards. I’m far too old for all this nonsense.”

A hiccoughing laugh escapes the Sun Summoner, “be that as it may, that still doesn’t explain why…”

“He was being noble,” the old woman interjects before Alina can finish. She knows what the girl is going to ask, just as she knows that the answer is not as her future-daughter-in-law thinks.

“The stupid boy has it in his head that he isn’t worthy of you,” She scoffs. “As if worthiness has anything to do with relationships and love. If worthiness dictated marriage the world would be a very different place… well, except for that stuffed pig up at the palace. I can’t think of a more perfect match than that pompous philandering idiot and his primping ninny of a wife. But that’s beside the point.” She shakes her head in disgust. “The point is that my son has got it into his brilliant mind that he isn’t worthy of you, and like every man I’ve ever met he’s got fixated on that point and stopped actually thinking.”

Alina is silent for a long moment, digesting Baghra’s points. It’s almost too much for bruised heart and her battered confidence to take. She couldn’t bare it if she allowed herself to hope only for it to be snatched away again and yet… and yet something in the old woman’s words ring true. It’s time for her to stop reacting with her heart and start using her head.  

“Think, girl.” Baghra entreats her. “There isn’t room for two stupid people in a relationship as it is, let alone one as powerful as yours. Think about what he said – and more importantly what he didn’t say.”

It’s a fair point and Alina feels her heart start to pound, filled with traitorous hope, as she remembers the painful words from that evening, words she’s taken pains to blot out of her mind.

“He didn’t want to talk about it, just wanted me to go to bed and forget that I kissed him,” she murmurs, eyes closed as that whole dreadful scenes replays itself. “He said he wasn’t a good man, that this was a sin he wouldn’t commit.”

“Hmm,” Baghra hums, sounding pleased. “Not the words a man who felt nothing would use.”

“No,” Alina agrees. “No. He never denied he felt the same way. I thought that’s what he meant, but it isn’t, is it?”

“No, I think not,” Aleksander’s mother confirms.

“He said I’d thank him one day.” Alina’s eyes open, glassy and overbright. The old woman meets her gaze and nods. “And what does that tell you?”

“That he believes he’s doing the right thing.”

“He’s trying to protect you, just as he did when he chose to keep you out of the war with Shu Han. Only difference this time is it’s from himself.” Baghra shakes her head, her white hair a stark contrast against the darkness of the shadows swirling around her like a shawl. “I raised that boy to be proud, to think himself second to none – and to need no one. I thought at the time I was doing the right thing and helping Aleksander become strong. I was wrong. What I did helped to create a monster.”

She reaches over to grasp Alina’s hands, her grip firm and strong despite the marks of age on her skin. “He is not a good man, girl. He is not one of those romantic heroes in those books that the stupid girls up at the Little Palace giggle about at night. He is darkness. Deadly and old, and with years of practice at how to manipulate people – especially stupid girls who fancy themselves in love with him.”

“I know,” Alina snaps, bristling at the old woman’s words. “I know who he is, and who you are Baghra Morozova, daughter of the Bone-Smith Ilya Morozova. I know who Aleksander is, and what he’s done. I’ve seen it. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a good man. Because you know what I see – I see a man who’s been pushed to brink, a man who’s had to endure terrible hardship. A man who set out to do right – to protect his people, to build somewhere safe for them – and was betrayed. I see a man who has done terrible things, but never because he wished to cause harm. You say he isn’t a good man but show me a leader who is.” Alina’s eyes glow gold with each impassioned word she utters.

“I think being good is something you’re judged for afterwards and that being good doesn’t keep you alive. Is that fat pig in the Great Palace a good man? Or what about his creepy son? Tom the Head Ostler beats his wife and the less said about the men in the First Army the better. My Papa was a good man. He was honest and believed in justice and he loved Mama and me. It didn’t stop the Fjerdans from murdering him. Aleksander may not be a good man, but he tries to be one – and that counts for something.”

“Good!” Baghra says, an approving smile stretching her thin lips for a fleeting moment before her expression turns grim. “You’ll need that fire whether you choose to fight for Aleksander or not – and it will be a fight, make no mistake about it”.  Her dark eyes are solemn and grave as she warns. “This won’t be an easy path, girl. If you want a future with Aleksander you’re going to have to be the one who makes the first move – and that will mean forcing him to face his fears.”

“His fears?” Alina questions with a frown. Such a concept seems an almost unthinkable to her. Aleksander has always seemed to her so composed, so unafraid – as far as she knew he didn’t fear anything - but perhaps that’s the perspective of a child to whom fear is a simple concept. Some fears, like being scared of spiders are simple, but most adult fears, as she well knows, are a complicated and often contradictory mess that are not easily understood.  

“His life has been one of loss. I thought that by raising him to think he needs no-one that I would spare him the pain I have felt, but all I did was to teach him to be afraid, and now that fear is controlling him.”  

She pats the Sun Summoners hands gently. “I am glad, my girl, that Aleksander has you. He’s been walking a dark path since the creation of the Fold, one that seemed to get darker and more tangled with each passing year.” For the first time, Alina realises that Baghra looks her age. She looks old. Old and tired and worn down by life.

“I feared that I would lose him because of it. That either he would finally go too far and end up killing himself, or that I would have to do the dreadful deed in order to save the world from him. It’s a pain I hope you never have to know.” The hand grips Alina’s again with astonishing force as Baghra looks her straight in the eye. “I thought there was no hope for my precious boy, that there could be no redemption, and then he found you and everything changed. I have watched the ice around his heart thaw, and my beautiful, sweet Sasha return to me.”

 


 

Alina leaves Baghra’s cottage calmer and surer than she had been when she entered only an hour before. Her heart still hurts, but it’s been tempered now with a stronger emotion. Hope.

Just because she understands though doesn’t mean she isn’t angry – because she is. Furious in fact. Before, all she had been able to focus on was her pain, but her eyes have been opened - and it makes her blood fizz with anger, because it’s another example of Aleks making decisions for her. Oh, you can dress it up as wanting to protect her, as the actions of a man trying to keep someone he loves from harm, of someone who is afraid, but at the end of the day what it really shows is that he doesn’t trust her.

Aleksander doesn’t trust her. He doesn’t trust himself with her – that’s why he’s not told her who he is, he fears she won’t love him if she knows the truth.

He doesn’t trust her to know her own limits, or to know when it’s better she stay out of something.

He doesn’t trust her to be his equal. He doesn’t trust her to make what he thinks are the right decisions on her own – and so he makes them for her.

She thinks back to that conversation in the War Room before it all went wrong, when he told her he respects her. She thinks of Baghra’s conviction and certainty that he loves her. But respect without trust is meaningless, and love without respect is a dangerous road that leads only to ruin. She thinks of her dreams, of the twin thrones and the broken crowns. She thinks of the man in the Fold, driven to the brink of madness by grief. Her heart says that her future is with him – that he is her past and her future – but her mind is firm: No. Not without change.

Conversations with Baghra were always enlightening, but this one has been more illuminating than most. Alongside the pity wiggling its way into her stomach for the damaging way Aleksander had been raised is another realisation, albeit one that her hormones vehemently disagree with. This is a choice. What she does now is a choice. She can choose to fight for Aleksander, to see what could become of them together, or she could walk away.

It’s a strange and empowering realisation, and one that would almost have been unthinkable before he rejected her and she’d been forced to see the cracks in the relationship that she had always thought of being so strong, so solid, so immutable.

Because the truth is she can live without him. She could walk away now and she would live. Oh, she’d mourn and grieve for a time, but grief is a part of life and this loss, while profound, wouldn’t destroy her. What she wants is a life with Aleksander, but it can’t come at any cost, and it has to be right. If life in the First Army has taught her anything, it’s that she can have a successful and fulfilling life without him.

Would it hurt her to walk away? Undoubtedly.

Would she grieve and mourn over the loss? Yes. But it wouldn’t kill her. She might never love another the way she loves Aleksander, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be happy - just look at her mother and the life Mei-Xing has made for herself. Unlike the sad, spiritless heroines in those books Marie loves so much, she won’t be a martyr to love.

The reality is, having grown up in the midst of a loving, happy, stable and respectful marriage, Alina will not settle for anything less herself. To do so would be a betrayal of the girl her mother raised.

Aleksander has lived a long and lonely life, one that has taught him to shut others out, to rely on no-one and to trust only himself. His intentions may have been laudable and even understandable, but the execution left a lot to be desired.

Their lives may be irrevocably bound together by eldritch forces she doesn’t understand, but she knows this – she must be his balance and his equal, and that means things must change. They are each other’s check and balance, the shield to the other’s sword. They are a matched set and either they will fight together, or they will end up fighting each other, this she knows with a certainty that makes her head pound and her stomach tie itself in knots. Two beings with godlike powers – what harm they could cause, what disaster they could wreak if left without a partner to anchor the other and provide that counterbalance.

For the sake of Ravka, for the cause she believes in whole heartedly, Aleksander must learn to trust.

Chapter 20: What Makes a Villain

Summary:

In which Baghra the reluctant relationship coach finally leaves her cottage, and she and Aleksander actually talk.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Baghra watches thoughtfully as Alina leaves. She’d known something had happened – or rather, that something had gone wrong. As a general rule, Grisha don’t get ill and with how powerful the Sun Summoner is, the story being put about of her having been unwell seemed odd at best and deliberately disingenuous at worst.

At first, she’d wondered if it was to do with that weak chinned snake up at the Little Palace. She had heard the rumours about the gifts, and knowing the Lantsov line as she did, it would be no surprise if the Tsarevitch had done something to upset Alina.  Such a theory, though, didn’t sit comfortably with her. She knew Alina. She’d known the girl since she was a child. She knew the strength that ran through her core and Alina would never allow some jumped up princeling to frighten her into hiding in her room like she clearly was.

The more likely explanation was something had happened in the Little Palace… something which probably involved her son.

Either way, her suspicions had been roused. Suspicions which had unfortunately been proven correct that afternoon.

What a saints-forsaken mess.

She’d known almost as soon as Alina started her sorry tale what had happened and why her son had done it.

Her stupid, noble son.

The warning signs had been there since the day he returned to the Little Palace with the newly discovered Sun Summoner in tow. Baghra shook her head. No. Truthfully there had been signs a long time before that day. Signs she had first seen in this very cottage just before her son had fled to Kribirsk and to war three years before.

Like a fool she had ignored them, dismissed it. She’d assumed that when faced with the chance to have everything he’s ever wanted, that Aleksander would snatch it up with both hands - that he was the same power greedy man she had watched him become over the last three centuries. She’d assumed her role would be to counsel Alina, to warn her as to the danger she could face in such an unequal relationship, that it would be her job to open the girl’s eyes as to her lover’s true identity and nature.

How wrong she’s been on every account.

Well, they say there’s no fool like an old fool, and how right they are. This is her fault. She had seen and looked away. The story of her life. But no more.

She owes it to Aleksander and Alina to help fix the mess she has helped create. This is her penance, and she will not cower or cavil from it. It’s time to talk to her son.

 


 

Getting to the little Palace, despite what she likes to claim to her students, isn’t actually an issue for her – the stick is more for show and as a corrective device, after all, than it is an actual requirement for her mobility. What is a slight problem though is getting to speak to Aleksander. Usually, in these situations, her son turns up at her door and she can sort things out with minimal inconvenience to herself. After waiting for him to appear for the best part of a week, however, Baghra is finally forced to admit that on this occasion she might actually have to stir herself and go to him rather than waiting for her recalcitrant child to come to her. It’s not a thought that pleases her. She dislikes the Little Palace, she dislikes her son’s guards and she really dislikes being made to wait – which is precisely what will happen if she tries to see him through the official channels. Ivan – the punctilious toerag - will see to that.

So no, visiting Aleksander the proper way is out of the question. At her time of life she has neither the patience nor the temperament for waiting. Thankfully, there is another option.

The secret passage.

She’s never been completely sure whether her son knows that she knows about his secret tunnel. She’d come across it one day while out in the woods spying on Aleksander, when before her eyes he seemed to disappear into the vegetation. A little bit of searching had solved that mystery. There was a tunnel. A tunnel filled with the mementos of his various lives: portraits gifted to him by thankful Tsars, boxes of diaries and old books, the ratty old bear she had made for him all those centuries before and, of course, Luda’s locket.

At first, she’d thought it was just a storage tunnel, a squirrel’s nest full of the things Aleksander couldn’t have near him but equally couldn’t bare to destroy or throw away, but then one day as she was rummaging amongst her son’s treasured possessions she spotted the passageway that was cunningly concealed behind a large standing mirror. She wasn’t foolish enough to explore such a discovery while her son was still close by, but this was also not a mystery she could leave alone. So, the next time Aleksander was considerate enough to leave for several days, Baghra had rushed over to the tunnel to explore the mysterious path. At first, she had wondered if it was simply a continuation of the storage area as it was filled with crates of wine, but then she had come to the end of the tunnel and had spotted the unmistakable outline of a doorway hewn out of rock and brick. The door itself was wooden, and when she pushed on it, it opened for her on silent hinges. It had been a surprise to see Aleksander’s study, but then it all clicked into place. Her clever boy – of course he would have a secret escape should the worst happen. They’d both been ambushed too many times over the years not to have escape plans in place.

It may have been designed as a secret exit, but doorways work both ways, and just as it allowed Aleksander to sneak out to Os Alta for all those years, so too can it be used to sneak into the Little Palace. With that thought, Baghra sets off for the tunnel with a speed and agility that would take most of her students by surprise.

 


 

The passage is more or less as she remembered it from her last jaunt 70 odd years ago. The only real difference is the presence of a few more boxes and a more ordered system for Aleksander’s store of alcohol. The doorway though is still unblocked, and the picture swings open easily at her gentle push. The sight before her though is very different.

Her son is indeed in his study, as she had hoped, but the man before her is a pale ghost of her normally vital and charismatic boy. Even the shadows around him are more grey than black, betraying their master’s emotional turmoil.  

Aleksander looks up briefly, his eyes red rimmed with dark shadows underneath. “Oh, its you,” he mutters, voice unusually disinterested and lack-lustre.

Taking one look at the shell of her son, Baghra trots across the room to the well-stocked alcohol cabinet that’s concealed behind a bookcase. She looks at the full shelves consideringly, her eyes flicking over malt beer, nettle wine, kvas, five types of red wine and eight types of white before she finds the prize she’s searching for. There at the back of the shelf is a large bottle marked Gin.

If she’s got to sort this saints-forsaken mess out, then she’s not suffering through it without alcohol. If gin got her through childbirth with an incompetent ninny of a midwife, through the loss of her husband, and the years following the creation of the Fold, it can bloody well get her through this as well.

With a harrumph of displeasure, Baghra grabs the bottle of gin before pausing, her head tilted to one side in thought, before adding the kvas to her collection. Her eyes flit to the neatly stacked glasses, but quickly dismiss them as unnecessary middleman to the main goal of consuming alcohol. Walking back with her booty and stick is slightly more tricky, but she makes it back to Aleksander’s desk without issue and slides the bottle of kvas to the still figure on the other side. The gin she keeps with her and safely out of Aleksander’s reach. She might be his mother, and this might be partly – mostly – her fault, but that doesn’t mean she has to share her gin. There are limits to maternal devotion, and this is hers.

 


 

Silence settles itself, and for a while the only sound to be heard is that of liquid sloshing as mother and son sip their respective drinks

“You know I’m almost proud of you, boy” the old woman says consideringly, once she judges enough time has passed for the alcohol to start working its magic.

Her son frowns in clear disapproval as Baghra takes another swig directly from the bottle, fingers tapping pointedly on the glass he has poured the kvas into. “Thank you, mother, for that sterling praise. Be still my beating heart.”

The kvas has clearly done its job, the Aleksander before her now certainly has more fire and spirit than the one she had encountered upon her entrance twenty minutes before, and while he still has a melancholy air, he has lost the morose desperation of before.

Baghra shoots a quelling glare at her son. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to make more of a hash of your romantic affairs than you’d already done, but once again you’ve proved me wrong.” It’s the wrong thing to say.

“Do not speak of what you do not know,” Aleksander hisses, fury flashing in his eyes. “This does not concern you!”

“Then stop being an idiot,” his mother volleys back, her temper easily matching his. “And you’re wrong. It does concern me. It concerns me very much. I’m your mother, boy, and I’ve just had that girl in my cottage spilling her sorry heart out to me. The girl you’re in love with.”

“How are you and I related?” Aleksander demands, shooting to his feet in his anger to tower over the diminutive form of his mother.

“Saints alone know how many times I’ve asked that question myself, boy. You certainly didn’t get your idiocy and this unhelpful misplaced nobility from me.” His mother retorts, her stick striking the floor with the force of a lightning bolt, unconcerned by the threat in his action and the shadows roiling around him like storm clouds.

“Saints forbid that I inherited anything soft or honourable from you!” he mocks. “But then you never were one for self-sacrifice were you, mother.”

Baghra’s eyes blacken, shadows swirling around her like snakes. “Oh, you think that’s what this is, do you? I’ll tell you what I see – I see a coward hiding behind a pretence of sacrifice and nobility.”

Aleksander’s expression darkens dangerously. “Get out!” he hisses, pointing at the still open portrait.

“No,” Baghra’s voice is cool and immutable. “Not until I’ve talked to you, and we’ve sorted this mess out.”

“That wasn’t a request,” Aleksander thunders. “Leave. Now!”

His mother’s cold gaze meets his unflinchingly, and she makes a point of settling herself more comfortably in the chair. “No.” She takes another sip of gin.

“Leave on your own or I will make you,” he threatens, tone as black as the shadows wrapping around him.

“You can try,” his mother counters blithely. “Normally, I wouldn’t stand a chance, we both know that, but looking at you now I think a stiff breeze could knock you over. So, I’m happy to take that chance. Are you?” She gives her son a distinctly shark like grin.  

Like a sail suddenly bereft of wind, Aleksander deflates, slumping in his chair with the air of man who has been pushed past the point of all endurance. “Please, mother,” he says tiredly, “just leave.”

“And what good will that do?” Baghra challenges, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t raise you to be a fool, Aleksander, but that’s exactly what you’re being. Sticking your head in the sand isn’t going to fix the mess you’re in, and it’s about time you stopped sulking and realised that. The sharks are circling and there’s far more going on than you realise.”

“Like what?” Aleksander asks, in the tone of one clearly resigned to having this conversation.

His mother frowns, eyes cold, “well there’s that Lantsov spawn, for one. He’s slippery, that turd, needs watching… and probably neutering.”

Baghra grins again as her son crosses his legs under the table and shifts the angle of his chair in the vain attempt to put more distance between them. Typical man. It’s not often she can scandalise or shock her son these days, so she relishes the opportunity when it does arise. It does the trick though, Aleksander is listening now. Listening and talking.

 


 

It takes a while, but eventually Baghra succeeds in pulling Aleksander’s perspective of that night from him. It confirms her thoughts and suspicions, and she sighs heavily as her son refills his glass for the fifth time. What a mess.

“So instead of staying to talk about your feelings you decided to do the mature thing and run away?” she questions as her son falls silent. The look she receives from Aleksander for that summary could curdle milk at 60 paces, but it has little effect on the old woman.

“The military term is a ‘strategic retreat’,” Aleksander offers with a put-out sniff.

Baghra nods sagely, “running away.” Her son sighs and stares dejectedly into his kvas as if it has all the answers he seeks.

Of everything she has seen and heard in the last hour, it’s this that worries her most. Her boy has always been a calm, centred and emotionally stable individual – with one glaring exception. Control is vital for one as powerful as they are and Baghra had ensured it was both a skill and a lesson her son perfected from a young age. The man before her now is not that man. This Aleksander’s emotions are veering more than a seesaw or rocking horse – swinging between dejection, despair and glib humour with worrying speed. The last time her son lost control of his emotions he created the Fold, what horror might he accidentally unleash this time. It’s a worrying thought and one that preoccupies Baghra as she makes a point of taking an overly loud mouthful of gin, a smile stretching her thin lips at Aleksander’s grimace.

Swallowing, Baghra fixes a gimlet stare on her son. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Alina offered you everything you’ve spent the last four centuries obsessing over, but you don’t think you’re worthy of her, so you turned her down.”

“We both know I’m not the man she thinks I am,” Aleksander says softly, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating.

“What?” His mother splutters, gin dripping down her chin. “What nonsense. What’s the last 15 years been then, boy, an act? If so, I have to say, you missed your calling - you should have been on the stage.”

The denial is out of Aleksander before Baghra has even finished speaking. “Of course not,” he avowals crossly, a flash of something dark crossing his features.

“Then what’s the problem?” His mother asks, “seems to me that the little miss knows exactly what she’d be taking on.”

Aleksander chuckles darkly. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

“And have you actually asked her?” Baghra’s asks shrewdly, “or have you merely made your mind up that that’s how she will feel”

She observes her son carefully for a moment. He’s slumped in his chair, the picture of defeat, with his head in his hands.

“What would be the point?” Comes his muffled response after a long pause. Surely it’s better to end it now, to set her free so she can find a man who deserves her, than to bind her to me and watch as the loves fades from her, poisoned by my sins.”

He looks up, his blood shot gaze meeting hers. “I’m doing this for her, mother. For Alina. Do you think I don’t wish it were different, that I could… that we could… that there could be a future for us together. The only future I can offer her is death and destruction.”

The expression on his face is raw and wrecked and so full of anguished devastation that it makes her old heart hurt to see it. “I know I’ve hurt her, mother. It nearly killed me. I would rather suffer through jurda parem again than watch that beautiful light fade from her eyes and the worst thing was it was me who was causing it. Me!” he thumps his chest. “For one precious second I had all I’ve ever wished for in the palm of my hand. All I had to do was take it and it would have been mine.”

“Then why didn’t you,” Baghra asks sharply.

There’s a sardonic, defeated look to her son as he says: “Because we both know she could never love me, not knowing who I truly am.

“Knows what exactly? Seems to me she already knows quite a lot and loves you anyway.”

The look Aleksander directs at his mother is withering. “Yes, but that’s because she doesn’t know the truth. If she knew who I really am, she could never… no one’s love could survive that; and that’s not the worst of it.”

His mother hums, a smug, knowing smile on her thin lips. “And how do you know that, boy, if you don’t ask her?”

But Aleksander just shakes his head. “I’d have thought it self-evident. You’ve made it clear over the years that what I’ve done is unforgivable. Creating the Fold saved our people, but it cost me whatever was left of your affection.” He looks towards the flames, eyes fathomless. “Do you really think Alina will be any different?”

“Boy-“ Baghra starts, only to be cut off by her son’s desperate, “and that’s not the worst of it. All those years I spent planning – scheming - what I’d do once the Sun Summoner was found. I’d have done anything to make her my creature - I was even planning on finding grandfather’s stag and collaring her, binding her to me for eternity. I’d have destroyed her, completely and totally to have control of her power, and I would have thought myself right.” The bottle of kvas hits the floor with crash tinkle and liquid seeps around him as his head falls into his hands.

“Tell me now that she can love me. Better I’m the villain who broke her heart, than I make her a monster...like me.”

Had Aleksander looked up then he would have seen the almost unique sight of his mother crying. Only twice before in his entire five hundred odd years of living has he seen his mother shed a tear: once when his father died, and the other when she saw the Fold for the first time.

Baghra stares in horrified silence as thoughts whirl like shattered glass around her mind, each one slicing deeper than the last. Her throat is choked with emotion, words desperate to be said strangled into silence by her revulsion. What has she done? Her boy, her precious boy. What would her beloved Mikael say if he could see the mess she has unwittingly wrought. He would be devastated and ashamed. So ashamed of her.

Her Mikael had been a beautiful man with a smile that could light up cities and banish the shadows in Baghra’s soul. He had been a loving man. A man who once he loved did so whole heartedly and without thought to himself. He had been Baghra’s opposite and balance in every way. And he would be ashamed of what she’s done to his legacy - to their precious Sasha.

She had always seen Aleksander’s similarities to her as his greatest strength, but now she curses them and wishes that he were more like his father, for then so much pain could have been avoided.

Hindsight is a cruel and inexorable mistress and having started down this road Baghra is powerless to stop the long-denied thoughts from coming. The truth is her boy had been more like that once. That had been the child desperate for friends, who in his loyalty had not seen the danger they represented and nearly died as a result. She had made it her mission to stamp out such foolishness after that day, no longer willing to risk that Aleksander might meet the same end as his beloved father - betrayed and killed by those he thought trusted friends and allies.

This, now, is the consequence of her success… and of her failure. She couldn’t suppress Aleksander’s loving heart, not completely, as she had discovered first with Luda, and then a second time with Alina, but apparently her words had had sufficient sway over the years to make her son afraid. Terrified of losing the one he loves, of being the cause of their destruction. She thinks of Luda’s death, and the intemperate words of the brother who had blamed Aleksander for it, shouting at him that it was his fault, that Luda would have lived had she not been involved with a Shadow Summoner, that his love was a curse.”

She had heard them all, and in her grief, she had let it go unanswered. She should have stopped Luka and comforted her son, that’s what Mei-Xing would have done, but that’s never been Baghra’s way and she had hoped that this would be the end of her boy’s quest to have a normal life. That this would be the lesson he needed to become the man she knew their people needed him to be.

She should have known better. She got half her wish, but it cost her Aleksander. He changed and she became afraid, convinced he had been corrupted by Merzost and lost to her forever.  

“Oh my boy, my poor boy. My Sasha.” She murmurs in a horrified whisper. “How I’ve wronged you.”

“Mother?” Aleksander queries as he lifts his head.

Baghra meets his gaze, her eyes shining with tears. “I raised you to be strong, to need no one, to bow to no one, to trust only yourself. To see that you were superior.” She bows her head, her hands twisting the cloth of her skirt. “I was wrong. I thought to spare you the pain I felt in losing family, friends… your father, and yet my folly has caused you so much more.”

Her boy is frowning in confusion, and it makes Baghra’s ancient heart ache. Confession is not an act she is familiar with and the words don’t come easily. “But my greatest mistake,” she admits slowly, “is in making you think you had lost my love. Know that I loved you then as I do now. I have always loved you, my Sasha, though I have not shown it well.”  

“After the Fold, I feared I had lost you – you were walking such a dark path – and I could only watch as you became more and more lost. I’ve seen it before, what Merzost does to those who dare to call on it. There is always a price. For some, it takes their minds, other’s it takes their lives, but with you I feared it had taken your heart. You became so cold, so resolute and removed – nothing could touch you, and you listened to no one. I could do nothing but watch.” A tear slides down her wrinkled cheek. “I mourned you, even as I feared what you were becoming, and yet I stood aside and did nothing.” A second tear joins the first. “And then, one day, a miracle happened and I saw my boy returning. She did that, your Alina, she called you back from the path you were on and you found your way back. You’re not a monster, boy, and the man you are now is more than deserving of her love.”

 


 

Silence falls, heavy and impenetrable as the two occupants sit and sip their drinks. This isn’t how the conversation was meant to have gone, Baghra laments to herself. For the first time in years she feels lost and uncertain. It’s not a feeling she’s either familiar or comfortable with. Even at its worse, when she truly believed she would one day have to kill her son to stop the monster he was becoming, had she felt so uncertain as to what she should do. Reluctant? Yes. Mournful? Yes. Regretful? Yes. But uncertain? No. She hadn’t been that.

As day turns into night and shadows envelop the room, Baghra knows that they are at a turning point. Silence is a familiar companion for her and her son, it’s a corner stone of their relationship; they seldom talk, and when they do it’s always about events, and only rarely about feelings. This is her mistake. Her cross to bear. When Mikael has lived, their lives had been very different, full of smiles and laughter and talking, despite the danger. After his death though was when silence crept in like a thief in the night and made itself at home. It had been easier for her not to talk - especially about emotions - and her boy had followed her lead. Hindsight is a cruel mistress, and Baghra now sees so clearly her culpability in this mess. Hers and Aleksander, this is on them.

She can only pray to gods she has long since stopped believing in that her choices haven’t cost Aleksander his chance at love, that she hasn’t ruined his life.

It’s a sobering thought, and one which stays with her long after the gin bottle is empty, and she has tucked her inebriated son onto the nearest sofa. This is her fault. Her mistake. Now she must find a way to put it right.

Notes:

A/N There we go, Aleksander’s side of the story. This was the reason for the delay in posting as I kept changing my mind as to whether to have it from Baghra’s or Aleksander’s perspective. This chapter has gone through so many rewrites I've lost count of how many times it's been revised

This was probably one of the hardest chapters to write, but equally one of the more important ones to get right (from my perspective). One thing that comes through in both the books and the series is that Aleksander is a damaged individual. He’s had serious emotional trauma which hasn’t been dealt with, and that’s before getting into Baghra’s unique way of parenting. You can see what she was trying to do, but equally, raising a child in isolation, with no peers, and a mantra of trust no-one, rely on no-one, bow to no-one, you are superior, is incredibly damaging. When I plotted out the story, this is one of the arcs I really wanted to develop because this isn’t just about redemption for Aleksander, it’s redemption for Baghra as well. It also gave me the opportunity to shoe horn in one of my favourite lines from the series, albeit with a twist.

You’ll be delighted to know that the next chapter will be up shortly (a matter of hours) and that it marks the long awaited end to pretty much all the angst. That doesn’t mean there won’t be more drama (hint hint), but Aleksander and Alina will be on the same page and much happier going forwards, which means I can get back to the fun type writing and stop listening to moody music to help me write.

Next up: A light to Live by
In which things come to a head, and Alina and Aleksander finally talk.

Chapter 21: A Light to Live by

Summary:

Tantrums, tea parties and talking. Oh my. In which things come to a head, and Alina and Aleksander finally get a chance to have things out.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that it’s much easier to make a resolution than it is to make it happen – as Alina spent the last week finding out. It wasn’t for lack of trying either. Aleksander had disappeared. Well, not disappeared, exactly. He was, according to Ivan, exactly where he was supposed to be at any given time, it’s just that this seemed to be wherever Alina wasn’t.

Either way though, it’s frustrating, vexing, and downright annoying. How is she meant to meant to talk to the man if she can’t find him. She had briefly considered writing him a letter, but promptly decided that was far too close to the plot to one of those romances Marie loved so much, and besides, there was no guarantee he’d actually read it even if she did write it. Knowing Aleksander, she rather thought he’d put it away somewhere to look at later and then conveniently forget about it for several years. So no, a letter wasn’t an option.

Genya had suggested bribing one of the Oprinichki to loan her a uniform so she could sneak in to see him, but that was far too pantomime for Alina’s tastes, not to mention it had a high chance of failure, and the last thing she wanted was for Ivan to be the one to discover her subterfuge. The man had only just stopped scowling at her over those ridiculous rumours and she had no desire to return to her former spot of No. 1 annoyance on Ivan’s list.

Her mother’s advice had been to wait and give the man space. “Do not chase him, my Alina,” Mei-Xing had written to her daughter. “If his mother is right and he runs because he feels unworthy of you then he is like a frightened deer. To catch him you must be the skilled hunter who waits until the time is right. A hunter does not chase, they wait for the perfect moment.” It’s sound advice – as usual from Mei-Xing – and Alina can see the sense in it.

So, for all that her impatience burns bright and fierce within her, she does nothing and merely continues with her normal routine. It’s difficult - and likely one of the hardest things she’s ever done. She desperately wants to confront Aleksander, to see if they can mend this gulf between them, and yet she stays her hand. It helps that Genya thinks her mother’s idea a brilliant one and takes to it with all the gusto and commitment of the righteously outraged.

“Genius,” she crowed to Alina after seeing Mei-Xing’s letter. “Absolute genius! I’ve known the General a long time, and the one thing I can say with certainty is that he’s not good at being ignored. At the moment he’s distracted sorting out all the things he couldn’t do while he was off in Caryeva, but that’ll change as we head towards the Fete. Make him work for your attention, make him feel dismissed, and I guarantee he’ll be begging to talk to you.”

Her patience has another benefit though – it gives her and Genya time to perfect The Plan, the one she and the Tailor have been working on for the last few weeks. The plan to deal with the Lantsov’s once and for all.   

 


 

Time moves on as it always does, and with each day that passes the Winter Festival gets closer and closer. There is buzz of excitement in the Little Palace now, one that seems to grow each day as expectation ramps up among the Senior and Junior grisha alike.  For Alina, though, the pressure is like a wave, the tension alternatively receding and then crashing down upon her, as her instructors ramp up her lessons making her practice again and again.

It's all for the display – the grand denouement of the exhibition the grisha are to put on – and her presentation before the assembled dignitaries, ambassadors, nobles and royalty. The criteria is already set - she is to impress, dazzle, amaze and terrify foreigners and fellow Ravkans alike with the power the Tsar has at his command.

She’s to be the iron fist in a velvet glove of Ravkan diplomacy.

It annoys her. Frustrates her. She’s little more than a performing monkey to these people, and it burns within her that on this occasion she has no choice but to do it. Much needed funding for grisha on the front lines is the punishment if she refuses. If she impresses, though, the Second Army will get the increase in their budget and food will be given to the poor of Os Alta in celebration of her triumph. Winter is always hard in Ravka, but this year’s is particularly brutal with low food stocks after another poor harvest, and people are struggling. That their royal family have not yet sought to relieve this suffering in some way both astonishes and sickens Alina. It’s another example to her of the greed and depravity of the Lantsov line and just one more reason why they need to be removed.  

With all this to think about, it’s perhaps forgivable that the Aleksander-dilemma drops down both her priority list and her awareness. It’s a mistake though as things come to a head - as they usually do - at the worst possible moment. In the middle of the Tsarina’s tea party.

Officially, this is an afternoon meet and greet session for all the newly arrived dignitaries and foreign royalty to be formally introduced and welcomed by Ravka’s illustrious rulers. The fact that these people have all been resident in the Imperial Palace for several days and have almost certainly already met the Tsar and Tsarina is beside the point. Never let it be said that the Lantsov’s let a little thing like common sense get in the way of a party.

The Tsarina’s tea party also marks the official start of the Winter Festival and invitations are fiercely coveted. Alina’s arrives two days before cursed event, complete with the usual Lantsov display of pomp and pageantry.

Marie and Nadia almost levitate out of their seats in their excitement, but for Alina, the innocuous card just makes her groan and hit her head on the breakfast table with a hard thump, certain that it heralds another trying day.

She’s right.

 


 

The morning of the tea party, Genya appears, two Keftas neatly folded over her arm: one in the familiar Etherealki blue, the other an obsidian black with gold embroidery. There’s no question it’s a stunning garment, and one made with only one wearer in mind.

In a terse voice Alina ask for the blue, barely sparing the black another glance as she pulls it from the Tailor’s unresisting grip. She knows a bribe when she sees one, and it leaves a foul taste in her mouth that Aleksander would think her forgiveness so easily bought. Something of her thoughts must be visible on her face as Genya loses her worried frown and smiles beatifically at her choice, a hard glint in her eye as she re-folds the black kefta and takes it away with her.   

Clad in the familiar blue, Alina feels the sun warm her as she makes her way across the grounds towards the Imperial Palace

The room she’s shown into is not the same as the one she was sat in during that dreadful breakfast. This room is much larger and, if possible, even more ostentatious with its high domed ceiling and gilt trimmings on every surface. In a corner, a string quartet are playing, the tunes of the melody unfamiliar to Alina even as she enjoys the soothing notes. The room is packed with dozens of guests and members of the court, each arrayed in brightly coloured outfits, that seem intent on out vying every other person present. The clash of colours makes Alina’s eyes water and long for the sartorial serenity and order of the Little Palace.

Across the room she catches a glimpse of black slinking between the brightly coloured peacocks. Aleksander is here. Of course he is, she rebukes herself sternly. He’s the General of the Second Army, of course he received an invitation. It’s the first she’s seen of him in the ten days since that night in his study and she can’t help but observe him now as he circulates, making the gentry and foreign dignitaries laugh and smile. It’s an intriguing display, and Alina is captivated by the ease with which he charms and flatters his audience, but beneath it all she can see only too clearly his disquiet. Though she doubts anyone else spots it, Aleksander is not at ease in this crowded room, his back always kept to the wall and his eyes always on the nearest exit. It makes a prickle of unease run down her back. They are two grisha alone in a room full of ostkazat’syas – potentially hostile ones at that - and she can see how it wears on him and unnerves him.    

It's an intriguing insight into a complicated man, but before she can think much more on it her attention is claimed by Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky. Gabrielle is delighted to see her new friend again, and she chatters on quite happily for some time without seeming to realise either Alina’s disinterest or her wandering attention. In the few moments spent catching up with the other young woman, Aleksander has vanished again. It’s a vexing discovery, and one that make her unusually inattentive to her nattering friend.

Suppressing a sigh, Alina draws her friend’s attention to the music. Gabrielle’s effusions provide a welcome distraction, and she smiles for the first time since she entered this dratted room, but all too soon a servant appears with a bow and a message for the Countess. “You are wanted, Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky,” he murmurs quietly, nodding towards where an older man is watching them with a dark glare, and Alina watches with concern as her friend pales slightly, before bowing her head in the direction of the strange man.

“My betrothed,” she explains as she turns to press Alina’s hands warmly. “Or my future betrothed, anyway.”

“Your future betrothed?” Alina can’t help but query in confusion.

Gabrielle’s smile is wan now, her pale blue eyes dark with emotion. “My parents are seeking a suitable match for me,” she says softly. “Duke Vastinov is a distant cousin of the Tsar. The connection to both the Tsar and Tsarina will secure my family’s place in court for a generation.”

“You don’t look happy,” Alina observes quietly.  

Her friend shakes her blonde head. “It’s not my place to be happy or not. It’s a grand match, and my parents wish it.”

“But what about you?”

Gabrielle laughs. “Oh, my dear Sun Summoner. You can see you were not raised at court.” She sighs deeply, eyes troubled. “I must go. It wouldn’t do to keep the Duke waiting,” and she turns preparing to walk away.

Worried, Alina grabs her hand, pulling her back to face her. “You should have a choice,” she whispers desperately at the other girl, but Gabrielle just shakes her head. “We can’t all be a saint, Alina,” she murmurs softly. “This is just the way things are done. My marriage will secure the place of my family in court and allow my brother to marry higher than he would otherwise be able. Still, I am glad that this is not your fate.” And with those last parting words, Gabrielle is gone, and all Alina can do is watch the couple’s reunion worriedly. The Duke is not a handsome man, with the same small, watery eyes as the Tsar, but there is a cold, calculating expression on his face that she cannot like, and it sends chills down her spine as she observes the proprietary, yet dismissive, way he treats the young woman next to him as if she is a possession he has no wish to share and yet cares little about.

There is an old saying in Shu Han, that if you want to know what the gods think about money, just look at who they give it to. Standing next to her future husband, the Countess looks miserable, and Alina can’t help but think that all the money in the world would not be compensation enough for her to resign herself to such a marriage. It’s a sobering thought and one that turns her stomach. It isn’t fair.    

 


 

After the loss of her friend, Alina is left at a loose end. The room is full to the brim with people, and yet she knows no-one and so far no one seems interested in talking to her. She feel untethered and adrift amidst the opulence and finery of the court, and for the first time she wishes she had worn the black kefta. Her blue had seemed good enough that morning, but now surrounded by silks, satins, velvets and taffetas, she feels underdressed and out of place. She still would have stood out in the black kefta, but it would have been less of a gap to have to have been clothed in the costly black silk, decorated in beautiful beads and gold embroidery.  

Unsettled, she looks for her new fair-haired friend amongst the preening peacocks of the court, but although there are a multitude of blondes present, they are none of them the right one. With a sigh, she turns her attention back to the mob of twittering ladies who have congregated near her. She had hoped her new friend would be at the party, she could use some of his dry, sardonic humour and plain speaking right about now. If she has to listen to one more detailed conversation about court fashion she might scream… or throw herself off the balcony, it really could go either way at this point.

Ten minutes later, though, she’s longing for a return to talking about lace as group’s attention is caught by the sight of the Crown Prince moving towards them. There is a purposeful set to Vasily’s vacuous features which makes Alina’s heart sink, even as the ladies around her giggle excitedly and flutter their fans, in what they clearly think is an alluring way.

The prince’s bow is perfunctory, as is the way he bends to kiss each of the hands thrust towards him by the over eager ladies around her. Towards the back of the group, and partly concealed behind their large, colourful court dresses, Alina turns to stare at a conveniently placed potted plant in the hope that Vasily will somehow miss her presence, and she will be left alone. If presented with the choice of endless discussion of lace or spending time with the Crown Prince, Alina’s knows which she would choose in a heartbeat.

Luck clearly isn’t with this day, however, as no sooner has she started sidling away from the throng then she feels Vasily’s oily stare land on her with the pointed concentration of a dog who has spotted a particularly juicy bone.

“Ahh,” the prince breathes. “Moya Solnishka, there you are. I was wondering where you were hiding.”

The implication that she was hiding makes her bristle – partly because there’s some truth in it – but what makes her eyes flash gold with anger is him calling her his Solnishka. She isn’t his, will never be his, and it rankles her to hear him lay claim to her in such a public way, but underneath that is another layer of anger, this one ignited by his appropriation of a name only Fedyor has called her before now. Said in that vaguely mocking voice of his, solnishka has ceased to be the endearment her friend meant and instead takes on a different meaning altogether.

With the deftness born of years of practice, Vasily manoeuvres them away from the safety of the group to a quiet alcove on the edge of the room. It’s still public enough not to concern Alina very much, but it still sets her on edge, Genya’s warnings swimming in her ears.

Around them there is a humdrum of a hundred conversations taking place, the clatter of plates and glasses as servants make their rounds, ensuring the great and the good never run out of food or drink. It’s white noise to her, all her attention – all her focus – is on the man beside her. The man exuding a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

The peace of the moment doesn’t last long, as Alina feels with a jolt of shock the prince’s hand slide from where it had been resting innocently, if proprietorially, on her elbow to the dip in spine, before travelling to caress her tailbone; his questing fingers barrelling across the line of inappropriate to indecent in the time it takes her to blink. She freezes, as in the quiet she feels the gentle pants of his breath brushing her neck.

The hand gets braver and more forward. Her body tenses, no longer frozen in shock, but tense like a predator about to strike. Not that the foolish man next to her notices.

“Please remove your hand, your highness,” Alina says conversationally, a tense smile fixed on her face as she recalls the very public nature of their location.  

Vasily smiles, “and why would I do that dearest. It’s quite happy where it is.” He gives her a little stroke.

Alina’s eyes flash gold with anger. “Either you remove it, or I will - and I don’t think you’ll like my method.” A tendril of light wraps around the Tsarevitch’s wrist, the searing heat a warning. She is very aware of both the public setting and the interest a scene will cause. More than that, though, she’s just spotted that Aleksander is less than 20 feet away. The Shadow Summoner is currently distracted by an enquiry from a tiresome looking old man sporting an enormous moustache, an even more enormous belly and a monocle. Such a distraction, however, won’t last long and if there’s any hope of avoiding a diplomatic incident that will torpedo The Plan, she needs to sort the situation now.

The crown prince laughs, but at least he moves his hand. Alina is just breathing a sigh of relief when she feels it slip lower, curving and cupping her bottom. She would like to say that the elbow that finds its way into the Tsarevitch’s solar plexus was entirely deliberate and part of her well-considered strategy, but that would be a lie. Feeling Vasily’s fingers touch her so intimately has Alina reacting purely on instinct as she pulls back her arm and drives it into the soft torso behind her. The resulting gagging sound and raspy breathing are as rewarding as her sudden freedom from being groped, and for one glorious second Alina almost laughs with jubilation. Then her eyes find Aleksander’s and her joy dies a swift and painful death.

Because Aleksander is watching. He’s watching and there’s murder in his eyes. Next to him the tedious be-monocled man is still wittering on, apparently unaware that he has well and truly lost his audience’s attention, or the danger he is in as the General almost vibrates with protective fury, and Alina can tell it’s only through sheer force of will that his shadows have not yet manifested. Eyes black and seething, it’s the Darkling that steps forward, all leonine and lethal grace, shadows gathering around his hands as his gaze remains locked on his quarry, and Alina knows that blood is about to be spilt.

Beside her, the prince is still spluttering, blissfully unaware of the danger he has landed himself in, but it gives her an idea. It’s the work of a second for Alina to feign concern and summon one of the many servants to bring the Crown Prince a glass of wine, while she laments loudly that prince has swallowed a fly. Around them, the hubbub increases as concerned courtiers all start pushing each other so that they can be the one to offer the prince assistance.

The furore gives Alina the cover she needs, and lightning fast she ducks between two hooped skirts to grab Aleksander’s wrist, halting his progress through the crowd. Glancing down at his hands, she’s relieved to see the gathering shadows dissolve into nothingness as his attention shifts from the prince to her.

“We need to talk”, she mutters darkly, eyes flashing - daring him to defy her - and with her hand wrapped around his with an iron grip, she proceeds to tug him out of the room.

 


 

They must make for an odd sight, she thinks, as she stalks down the path leading to the Little Palace, through the vestibule doors, and down the twisting corridors towards his suite - the Sun Summoner towing the feared Darkling to his rooms like a recalcitrant child. In front of her, the guards on duty salute sharply even as they move out of her way, and then they’re inside and the door is shut and locked, and she feels her breath whoosh out of her in relief.

Her relief lasts about as long as it takes for reality to sink in and then she feels cold, icy and frozen for a different reason. Aleksander nearly… he was going too… what in all the saint’s blessed names had he been thinking. He’d nearly undone years – decades – of work. In one fell swoop he would have not just destroyed but eradicated all he’d achieved in making grisha accepted in Ravka, of giving them a safe haven. Their people would never be safe again if he’d succeeded. They would be reviled, hated, driven out. It would be a fast ticket back to the dark days before grisha gained even the limited acceptance they have now.

And it would have been his fault.

It’s a thought that makes her furious, and she feels the fear burn inside her.

“What was that?” she demands fiercely, but her anger only seems to reignite his own, as Aleksander growls, “what was what.”

“That,” she waves an expressive hand in the general direction of the Imperial Palace, “back there, during the tea party. What was that?”

His eyes darken, shadows swirling around his hands, and his expression is grim as he remarks. “You shouldn’t have stopped me, Alina.”

“What. Was. That.” She growls back, ire punctuating each word.

“You know what that was,” his eyes gleam with anger and darkness.

“You-you idiot!” Alina shrieks. “What on earth we’re you thinking. Or weren’t you. You can’t go around killing members of the royal family in public.”

“So it would have been fine in private then?” he laughs darkly. “My, my, Alina. You are full of surprises.”

“No. But at least you’d stand less chance of being caught and executed for regicide and treason. Don’t you realise what you nearly did – what it would have meant?” It’s almost a plea by the end, and Alina kneads her forehead tiredly, her adrenalin rush rapidly fading and leaving her feeling exhausted.

Before her, Aleksander stands, a quizzical look on his face and Alina realises with a sickening blow that no, he doesn’t. He really doesn’t get it, he doesn’t see. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Aleks,” she begins gently, “you’re an idiot.” The affronted expression is nearly enough to make her laugh, but the seriousness of what she’s about to say is as sobering as a knife in the gut. She shakes her head, “no, you are. Look, listen to me. Just… just listen,” she adds when it seems like he is about to interrupt. “You nearly destroyed everything. If you’d succeeded in killing Vasily, what do you think would have happened? The Tsar would have come after you. The ruling families, they’d have come after you. But they wouldn’t just stop there.” And it wouldn’t, she can see it all so clearly in her minds eye, the fighting, the bloodshed, the slaughter. They would be straight back to the dark days when anyone suspected of being grisha, or of helping them, were hunted and murdered on mass.

Her eyes are sad and glassy with the tears that choke her as she says, “it wouldn’t matter if us grisha sided with you or not, there would be civil war. We’d all be tarred with the same brush, guilty by association, and they’d come after us to get at you. How many would have died, Aleks. How many would have perished if you had succeeded.”

Aleksander is frozen, his mouth open, as if he had been about to speak. The inky wisps around his hands have vanished, and Alina can see the pain as realisation hits him with all the force of a sledgehammer.

“Alina… you were… he was…”

“No!” Aleksander looks shocked at her barked interruption. “Don’t you dare put this one me. This one is on you, Aleksander. All. On. You. You know what I think? I think that you’re afraid. Terribly, horribly, nightmarishly afraid. That’s what all this” she gestures between them, “is really about. “

As she speaks, her thoughts are forming, coalescing in her mind. The moment has come, the clock’s run down. She’s out of time. It’s an odd thing, she’s spent over a week impatient and desperate for this moment, and yet now it’s come her hands are sweaty, her stomach in knots and she’d really much rather put it off for a while longer.

She catches sight of them in the window, they look like adversaries; blue against black and she realises that this has all the makings of a tragic love story - one in which love turns to hate, and those who should have been united are instead divided and left to fight on opposite sides. It reminds her of the current book Marie and Nadia are obsessed over instead of concentrating on their classwork: a story about two people driven apart by manipulation, lies, distrust and sordid secrets.

Well, she won’t let it. This only become one of those stories if they allow it to be, and Alina won’t. This is her line in the sand, this far and no further.

When she looks up, it’s to the sight of Aleksander glaring at her, eyes blazing with swirling emotion. “And what would you have had me do?” he demands defensively, his tone cutting and derisive, “just stand there and let that lecherous cumberground paw at you?”

“Maybe I liked it. Maybe I wanted his attention. Ever think of that?” Alina hisses, outrage and embarrassment making her cruel.

Aleksander reeled back as if struck. “You can’t mean… you wanted it?”

Anger cooling at the look of pained befuddlement on his face, Alina shrugs, cheeks pink with awkwardness. “Well, no,” she concedes. “But that’s not the point.” She levels a quelling glare at the man. “The point is I was managing it. I didn’t need you charging in on your white horse to save me and nearly decapitate the Crown Prince at a tea party.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he howls, pain and fury, frustration and impotent rage echoing in his words. “You have no idea, Alina. None! You have no conception of the vipers nest you’ve walked into. You’re such an innocent. You think what that cankerous scrotum did was bad, but you have no idea what the Lantsovs’ are capable of, the depravity, the wickedness.”

Alina shakes her head firmly, “You think so, do you? That might have been true once, but things changed. Have you forgotten I was in the First Army for over a year? I know what men are like, Aleksander, but more to the point - you haven’t been here for over a month, a lot has happened.  I know a lot more about the Lantsovs now and their predictions,” she takes no pleasure in the way Aleksander pales, nor the haunted expression that creeps into his eyes, but he needs to know and understand. This is too important to let go or for her to soften her blows.

“I know what that fat pig of a Tsar does to Genya, and I know that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree in his simpering son. The point is, I was handling it. But instead of trusting that I could get myself out of the situation you went all, all,” she struggles to find the right word, “mannish and decided to I needed to be protected. Not only was it totally unnecessary, but you nearly created a diplomatic incident that would have spelt disaster for our people.”

The man before her is but a shadow of the Aleksander she has known her whole life. There is a defeated set to his shoulders and there are tears in his eyes as he looks at her beseechingly, “I was trying to protect you. All I have done I have done for you, to protect you, to save you, to keep you safe.”

Aline shakes her head, a sad smile flitting across her face. “Then you still don’t understand,”

“Understand what?”

“That I don’t need you to be my white knight. I don’t need a protector, Aleks.”

“Then what do you need.” He asks hoarsely, his desperation clear.  

She shakes her head again. “I don’t need anything anymore. I’m not that frightened child who used to hide behind your cloak expecting you to save me. I’ve grown up.”

Pain explodes in his eyes at her pronouncement, a look of such raw desolation that she is powerless to resist as her hand reaches forward to clasp his own.

“I don’t need a protector,” she reiterates gently, urging his eyes to meet hers. “What I want is a friend, an equal. Someone to stand beside me, to help me when I falter, to show me when I’m making a mistake, to hold my hand when I’m afraid - not because I’m weak but because we’re stronger together.”

“I do see you are my equal,” he argues desperately. “You alone are my equal, as I’ve said to you countless times.”

Once, perhaps, such a declaration would have been enough to calm Alina, but not now. “No, we’re not,” she replies sadly. “You think we are, but you won’t let me be, not really. I’m not your equal because you don’t trust me enough to let me.”

“That’s not true!”

Alina smiles sadly, but her voice is firm as she says, “yes it is. Oh, you trust me more than you many others, of that I’m sure, but when the chips are down you don’t trust me, not really, because trust requires faith, and you are the most risk averse man I know when it comes to yourself. You are so afraid of being alone, and yet you push people away, never wanting them to get near because then you might be proved right that they will leave you. It’s easier to keep everyone at arm’s length, and that’s why you rejected me in this very room.”

“Not this again, Alina,” he sounds exhausted as if the fight has gone out of him and left behind this tired, resigned shell of a man. “There is no future for you and I, no happy ending. You say you love me now, but you don’t know…” he broke off. “There is no good outcome of this, milaya. I’ve lived a long time, I’ve seen more relationships end in blood and tears than I can count and I want more for you. I want a life of safety, of children and growing old. Of happiness. All things I can’t give you.” He brushes his fingers along her cheek, eyes dark with pain. “Let me do this for you, please.”

It's a telling speech, and his words firm Alina’s resolve at the confirmation of everything she’s suspected. In her mind the sun sings, bathing her in warmth and giving her the strength to plough on. Her hand raises to grip Aleksander fingers, pulling it to rest against her heart in the hope that he can feel how steady and sure it is.

“You send me away because you believe you don’t deserve to be loved, because you fear who you are, and you’re terrified that I won’t love you if I know. But I know you, Aleksander, all of you - the bad bits, the ugly secrets you have carried for so long, and the goodness I know you don’t believe you have anymore. I see it all.”

Aleksander looks away, head ducked and eyes on the floor as he says to the carpet, “you can’t, Alina - you don’t know… you think you do, but you don’t. You have no idea who I truly am, the things I’ve done are beyond forgiveness.”

Alina grips his hand tighter. “Like what?” It’s less a question and more a demand.

Aleksander steels himself. This is the right thing he reminds his aching heart, this is the right thing to do. His precious girl is too pure and gentle to be shackled to him. She needs to see the monster that resides behind his handsome features.

“I’ve lied, Alina. Lied and manipulated to get my own way, I seduced countless women to my bed over the years - so many I’ve lost count and can barely even remember their faces.” His eyes meet the distinctly unimpressed gaze of the Sun Summoner.” Swallowing, he continues, “I’ve killed - murdered - so many that my hands are drenched in blood.”

“I already knew all that,” Alina remarks, unmoved. “Your modern history lessons were always very thorough. I’ve never been under any illusions about either factor, Aleksander, and you’ve clearly forgotten that I grew up in Os Alta if you thought I would be ignorant of the fact that men like you take lovers.”

Aleksander clenches his teeth and looks away, seceding victory in their impromptu staring competition to Alina. He had hoped that would be enough to send his precious girl away, but as usual she is a continual surprise to him.

“Stop this, Alina,” he begs at last, “I’m trying to do the right thing and honour the promise I made to your mother. I can’t give you what you want.”

“And what do you think that is?” Alina replies, head tilted thoughtfully to one side as she files the mention of a promise away for later consideration.

“Family, a home, a life free of danger,” he waves an expressive hand, “all the things women usually want.”

But instead of looking aghast or even upset, Alina just laughs. “Who said I want any of that?” she queries, a triumphant smile on her face. “But let’s take this one point at a time. Home is where the people you love are, its not a building, or a place, to me. So long as you’re there, I’ll be home. So we can knock that one off your list.” She grins. “As for a life free of danger, I don’t think anyone can offer me that. Not now that I’ve been outed as the one and only Sun Summoner. So you can cross that one off as well. Now for children…” she trails off and shoots an expectant look at Aleksander, who sighs.

“I’ve lived a long, Alina, a very long time. All those years and all those lovers and I have never fathered a child.” Not for lack of trying at one time, either. It’s a grief that’s faded over the centuries, but the ache is still there. He and Luda had been desperate to start a family, they had hoped that even though Luda would not be able to stay with him throughout the long years of immortality, that they would have a child who would. Ten years they had tried before Luda had been taken from him. Ten years. Surely it would have happened then if it was possible.

Alina watches him thoughtfully. “And that makes you think you can’t?” Aleksander nods, and Alina lets out a sigh of relief at having a simple problem. “Have I ever said I wanted children?” She asks, rocking back on her heels as she enjoys watching the shock spread across his face.

“But you’re…” he starts only for Alina to interrupt him.

“The answer is not particularly, but the bigger point is that this should be my decision whether I’m willing to give this up, not yours. This isn’t your decision to make, Aleks. But come, let’s hear your next reason.”

Her blithe responses throw him. All his thoughts and fears rationally discussed and dismissed as no more that wisps of fog in the face of Alina’s determination. There’s only one reason left now. Just one. The worst one. The one he hoped never to have to tell her. He had wanted to avoid this, longed for it, actually. His worst sin and the one that will drive her from him forever.

He turns from her, ripping his hand from hers as he paces to lean over his desk, back towards her, trying to gather both his whirling thoughts and his fleeing courage.

“Aleks,” Alina’s query is a soft murmur behind him, but it’s enough to send him over the edge.

Anguish and anxiety combine, and the truth bursts out of him. “For saints sake, Alina, I’m the Black heretic. Me! I created the Fold, I used Merzost to create that perversion of nature and I gloried in the destruction and death.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from his companion and he falls silent, unable to look lest he sees the utter loathing he knows he will be there if he raises his head.

In the stillness of the room there is only the sound of their breathing, and for a long moment that is all he hears, then he hears the footsteps. His shoulders drop and his hands cover his face, his eyes burning. But instead of fading away into the distance, instead of the click of the door, the footsteps get louder until suddenly they are beside him and he feels a gentle hand rest upon his shoulder.

“I know,” is all Alina says, her voice calm and unsurprised. “I know exactly who you are Aleksander Morozova, and I grieve for the pain you have suffered these long years alone, but you’re not alone anymore, Aleks, I’m here - and I’m never going to leave you.”

“Alina…” it’s barely more than a whisper, but she hears him anyway.

“I love you, Aleks. I have loved you for years.”

“But… but you can’t.” It’s a desperate plea. “I’m a monster, Alina. The monster, in point of fact. The one little children still cry themselves to sleep over, the one that can send whole armies running in the opposite direction at just the mention of his name. I’m the bogeyman, the heretic who rebelled against his Tsar and called into being a living death trap that tore his country in two.”

His chest is heaving by the time he finished his impassioned argument. She cannot love him – it’s a shade, a figment his Alinochka loves, not him and he has to make her understand that, has to make her see him for the monster his truly is. Not the prince of the fairy tale but the beast.

“You think that’s the worst of it, but it isn’t. It’s just the start. I’ve murdered, lied, manipulated. I’ve used people with no care as to the consequences for them. I’ve spent centuries planning what I’d do when the Sun Summoner was finally found, how I’d manipulate them, seduce them so that they’d be under my – and only my – control.” His eyes are hollow when they find hers, “I planned to trap you. I was going to have a Durast make you an amplifier collar out of bone and place it around your neck, binding you to me and putting your power under my control for eternity.” The words rush out of him in a torrent, as if once pierced, the dam of his secrets has given way entirely. “I would have used you as I saw fit and there would have been nothing you could have done to stop me. Now tell me you still love me.”

There is silence, then: “Me, me, or abstract me,” Alina asks curiously.

“Is there a difference?” he asks, voice low and defeated.

Alina shrugs, a shrewd glint in her eye. “Quite a big one, I’d think.”

He glances at her and shakes his head. “Not you. Never you, Alina.”

Alina hums. “Then it was an abstract Sun Summoner you planned to do this too. Someone you didn’t know, didn’t care about. Someone who could be made into the weapon you want.”

Aleksander nods.

Anger surges through her at his admission. Yes, there is a difference. One that plays a pretty important part in whether she can stay here in the Little Palace. Had Aleksander answered any differently, he would have been right, she’d have had to leave. She couldn’t let another person control her sun, not even Aleksander. But it reaffirms something else as well though, how important – how vital – it is that Aleksander has an equal, someone who can stop from going too far. That’s what her dreams have been showing her. They balance each other, but more than that, they are the only ones who have a hope of stopping the other. Whatever becomes of their relationship in the future, whether she can get through to him or not, this simple truth stands.

“Do you see now, Alina?” the question jolts her out of her thoughts, and confused she raises an enquiring eyebrow. Aleksander gives her a small, resigned smile. “You see it now,” he says gently, “the monster I am. You don’t love me. You love a shade, a phantom, who never existed.”

He steps toward her, “I don’t deserve your love. I know this will hurt you – and it pains me to do so – but it’ll fade. What you feel now will fade with time, dearest one, and then you’ll be free to live the life you deserve.”  

Frustrated, Alina whirls away from him, her boots thumping the floor in her annoyance. “Enough of this, Aleksander,” she shouts, sparks glittering along her skin in her anger. “You must think me a child, an ignorant and naïve one at that, to believe I’ll just go along with what you’re saying. You think I don’t understand the darkness inside you, but I do. You think to scare me away by telling me these things but you’re wrong. I already know these sins, I know why and how the Fold was created. I know the depth of the old Tsar’s betrayal. I know he promised safety for grisha in return for you fighting his war with Shu Han only to renege and try to kill you, murdering hundreds of grisha in the process. I know you called upon Merzost in desperation and that what was made wasn’t what you intended. I know!”

A tear slides down his cheek as Aleksander is frozen in place by the fierceness of Alina’s stare. Her voice softens, “I know all this, Aleks, I know and it doesn’t change anything. You say you’re a monster, but you’re not - you’re a man who has been placed in an intolerable position, one who has made mistakes that you’ve paid and paid for, one who has done terrible things out of a desperate need to protect your people, but it doesn’t make you evil. Vasily and his ogre of a father are evil - they take what they want never considering the harm they cause in doing so, and worse not caring because to them other people are meaningless, valueless, disposable.”

“Yes, what you planned to do to the Sun Summoner was despicable and wrong, but there’s a big difference between thinking about something and actually doing it. Planning something doesn’t make you guilty of doing it. You turned away from that, you realised it was wrong and have sought to make amends, to become someone else. That’s the difference.” It’s a vital difference to Alina’s mind. The difference between condemnation and redemption. The proof that despite his avowals to the contrary, he is still her Aleks – the man she has grown up with, the man she knows, and she understands now in a way she didn’t before what Baghra had meant when she referred to the dark path he had been walking.

She approaches him cautiously, like she would a frightened animal. There is something feverish and wild and about him, as if he has been pushed too far and is about to fall off the cliff edge. “You think you’re the villain of this piece, but you’re wrong. So very wrong. The only person intent on making you out to be the villain is you. Not me. Not Genya. Not Mama. Not Botkin. Not even your mother. None of the people who matter see you like this.”

“Do you regret what you planned, Aleks?” Alina asks, full of compassion as she tries to make him see.

He stares, aghast and full of horror, “of course I do, Alina. It makes me sick to think of what I might have done to you. I’d rather die a thousand deaths torn apart by volcra than bring you harm.” There’s a sincerity in his voice, as if all the lies and obfuscations have been pulled away and all that’s left is truth. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret… that I don’t wish…”

“Then I forgive you.” The words are like a benediction to his bruised heart and a dagger in his gut at the same time, but Alina isn’t finished.

“It’s my choice who I love, Aleksander - not yours, not the Tsars, not the people of Ravkas. It’s my choice to whom I give my heart and mine alone.” Her expression changes, the softness of a moment ago gone as steely resolution takes its place and Aleksander can’t help the panic that thrums through him as he sees her beloved eyes glow golden in the lamp light.

“Alina,” he tries but is silenced at her look as she steps closer. Warmth is radiating from where her hand rests against his forearm and for a moment Aleksander thinks it’s her sun which is the cause of the warm glow igniting his blood, but such a thought is quickly dismissed, lost in the recesses of his mind as his eyes meet hers and are caught by the boundless emotion he can see within. It’s like fire is racing through his veins as she closes the scant distance remaining between them to whisper in his ear. “And I choose you.”

She steps back, and the distance is like a physical loss. “But if the last few days have showed me anything, its that things need to change.”

The pain in his eyes is almost unbearable, his defences stripped bare and raised to the ground, but Alina can’t stop now, it’s too important that he understand, that they renegotiate their relationship to an equal footing -one of honesty and trust - no matter the pain it causes them both.

With this thought, she grips his hand tighter, willing his brilliant mind to understand what she’s trying to tell him. “I don’t need you, but I do want you as my equal, my most trusted, best beloved friend, my match. I want to be true and equal partners, Aleks, but that needs trust on both sides. There is no equality if there’s no trust. You need to trust that I can look after myself, that I can make my own decisions, that I can fall and pick myself up again.”

“And what if you can’t?” Aleksander cries, “what if you fall too far and you can’t get back up? What then - am I supposed to stand by, powerless to help?”

Alina shakes her head, a smile lighting up her face. “Then you trust that I will know when ask for help. Of course, if I’m kidnapped by a hoard of marauding dragons then feel free to come to my rescue - that’s the time for a knight in shining armour,” she laughs as she waves an expressive hand. “I’m not asking you not to come to my aid if I’m in dire need. I’m asking you to let me fight my own battles. I want to be your equal, Aleks, but you keep trying to shield me like I’m still that 5 year old girl you first met, and I’m not. I’m an adult, an experienced medic and a fairly powerful grisha. What I want is to stand by your side and help you fight our battles – for you to trust me to make my own decisions and respect what I say. If you can’t trust me then this, whatever this is or becomes,” she waves a hand between them, “will never work.” She looks away, tears springing to her eyes. “and then you really will lose me.”

“I know it’ll be hard; you’re used to being alone and in solely in control, of being obeyed, and I know how hard this will be, but there’s no other way. You need someone to stop you before you go too far, someone to balance you, someone to rely on so it isn’t just you making decisions. You say I’m your match, your equal, so let me be that person. Let me be your equal.”

A silvery tear slides down Aleksander’s face. His eyes are haunted with a fathomless pain when they lock with hers. The last half an hour has easily been one of the worst in recent memory. Each and every one of her charges hitting with the precision and force of a rifle shot. Shame burns within him - shame, guilt, pain and remorse - it’s a potent, choking mix.

His mind - that traitorous entity - reminds him how desperately he has wanted an equal over the centuries, someone with whom to share the burdens he carries, someone he can turn to and who he knows will never turn away. He’s been alone, so alone, for so long, at the top of the social structure he has forgotten what it means to have an equal, to have someone who can help him, who he can talk too, who can understand the knife edge he spends most of his life tap dancing on. It’s been his desperate wish for centuries; the comforting thought that has kept him warm during long winter nights, kept him company when the loneliness and sense of isolation was at its most crippling, it’s the thought that has kept him going, no matter how hard or dark or gruelling the battle.

He thinks of Alina’s points, her courage - always so much greater than his own - in raising and confronting these issues, and nods. A single jerk of the head, but it’s enough for Alina who throws her arms around him, her lips pressing against his cheek in her fervent delight.

“Alina, I’ve been alone for a very long time,” Aleksander cautions softly.

“Yes,” Alina agreed, just as softly, “I know,” she leans back to meet his eyes, a grin lighting up her features, “and that means you’ve developed some very bad habits. Lucky for you I’m the patient sort.”

“Alina,” he murmurs brokenly, as he pulls her back into the circle of his arms. “My light to live by.”

Wrapped in his desperate embrace, he feels Alina’s wet laugh, “then let me show you the way.”

 


 

Change is always hard - and especially for a near immortal - but this is Alina and he’d move the stars for her if she asked. There is nothing he would not do for her, nothing he will not try, even this, though it goes against his every instinct. She is the light he lives by and, perhaps, in time he can become the man worthy of her. The man she believes him to be.

Notes:

A/N I’m almost too scared to ask what you think, but I will anyway. I loved writing this chapter, and its probably one of my favourites so far. FYI a cumberground was a 15/16th century word for a particularly stupid, useless and obsolete individual who’s only purpose in life is to take up space. I love words – particularly old words – and this one was just too good to not use here. Solnishka is a term of endearment usually used to mean someone is a dreamer or idealist. Fedyor obviously means it is an affectionate way when he calls Alina this, but for Vasily its more a derogatory term.

I'm super excited about the next arc of the story. Now that's the angsty stuff and character development is out of the way, we start finding out more about the Soldat Sol, The Plan and what Alina's been working on secretly behind closed doors.

Next up: As the World Falls Down.
We finally get to the Winter fete (not to be confused with the winter ball which will be in chapter 23), an unexpected visitor arrives, Alina shows off and a winter picnic is arranged.

 

Bonus outtake. A little something that I was going to use in this chapter then decided against it. But as I thought you might enjoy it, I've included it here :).

Alina takes one look at the murderous expression on Aleksander’s face and sighs. “Stop that,” she tells the man sharply.

Stop what, precious?” Aleksander asks, voice sinfully silky and guileless.

She frowns, desperately trying to suppress the laughter that is trying so hard to escape her. “Stop plotting Vasily’s murder.”

A mutinous look crosses Aleksander’s face as he crosses his arms, his shadows swirling about him. “Why?” he asks. “You can’t deny that revolting excuse for a human being deserves it.”

Alina shakes her head, eyes full of affection. “No,” she agrees, “but I have a plan, and I won’t let you be the one to muck it up.”

Chapter 22: Reunions and Revelations

Summary:

In which an unexpected person turns up at an inconvenient moment, Ivan has to deal with another idiot Otkazat’sya intent on interfering with his diarising, and Alina finds out about the Stag.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Alina running - flying - over the snowy tundra. With each breath she feels the crisp icy air in her lungs and the pine scent only found in the mountains. With each moment that passes the sun rises higher in the sky, it’s light stretching outwards and reaching ever further across the mountainous landscape. Before it, the shadows of night recede, always a step ahead of the chasing sun.

At first all Alina feels is the joy of freedom, the rush of air whooshing past her as she hurtles after the fleeing darkness. But then, slowly, she becomes aware of another presence. Something is hidden by the shadows, and she can feel it’s thrill at the chase, of being hunted. It welcomes it, she realises, confused. It wants to be found, and yet only those worthy can find it. It’s a riddle and a puzzle, and Alina feels herself pick up speed until she is racing the light. There it is in front of her, a ghostly white shape partly concealed by dense undergrowth and the darkness that seeks to hide it from her sight. She catches another glimpse of it as it breaks from the trees, dashing across the snow as it hurtles towards a large forest. It’s a strange creature she thinks as she slows to a stop just outside the densely packed trees. There’s no light in this place, the canopy too overgrown to let her in, and so she stands and watches and thinks about the spectral presence. It’s large - huge - taller than many horses she’s seen and it has something protruding from its head almost like a crown.

She glances around her at the dissolving world. As she fades, she swears she can feel phantom puffs of breath on the back of her neck. Soon, it seems to promise. Soon.

She awakes in a tangle of bedsheets and to the familiar sound of birdsong outside her window. The winter jay is a strange bird, unique to Ravka, it likes the cold and its song can be heard all year round, but especially in the winter when fresh snow lies crisp and undisturbed on the ground.

 


 

Time seems to speed up after the day of the Tsarina’s tea party, stampeding towards the ominous finish line of the Winer Fete and her presentation before the collective great and rich of five kingdoms. It might only have been a few days, but Alina can see the difference in Aleksander. There’s a new light in his eyes now, one that speaks of excitement, relief and a joy he’s never felt before. It warms her heart. She’s not foolish enough to think that everything is fixed, but it’s a start – a brilliant start – and a new beginning for them both.

Things are changing at the Little Palace. Little changes, perhaps, but significant ones all the same. Gone is the carefully cultivated reserve that had crept into their interactions and instead there is a new openness. Alina is now not just invited to but a minuted attendee of the daily security briefing and the war meetings. If the officers of the First and Second Armies are surprised by her sudden inclusion they, at least, have the sense not to show it. Aleksander has also formalised her rank within the Second Army placing her as a Commander within it. This had been a complicated issue to resolve and Alina knew that it had irritated some as she had jumped the ranks and others because they felt that as the Sun Summoner she should be given equal rank to the Darkling. Aleksander had surprisingly been in the latter camp. He had wanted her to take the rank of General and Co-Commander of the Second Army. It had been Alina who had refused and bargained him down to Commander. She had been a respected member of the Medical Corp, but she had no experience of war strategy, or of leading armies. Placing her at the head seemed to her like folly, so she refused and instead suggested being made a Captain – a rank high enough to command respect, but not so high that in her ignorance and inexperience she could do a lot of harm. Determined to have her recognised as his Second-In-Command, Aleksander had counter proposed she become a Commander, equal in position and authority to Ivan – a position seconded, surprisingly, by Ivan himself. So, Alina was introduced that night at dinner as Commander Alina Starkov to uproar and applause from the senior grisha present.  

The black kefta arrived the morning after, making Alina laugh as she reads the card attached: My equal, is all it says in Aleksander’s familiar cursive script. It’s an acknowledgement, a sign after so long doubting him, that it makes her cry with happiness. He’s understood what she had been trying to say to him. Understood and taken action.

Genya is standing behind her as she unwraps it, and she feels the Tailor’s sharp intake of breath as she reads Alek’s message. For a moment the redhead says nothing, but then she places a gentle hand on Alina’s shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Well,” she says with a smile in her voice, “if you’re changing colours, we’ll need to rethink your attire for the presentation and ball.”

 


 

The first real test though for Aleks’ new resolve comes in the form of a visitor. Mal turns up one frosty morning quite unexpectedly. His appearance in the vestibule of the Little Palace is as unwelcome to Alina as it is a surprise. Any joy she might have felt at seeing her flirty stalker again is quickly quashed by the wandering hands and the overpowering smell of horse and unwashed male as he pulls her in for a breath squeezing hug. She’s not impressed. Nor as it turns out is Aleksander, who unfortunately arrives just as Mal finishes squeezing the life out of her and takes her oxygen deprived stillness as permission to kiss her.

Clearly remembering their talk the week before, Aleksander merely simmers in frustrated silence at the scene, his eyes black with emotion and his shadows making the normally well-lit room seem dim and suddenly a lot smaller than it had seconds before. His gaze when it sweeps over Mal is dark with promise, but then his eyes meet Alina’s and she sees him take a steadying breath, a faint smile flitting over his face at the irritation he sees in the set of her brow and the glower she’s directing towards the man beside her.

With a mocking bow of his head to the intruder, he departs in a swirl of his kefta leaving it in her capable hands to deal with.

Which she does… by promptly kneeing Oretsev in the groin.

The spluttering, gasping sound as Mal wheezes with pain, is a balm to her frazzled nerves. The temerity of the man! Clearly the four months they have been apart has addled his probably pox ridden mind. She wouldn’t let him kiss her in Kribirsk, so why he thought she would welcome it now Alina has no idea, and she has little intention of finding out. She already has one idiot who won’t leave her alone and doesn’t seem to understand the word ‘no’, and she has neither the time nor the patience to add another to her growing collection of persistent and unwelcome admirers.

“Is all well, Commander?” a new voice asks from the hallway, a hint of danger and sharp anger in their voice.

“Quite well, thank you,” she reassures the concerned Oprinichki. “Mr Oretsev met with a slight…” she pauses for a moment trying to find the right word, “…accident, and could do with some assistance.”

The guards nod, moving quickly to help the still wheezing tracker get back onto his feet.  

“Thanks,” Mal grunts, not sounding or looking particularly thankful.

“What are you doing here, Mal?” Alina asks once he is more or less steady on his feet and is no longer looking so green.

“I came to see you, didn’t I,” he mutters with ill grace.

The look Alina levels at him could curdle milk. “You mean you absconded from your unit without permission just to walk over 200 miles just so you could see someone you hadn’t seen in four months?” She crosses her arms, unimpressed. “A letter would have sufficed.”

Mal grunts, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Well, not quite,” he hedges.

“What does not quite mean, exactly?” Alina asks, her foot tapping as impatience starts to get the better of her. With the Fete and presentation tomorrow, she really has far too much to do to fit in any unscheduled shenanigans.

The tracker shuffles, looking awkward. “Well, I did want to see you. Me and the boys, that is. But we didn’t go AWOL. I Swear!” he quickly adds in the face of Alina’s flat stare and raised eyebrow. “We had a mission – a mission that if completed meant we were to report directly to General Kirigan.”

Alina tilts her head, impatience melting away as her curiosity is reluctantly poked into paying attention. “What sort of mission?” She asks at last.

“Can’t say,” Mal replies with some of his typical swagger re-emerging. “Top Secret. But it was really dangerous. We were even in Fjerda for a while. Had to dodge several of their patrols – poor Dubrov took a bullet to the leg, he almost didn’t make it.”

“I’m sure,” Alina murmurs, brain ticking over the clues the flirty man was unwittingly dropping.

“Would you like me to summon Commander Sokolov, Sankta?” One of the Oprinichki ask with more deference than usual, as if trying to make the point to Mal about how one should talk to a living saint. If that’s the case, it’s a wasted effort. Subtlety, Alina knows from experience, seldom makes it through Mal’s thick head. An extraordinarily talented tracker he might be, but known for his sensitivity to social cues and other people’s emotions he is not.

Still, the Oprinichki’s idea has merit. Ivan is the correct person to deal with this issue. Afterall, he is keeper of Aleksander’s diary and Alina would hate to step on his toes by interfering the careful itinerary of the General’s day. If there’s also a part of her that shakes with amusement at the prospect of Ivan and Mal meeting, well…

Nodding decisively, she turns to the Oprinichki. “Yes, please,” she says with a smile matched by the guard. “Ivan is the man you want if you need to report to General Kirigan,” she adds to a visibly confused Mal. “He manages the General’s diary and is the best placed to know where he is at the moment and when he might be available to see you.”

“What do you mean ‘when he might be available?’” Mal asks, frowning. “I’ve come all this way and I’ve got urgent intelligence.”

Alina rolls her eyes, her fingers longing to pinch the bridge of her nose as her vexation climbs. Thankfully though she is saved the bother of explaining, as the remaining Oprinichki turns a grave eye on the tracker, saying sternly. “The General is a very busy man. He is running a war, after all – and overseeing the preparations for the festivities tomorrow. I’m sure you understand he can’t just drop whatever he’s doing. He will see you when he has time.”

 


 

Ivan appears like a storm cloud blowing down the hallway. That he’s cross at being summoned is clear even at 50 paces and his face only grows more thunderous as he listens to the Otkazat’sya demanding an immediate audience with their General.

With a loud snap, Ivan opens the hefty diary and takes a satisfyingly long moment perusing it’s contents, before announcing. “General Kirigan has an opening next Tuesday at 5pm. Shall I pencil you in?”

“What?!?” Mal explodes, “But that’s a week away.”

Ivan levels a scathing glare at the tracker. “Are you suggesting that you’re more important that the meeting with the Joint Chiefs, or the Tsar. Perhaps you would like me to move the war briefing session with the First Army Generals, or the diplomatic talks with Shu Han and Fjerda?”  

“Well, no,” Mal subsides, looking cowed. “But you see it might not be there next week.”

“What might not be there?” Ivan grunts dismissively.

“The thing,” Mal says, waving an expressive hand, as if he expects Ivan to magically know what he means. “You know, the Thing. The Top-Secret Thing he wanted us to find.”

With a grunt of annoyance, Ivan swings round to glare at Alina, clearly blaming her for this mess. “What thing?” he demands crossly.

“Don’t ask me,” Alina shrugs, “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

Ivan moves his glare back to Mal, visibly pleased when the tracker takes an automatic step back. “What thing?” he asks again.

“I can’t tell you,” Oretsev says looking miserable. “It’s Top-Secret. I have the letter here, says once located to go immediately to the Little Palace and report directly to General Kirigan.”

“Stupid Otkazat’sya,” Ivan grunts, his annoyance ratcheting up to near murderous levels. “Why didn’t you show me the letter. Wasting time, just like the First Army. Incompetent, stupid, idiots.”

“Hey!” Mal protests, although whether this is because of Ivan’s diatribe or the way the Heartrender snatched the letter from his hand, Alina has no idea. Knowing Mal though, it’s likely the latter rather than the former. The tracker has a notoriously thick skin.

With the letter now in his possession, Ivan peruses it with a single minded attention an accountant would be proud of, before shoving it back into Mal’s still open hand with a grunt of annoyance. “Very well,” he says, returning to the appointment book. “17:00 today. That’s the earliest the General can see you.” He turns to the Oprinichki. “See that the Otkazat’sya has a room and board. He will be staying with us until the General has seen him and decided what to do with his… news.”

And that’s that. With his usual efficiency, Ivan packs Mal off somewhere (most likely the stables) and Alina is free to get on with preparing for her presentation. If the mystery of the tracker’s presence gnaws at her, she’s sure she’ll find out soon enough.

 


 

She does find out.

The summons arrives unexpectedly just as Alina is finishing her final dress fitting with Genya. Ivan is looking no more pleased now than he did earlier, but at least this time his scowl isn’t quite so ferocious, and he doesn’t look like he’d happily start clobbering everyone within striking distance with his appointment book.

“Come,” is all he says when Genya opens the door to him, “the General has need of you.”

“What?” Alina asks in confusion, as she tries to hastily lace her boots and pull her kefta on simultaneously.  

Ivan glowers at her. “No time for questions,” he barks. “The General has requested your presence,” and with that he turns to leave. Heaving a sigh, Alina trots after her escort, a dozen questions burning in the back of her mind.  

 


 

Given how busy her day has been with all the preparations needed for the morrow, it’s understandable that Alina has completely forgotten Mal’s meeting with Aleksander that afternoon, so it comes as a shock when she enters the War Room to find Aleksander not alone as she had expected.

Mal is looking unusually pale and uncomfortable by the desk, which is covered in maps.

“Alina,” Aleksander murmurs, striding to her side to press a lingering kiss on the back of her hand in greeting.

In the corner of her eye, Alina sees Mal turn white then red at the casual display of familiarity, his brows beetling together in what could be anger or disgust.

“You sent for me?” she asks, determined to avoid the confrontation she can see brewing on the tracker’s face.

“This news involves you,” he replies, gently leading her to the desk. He nods to the tracker, dismissing him with a curt, “You may leave, Oretsev. We will talk again after I have briefed Alina.”

What comes next a bewildering story, one of a mythical stag and Mal being sent to find on what Aleksander had believed to be a wild goose chase… until now.

“I don’t understand,” Alina says softly, staring sightlessly at the maps in front of her as her mind whirls. “Why do I need an amplifier? Am I not powerful enough as I am?”

Aleksander’s expression is sad. “You may not need one, Alinochka, but destroying the Fold will be no easy venture, and I worry for what it might take - what it might take from you, in order to do it.”

“You don’t have one,” she points out. “No,” he agrees, “but then I have never been required to do something so dangerous and unknown before.”

“You created it.”

Aleksander shakes his head, looking pained, “Yes, but that was using Merzost, and that isn’t an option for you.” He sighs forlornly, “Merzost is a fickle friend, it seldom gives the asker what they want. I didn’t intend to create the Fold. I wanted an army to protect our people, and it nearly killed me. I would do anything to save you from having to make that devil’s bargin… even chasing down fairy tales and mythical creatures.”

Make them see, Make them pay. The words echo in her mind, reminding her of something else. There’s something there, something prodding at her, something half remembered that dissolves into wisps of smoke as she tries to chase it down. Something about the Fold. Giving up understanding for the moment, Alina returns her attention to the here and now.

“Wouldn’t a normal amplifier work then?” Alina asks curiously, her attention caught by the depiction of a mighty stag in what looks to be an ancient journal.

“It might help,” Aleksander agrees, “but I doubt it would give you the boost you will need to take on something like the Fold.”

“And you think this Stag might be the answer?” Curious fingers unearth the book from where it’s partly concealed by the mountain of maps and other documents. The disorder makes her fingers itch. This is one of the biggest differences between her and Aleks – where she loves neatness and order, alphabetising books and arranging them according to size, shape and use, Aleksander thrives in semi-structured chaos. He’d explained to her once that there was a system to the mess – there’s a pile for everything and everything is in its pile. The fact that only Aleksander – and perhaps Ivan – understand this system just adds to the fun whenever Alina visits and teases him about it.   

Now free from where it’s slowly being buried, Alina studies the book with interest, noting it’s worn vellum cover and the messy unfamiliar handwriting. “Whose is this journal?” she asks, gently turning the ancient pages. Aleksander shifts to look over her shoulder. “My grandfather,” he replies. “Ilya Morozova. The journals are some of the few possessions Mother was able to hang on to after his death. We’ve kept them safe now for nearly a thousand years.”

“So long ago,” Alina murmurs, transfixed by the almost illegible scribbles. “Is this what made you think of the stag?”

“Yes,” Aleksander says, voice warm and nostalgic. “I never knew him, but mother used to tell me the stories he had once told her – and once I was old enough, I read all his journals. He was a true visionary. His understanding of the Small Science extraordinary. It was his principles we built our teachings on.”

“Would you like to borrow them?” Aleksander offers suddenly, his smile almost shy.

“Oh, yes please,” Alina’s pleasure makes her skin glow in the dim room. It draws a laugh from Aleksander who fetches three other volumes from one of the bookcases, handling them lovingly as he passes them into Alina’s greedy hands.   

“And the stag?” she asks, returning to the page that originally caught her interest.

“I don’t know how he came to know about the stag, or whether it was more theory than fact. The popular version is that he used his bones to create three extraordinary amplifiers – the most powerful ever seen, but I can find no reference to that in his journals. He does speak about the stag, but it’s more like a repeated fable.” His fingers trace the pencil drawing pensively.

“Then what did you think it was?” Alina queries, studying him now.

“I believe he discovered something on one of his many journeys, possibly a genetic variation which made this stag and its descendants natural amplifiers, and that’s what he’s referring too. Mother never believed in it at all, she thought it was garbled nonsense from a confused mind, and I have to confess I’d started to think the same - but then your tracker friend says he’s found the white stag.” He shrugs, studying a map of the Petrazoi mountains. “It might just be an unusual coloured deer, but I do think it’s worth finding out.”

Placing the book back with its brothers, Alina turns to Aleksander, her expression grave. “Do you still believe I need an amplifier?” It’s a serious question, and one that’s bothering her. She’s always had a natural distaste towards the idea of killing a living creature in order to gain power, and after Baghra’s tale of what happened to her young son, everything in her revolts against such an idea.

Aleksander sighs and rubs a hand tiredly over his eyes. “I would like to say no,” he begins, “but in truth I don’t know, and that worries me. I can help only so much, but that means I have to be with you – which may increase the risk to you, you remember what happened the last time.” The last point is said with a wry smile, but Alina doesn’t smile back, the memory of that day painful to her. It was a lesson in the dangers of certainty. Her conviction in her decision had resulted in Aleksander nearly being killed. If it hadn’t been for her unknown powers saving them, that would likely have been the fate of everyone on that skiff… and it had been down to her. Her certainty that she was right. Her mistake. It had been a sobering lesson to learn, but learn it she had.    

“Then you won’t force me?” She asks instead, needing this point to be clear between them.

Aleksander looks aghast, eyes filled with pain. “Saint’s no, Alina!” he cries, bringing her hand to press it against his heart. “I swear to you, I would never force such a decision on you. Whether we search for the stag or not, whether you take an amplifier or not, is down to you. This is your decision. Do I want you protected to the best of my abilities, yes, of course I do. There’s little I wouldn’t wish to do if I thought it would help you – but it’s also your decision and I swear on any gods listening that I will never force it on you.”

“Not even for my own good?” Alina asks, almost breathless with anticipation. The memory of his words in this very room the previous week, ringing in her ears.

Aleksander stares at her. “Not even then,” he vows quietly, solemnly, and Alina lets go of the breath she’s holding, almost collapsing with relief. Things are changing. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as her mother would say, but she can feel it in her bones. Things are changing. They’re changing.

Slowly but surely, she feels the gulf between them shrinking, becoming what they were always meant to be – what she never lost hope they could be. Two sides of the same coin. Equals.  

Notes:

Happy jubilee bank holiday weekend :). A short chapter today - but a really important one. Originally, this was part of the next chapter (The End Draws Near), but that was getting far too long and with everything going on in it this section felt like it got lost, so it became it's own chapter :). I had hoped to have this up on the 23rd to mark a whole year since I first started posting this fic, but RL got in the way. Good news though, the next chapter just needs a little tidying up and a final proof read, and then it's good to go. It might even be ready tomorrow or Sunday, depending upon the muses.

As ever, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I love reading your thoughts and comments. I'm really quite excited about the new arc we're in as there's a lot more action.
Next up: The End Draws Near: In which there's a date at the Winter Fete, a dazzling display and a diabolical plot is discovered.

Chapter 23: The End Draws Near

Summary:

In which there's a date at the Winter Fete, a dazzling display and a diabolical plot is discovered.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The day of the presentation dawns bright and cold, with perfect weather for the first day of the annual winter fete. Alina awakes to the sun in her face and a stomach full of nerves. Her presentation is that night. Finally after weeks of preparing, of endless rehearsals and carefully planning the day she has been dreading is here. There’s no more time and nowhere to run. This evening at 20:00 she will stand before the Imperial Court and have to dazzle them with her powers and prowess.

It's not a cheerful thought. She already feels like a performing animal in a zoo and it rankles that grisha abilities are being put on display as entertainment. Their abilities should inspire respect and awe, not be used as a sideshow.

There is one bright side to the day, however. The Winter Fete. As a child her mother would take her each year, and it was a highlight she had always loved, and this year promised to be bigger and more elaborate than any she had seen.

It’s Genya who suggests the plan and presents it to Aleksander.

Tailoring.

As Alina the Sun Summoner, the fair had been judged far too dangerous for her to attend, but as Alya she can move about unnoticed and unremarked. She’s simply another lower order grisha enjoying the winter festivities.

It takes her by surprise when Aleksander agrees, the only stipulation being that she take at least one other grisha with her, in case of any difficulties. With a sly smile, Alina agrees, promptly asking if he would like to accompany her. The expression of surprised delight on his face makes her duck her head, a blush staining her cheeks.

And so it’s agreed, while Marie has her final fitting with Genya, she and Aleksander will escape and explore the fair.

10 minutes is all it takes for Genya to affect the transformation, dark brown hair changing to blonde, golden eyes to Rvkan blue. Her features are more or less the same, but even these slight changes are enough to render her almost unrecognizable and it makes her smile as she traverses the corridors of the little palace without anyone recognising her.

Aleksander gets a similar treatment from the Tailor. His black hair changes to blonde, his eyes lighten from their dark blue to a frosty grey, his nose becomes rounder and less sharp. He’s still devastatingly handsome, even tailored to not look like himself, and he garners more than a few stares as they mill around the fare.

The fair is as wonderous as she’d hoped. There are acrobats from Kerch, snow dancers from Fjerda, bear tamers from Shu Han, and fire breathers from Novokribirsk, all dazzling the onlookers with their displays. There are merchants from Shu Han with exotic silks and spices and book sellers from around the world, but all this takes a back seat when Aleksander shows her the food caravans where clever merchants are feeding the hungry festival goers.

This tiny section of the festival is a bustling hive of activity, people and smells, and Alina loves it as she and Aleks stop and try selections at each of the stalls.

After food, she drags him onto the frozen pond and teaches him to skate to the sounds of both their laughter. Aleksander, despite his gracefulness on land, is not a natural skater… and it shows in the windmilling arms and the number of times he lands on the ice. In the end, Alina abandons her lesson, tears of merriment streaming from her eyes, as an unimpressed Aleks hands back their hired skates with a hauteur at odds with his performance.

It’s a much needed break, for both of them, and Alina feels it work it’s magic as they both gradually relax into the anonymity they have been given. Here they aren’t the Darkling and the Sun Summoner, they are Alina and Aleksander, enjoying a rare day off duty and away from their responsibilities.

She’s never seen Aleksander looking so young or carefree. He buys her a sticky pink confection on a stick, and laughs as she tries to eat it and instead gets it stuck in her hair. They win the top prize on the coconut stall, which Aleks reluctantly spends the rest of the day carrying around, the expensive porcelain doll looking incongruous in his  arms. Still, it will make a lovely addition to the children’s wing in the Little Palace, and Alina is excited to be able to present them with several new toys.

They drink hot spiced wine and watch the carnival goers with interest, taking turns to create imaginative backstories for the people they see. It’s a glorious day, but eventually it comes to an end and it’s time for them to return to the little palace - her to rest before her debut, he to attend a meeting with Ivan about the security for that night.

To Alina the number of plans and contingencies being insisted upon are both extraordinary and unnecessary, but there’s no swaying Aleksander or his accomplice, Ivan. In addition to the body double Genya will tailor to look like her, Ivan has also rostered three times the number of Oprinichki to be on duty as there normally would be. All outside staff have been carefully vetted and assessed, and the only food she will be allowed to taste will first be checked by the healer assigned to her who will test it for poisons or tampering.

But the plans don’t stop there.

Throughout the evening she will be shadowed by at least four members of the Little Palace, including Fedyor, who is once again her personal guard dog. Such measures are wholly foreign to Alina and they sit uncomfortably with her, but she is also not naive enough to write them off as the products of paranoia. Threats against the Sun Summoner have been made, and with so many foreigners present there is a real risk of kidnap. The price if that happened would be a steep one for Ravka as a whole, but disastrous for the grisha… and devastating for Aleksander, - and so she submits to the plans with as little complaining as possible, even if she does feel suffocated under them.

The walk back is as cheerful as the rest of the day, spent in laughing conversation and fond reminiscing, even as their fingers freeze and their cheeks pink from the icy wind. All to soon though the Little Palace is before them and they are being ushered in through a side entrance by a smiling Genya.

He leaves her at her door with a gentle kiss on the back of her hand and a longing look that makes her heart pound.

A warm bath revives her frozen fingers, and then she’s swiftly settled into her bed for a rest before the presentation.

As she stares sleepily at the blue canopy of her bed, Alina grins. This has been one of the best days of her life and she knows she’ll treasure every memory of it.

 


 

Although her part in the evening’s entertainment isn’t until eight o’clock, Genya arrives at her door not long after the clock has struck five, her arms full of boxes, followed closely by two maids, one carrying several garment bags, the other a tray laden with food.

“Eat, ‘Lina,” the Tailor commands as she starts sorting through and organising the enormous number of boxes that have taken up residence in her room. “You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

“Isn’t there food provided?” Alina asks confused, slowly extricating herself from the tangle of blankets.

Genya laughs, glancing up with dancing eyes. “Yes, but I doubt you’ll be able to get anywhere near it, let alone taste it.” At Alina’s curious glance, the Tailor explains, “You’re to be kept hidden before your big moment, and after it I think you’ll be so in demand, you’ll be lucky to get a sit down.” She pulls the new kefta from one of the garment bags, inspecting it with a critical eye. “Fortunately, that’s what Marie is for.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Alina croaks, more than a little horrified at the picture her friend has just painted for her.

“That’s why you need to eat,” the Tailor repeats, pulling yet more items from the boxes, and starting to arrange them on the bed.

Deciding that this is sound advice, Alina tucks into the filling stew, tearing thick chunks of bread to dip into it in a way that makes Genya grimace and shift the expensive garments several feet to a safer location away from Alina and her food.

Soon enough the delightful meal has been consumed, and then its time for a quick bath before the redhead starts the beautification process.

As with any creation of Genya’s the dress the stunning. Dark blue silk so dark it looks black shimmers in the lamp light, the slight iridescence adding a mystique to it that’s both eye catching and awe inspiring. The dress itself is floor length and off the shoulder, designed to show the skin of her neck and arms. Her presentation is meant to dazzle and impress, and the dress is the first step of that plan.

Her new kefta is next, sliding over the dress to fit perfectly, as she knew it would. This will be the first time she’ll be seen in public wearing the black and gold of her new status, and both Summoner and Tailor are expecting it to cause a stir.

The kefta is beautiful with its intricate gold detailing, designed to look like solar flares radiating out from her neck to cover her shoulders and chest. The gold embroidery is offset by the gold buttons down the  centre and along the cuffs. It’s a kefta fit for a living saint – but more than that, Alina can’t wait to see Aleksander’s reaction to it, or more accurately, seeing her wearing his gift. It’s not just with the Imperial Court that this will set tongues wagging.  

Once this is in place, Genya turns her attention to Alina’s hair, smoothing it and making it shine, before pulling it back into an elaborate updo and finishing off with a few strategically placed gold pins.

Kohl lined eyes complete the look, giving her a dangerous and alluring air. Staring at herself in the mirror, Alina hardly recognises herself from the girl who first stayed in this room, bedraggled, scared and uncertain of everything. The Alina who looks back at her now is confident, stronger and dressed for battle.

It’s a battle she intends to win.

 


 

Waiting is always the worst part as far as Alina is concerned. Once ready, Genya departs to see to Marie, but that means she’s now on her own with over half an hour left to go before Fedyor is due to collect her. The minutes inch on, frustrating her with their slowness. She tries to distract herself by reading Ilya Morzova’s journals, but whether its her distraction or the disjointed way he writes, she finds it difficult to understand what he’s trying to say. Peering at the almost illegible writing, she can just make out a line which she thinks says nature’s king is crowned when there is a knock at the door.

Peering through the peep hole, as requested, Alina spots Fedyor hovering outside her door. It’s time then.

 


 

The room Fedyor leads her to is a tiny ante-chamber off the ballroom in the Little Palace. It’s the perfect location for her to wait until it’s time to make her grand entrance. Through the door she hears appreciative noises from the crowd at display from the Inferni and Tidemakers, but she can also hear the indistinct chatter of a hundred voices talking.

“They’re not really paying attention, are they?” she asks Fedyor quietly.

The Heartrender shakes his head, his habitual smile for once absent from his face. “No, ‘Lina. We’ve long since lost our mystery and interest, I’m afraid.”

“How can they stand there and not be amazed at what they can do?” Alina demands, crossing her arms in annoyance. “It’s a miracle – not a literal one,” she adds when it looks like Fedyor is about to correct her, “but it’s astonishing. People shouldn’t be bored by this sort of display, they should be awed… honoured… amazed.”

Fedyor just smiles sadly at her. “Once, perhaps,” he replies, “but not anymore. We’re old news now.”

It’s yet another poke to the fire of Alina’s growing irritation with how grisha are treated. They’re no better than performing monkeys to the people in that room. Before she can start to really feel riled though Aleksander arrives, his eyes sweeping over her with delighted astonishment and open appreciation. “Alina,” he breathes, reaching for her hand to place it on his arm, “my precious girl, you look… breath-taking. Simply breath-taking.”  

 


 

The walk to the ballroom is far too short in Alina’s opinion. The nerves which she has kept controlled all day are starting to get the better of her, making her hand tremble where it rests of Aleksander’s arm. He looks down at her, his gaze intent. “You have nothing to fear, Alina,” he says firmly. “Nothing.”

“What if I can’t do it, Aleks,” she asks, staring up at him with wide eyes. “What if I go in there and the sun won’t come or what I do isn’t enough. This has to wow, it has to dazzle, it has to amaze. What if I can’t do that?”

“You will,” Aleksander says, his tone certain and full of conviction. “Do you know how I know that?” he asks gently, smiling as she shakes her head. “Because you’re you, and there’s no one I trust more, no one I have more confidence in. You constantly amaze me - astound me - just by being you. You’re spectacular, Alina. All you need to do is believe in yourself. You don’t need to do anything but be you – that will be wow enough.”

It's the words she needs to hear, and she feels her spine straighten and her resolve firm. Yes, she’s the Sun Summoner, but more than that She’s Alina Starkov, and that’s more than enough.

 

Alina feels Aleksander’s shadows move as they step into the room through one of the service doors, radiating from him to cloak the room in shadow. She knows the location of the stage from the many rehearsals she’s gone through with her instructors, and she steps confidently over to it, two small candles illuminating the steps up to the stage. Shucking her kefta, she leaves it draped over the chair positioned next to the stage, before lifting her dress slightly as she climbs the three steps. Once in the centre of the stage she waits, shrouded in the loving embrace of Aleksander’s shadows for Aleks to finish his speech introducing her.

Her heart is pounding so hard now that she almost misses her cue. The Tsar has demanded a show, and Alina intends to put on one they will never forget.

She thinks of her mama’s smile and her skin starts to glitter. She recalls Genya’s hug that afternoon as she helped dress her. She thinks of Fedyor’s proud salute as she left the antechamber. Last but not least, she thinks of Aleksander - the warmth in his eyes as he bowed over her hand and the secret smile they had shared as he let her go to get ready.

With each surge of emotion, she feels her skin shine brighter, the faint sparkles transforming into a dazzling kaleidoscope of colour as her sun burns brighter and brighter reacting to her emotions. Around her there are oohs and ahhs from the enraptured audience, but Alina hears none of it. All she is aware of in that moment is the light and the joy of summoning.

Her hands lift from where they had been folded demurely in front of her, palms turned towards the ceiling. Light starts swirling around her hands so that they look like miniature cyclones of glittering starlight in the eldritch darkness of the room. Faster and faster the light spins rising up until it hits the ceilings, becoming beams of golden mist.

The audience goes wild, some clapping, others gasping, a riot of foot stamping making the floor shake as they express their awe and admiration. It Alina smile inwardly.

This only the entree, the appetizer before the main course.

As if this approval was some prearranged sign, Alina’s eyes snap open, their normal brown now a burning gold, and she claps, once, twice, thrice, and suddenly where before there had been pillars of light there are a hundred shimmering orbs dancing across the room transforming the heavy darkness of Aleksander’s shadows into a dazzling night sky.

Whispers break out as the watchers start spotting familiar constellations. The stag, the acorn, Wilhelm the hunter, the black bear, the list goes on. It takes a tremendous amount of concentration for Alina to keep all the shapes, but she isn’t finished as 8 more orbs join the fray, swirling around the watchers before settling in the centre of her depiction and arranging themselves into a new order, spinning faster and faster until they started to merge, forming a miniature sun.

Another clap and the sun explodes, showering the onlookers with sparkling rain as droplets of light fall all around.

There is silence, and then there is thunderous applause.

 


 

Mingling with the audience is no where near as fun or as interesting as Alina had thought it would be. It mostly seems to consist of listening as a parade of nobles and dignitaries pass by each intent on compliment her, and the vast majority saying the same vaguely insulting things.

“My dear, you look almost Ravkan in that dress – you must tell me the name of your dressmaker.”

“Sankta, what a marvel, what a display. I had heard you were Shu, but you look nothing like them.”

“Such power, such prestige. What a magnificent display you put on for the Tsar – tell me, would you do one for a New Years party I’m planning?”

“Quite remarkable. Really quite remarkable. And no mirrors involved at all. I was looking you know. Grisha and their tricks, can’t trust them at all. What a display. The Tsar said he had ordered a performance to remember.”

“Beauty as well as power. Shame about the eyes, but in this light she looks Ravkan enough.”

The blatant hypocrisy gnaws at her, galling her. They call her a saint, expect her to save them, and still find something to denigrate. Not all the people she speaks to are like this. Some are like the people at the gate, overawed by her mythical position, who only want to look on or touch the Sankta. Others want to ask when she is going to destroy the Fold. One stands out though, of all the people she meets. It’s the woman in an Oprinichki uniform she saw watching her performance with awe filled eyes. The woman stutters when she asks her name, a blush staining her cheeks before she runs away… and Alina means runs away. She could have had the plague given the speed the other girl turned tail and ran when she started talking to her.

It's odd. An odd encounter. In her experience, Aleksander’s Oprinichki are polite, habitually reserved, and not prone to running away when she talks to them. They also move in pairs, but this one appears to have lost their partner. It’s enough of an oddity that she resolves to mention it to Ivan when she next sees him.

Before she can think on it for long though, her attention is claimed by Gabrielle who is all effusive praise and demanding questions as she quizzes Alina on everything from her dress to Aleksander who is hovering just out of earshot in the background, looking dashing and darkly mysterious.  It’s enough though to make smile and give her hope for the rest of the evening.

 


 

Things are going well, and Alina starts to think she might be able to escape this debacle with only tender toes (both metaphorical and physical) and a lingering feeling of annoyance. But then it happens and the Tsar finds her.  

With his typical pomposity, the Tsar spends the first five minutes waffling about his own prestige and importance, before seeming to remember his original mission and proceeds to summon the ambassadors from Kerch, Shu-Han and Fjerda to meet the Sun-Summoner. His Sun Summoner, as he makes clear to all assembled. Knowing what she does about him, it’s all Alina can do to paste a smile on her face and nod when he speaks. What she wants to do is flambe him, roast him, light him from the inside out until he explodes in a display people really will talk about for years to come.

But that’s not the plan, and she won’t do her friend the disservice of taking from Genya her justice. So, instead, she stands beside the arrogant ruler, only partly listening as he waxes on and on about this and that.  

The ambassadors and a strange woman appear during his soliloquising, directing flourishing bows and flowery salutations to Ravka’s monarch. The Kerch ambassador is the first to acknowledge her, kissing her hand with a soft “Enchanté, Sankta Alina.”

It isn’t the Shu ambassador who greets her next – although he bows lowly when introduced - but Ehri Kir-Taban, the daughter and heir-presumptive of the current ruler of Shu Han. The Shu princess is dressed in a deep green gown with twin embroidered gold falcons sitting over each shoulder. “We had heard rumours,” the princess says as she dips an appropriately deep curtesy to both Tsar and Saint, “but we had not truly believed them.” She is studying her, Alina realises as she watches with a combination of interest and concern. “But no, there can be no doubt. Tell me child,” the princess asks her, “which parent hails from Shu Han?”

“My mother,” Alina says after a moment’s pause. There’s a considering look on the princess’s face, an expression which speaks to the sharp intelligence hidden behind courtly manners and diplomatic double speak.  

The princess nods regally, her eyes flitting to the men around them. “I thought as much. If it had been your father, you would likely have never left our great country.” It’s an odd comment, and one which makes the fine hairs on her neck stand up. A cough from the remaining man interrupts the Taban princess, and with only a slight pinching of her eyes to show her annoyance, she swiftly says, “but we will speak more later, I am sure, Sankta.”

Barely waiting for the princess to finish speaking, the final man steps forward with a low sweeping bow. “Lord Bååt,” the man says.

“Ahh, Bååt,” the Tsar replies with a regal nod. Explaining to Alina, “he is the ambassador for Fjerda. A good shot… for a Fjerdan.” The Tsar sniffs, then spots someone else he has been meaning to talk to and wanders off leaving Count Blazhenov to oversee proceedings.  

Everything is going quite well until, that is, the Bååt makes two mistakes. The first is to start talking about her possible marriage. For Alina though, the words sound as if from a long way away, her mind focussed on the memories stirred up by the familiar heavy accent. Of a bearded man with yellow teeth standing over her with axe and knife.

Finally, the words start to penetrate. “One of the lesser princes, of course,” the ambassador says with a chuckle to the Count,” receiving a knowing nod in return. It’s enough to make Alina see stars, her hands balling into fists as she listens in growing horror. There was a plan being hatched between the high-ranking nobles, money changing hands in order to grease the path to her being married off for political advantage, as if she isn’t a thinking, feeling person, as if her wishes and desires had no place. It makes her blood boil and the sun sing in her veins. How dare they. How dare these smug, arrogant, over entitled men make decisions for her.

She isn’t a brood mare to be bartered or sold. It’s her choice who she weds - if she marries at all. Her choice. Not these primping peacocks, not the rulers of Fjerda and not the Tsar of Ravka. This is her choice, and hers alone. And she would defend it no matter the offence caused or problems it raised.

Such comments, however, might have passed unremarked if not for the second, and more egregious mistake of the ambassador in trying to kiss her hand. With dark unreadable eyes Alina pointedly pulls her hand out of his grasp, before turning with deliberate intent to the Shu ambassador and Taban princess, speaking in perfect if slightly slow Shu.

There is no mistaking Alina’s gesture, nor its intent, and all those watching know she meant to cut the Fjerdan ambassador.

With an embarrassed huff, Blazhenov tries to rescue the situation as the Fjerdan ambassador turns a startling red in affront. “You must pardon our Sun-Summoner,” he blusters, “she is unused to moving in such exalted company or attending State functions.”

He turns to Alina, interrupting her conversation with the Shu and Kerch ambassadors, demanding in a low voice for her to apologise. Had he been aware of the brewing diplomatic crisis, Aleksander could have diffused it without too much trouble. Alas, however, he’s stuck over the other side of the crowded ballroom with the vacuous Vasilly and two of the First Army Generals, listening to them debating whether changing the uniform from grey to yellow in honour of their Sun-Summoner was a good idea.

As such he is as much taken by surprise as everyone else when the situation with the Fjerdan contingent explodes. And explodes it does.

Alina has many faults, of this she’s only too well aware, and not least among them is a stubbornness that according to mother could outlast the gods themselves.

How dare he, Count or not, order her to apologise to that turnip head. Twice his country had tried to kill her. Twice others had died, uncounted and disregarded as collateral they might be, but Alina remembers. This is the country responsible for her beloved father’s murder, who had brutalised her poor mama so she would not even look at another man, who had tried to kill her for no other reason than what she might represent. She would not shake hands with a man who represents such a State. She would not touch him. she would not even recognise him.

With a dark frown Alina locks her eyes on the floor, tuning out the long-winded reprimand the Tsar’s official is giving her - no doubt in the hope of cowing her and bringing her to heel. It’s bad luck, if that is the intention, as she has no intention of listening.

At last, the frenzied whispering winds down and the Sun Summoner looks up, her fury filled gaze meeting her astonished audience.

“I. Will. Not!” Alina responds sharply, her voice raised and carrying over the crowd. “I have nothing to say to a man in service to the country who murdered my father, widowed my mother and attempted to murder me not once but twice.”

A deadly hush falls over the crowd, drawing the attention of everyone in the ballroom, guest, grisha and servants alike. With mounting horror, Aleksander understands the corner Alina has been forced into, and that there is little that will stop this playing out now, even as he elbows his way through the throng of bodies trying to get to her.

“You let this little peasant girl talk to me like that?” The Fjerdan ambassador hisses in heavily accented Ravkan.

Back ramrod straight, light blazes from Alina, blinding and hot enough that people take a fearful step back.

“Little girl?” She says, voice loud and clear in the silence of the ballroom. “What does that say about your country, sir? A country that advocates and approves of murdering little girls. Your countrymen murdered my father in cold blood, and on Ravkan soil, and then they tried the same with me. Do you deny it?”

Muttering starts in the room as Alina’s words hit home.

“I will neither talk to nor recognise such a country. A country which even now sends out its Druskelle to kill my fellow Grisha, as their ambassador stands and smiles and eats the food of the sovereign realm he is seeking to destroy. A country who advocates the murder and brutalisation of those who are different. No, I will not apologise. I am no mere girl. I am the Sun Summoner and I will not stand by, indifferent to their crimes, in the name of politics.”

The disturbance soon reaches the Tsar who wobbles his way towards them with more intention than speed. “She will of course apologise,” the Tsar blusters, his enormous belly quivering with the chuckle he forces out.

She will not,” Alina comments, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“Now, see here young lady-“ whatever the Tsar had been about to say is lost as the Apparat appears by his elbow, whispering furiously in his ear.

The spiritual advisor’s words clearly hit home, however, as the Tsar starts nodding his head so fast Alina wonders if it might fall off with the force.

“No, of course not,” the Tsar agrees, eyes turning on the ambassador. “Saint’s don’t apologise, quite right. What in the saint’s names is going on here, Bååt.”

“This little girl has insulted me and the great nation of Fjerda,” the ambassador shouts, his face rapidly turning puce. “And after we did her, a girl of questionable pedigree, the honour – the great honour – of looking to arrange her marriage to one of our royal house. It’s an insult!”

“I’d sooner marry a yeti,” Alina retorts hotly, hands balled into tight fists by her side.

“See?” the ambassador demands, gesticulating at the girl before him. “She insults Fjerda again. Such insult is not to be endured. I demand satisfaction.” His cry is accompanied by the drawing of his ceremonial dagger, an act which causes the assembled crowd to take a collective step back as they gasp is horror and enjoyment of the spectacle.

This is the moment Aleksander arrives – Ivan not far behind – to stand next to her, a companionable on her shoulder. His eyes glitter with suppressed power and Alina feels one of his shadows wrap around her forearm in solidarity. His voice though is its usual calm and commanding tone as he replies with a sneer, “Satisfaction? You can’t mean you want to duel the Sun Summoner, Bååt.” He cast a derisive glance up and down the portly ambassador, lifting a mocking eyebrow. “She’d wipe the floor with you, and that’s without using her ‘grisha magic’. I knew you were a fool, but I hadn’t taken you for a suicidal one.”

Alina glares, her muscles tensing as she prepares to accept the duel, anger fizzing in her veins. Just as she moves to step forward though a  strange calm slides over her, dulling her senses and making her feel dopey and relaxed, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. The world around her feels muted and removed, like thinking through treacle. She knows she should be angry – furious – right now, but for the life of her she can’t seem to muster the emotion, instead she feels empty, as if someone has drained all the emotions from her.  

Before her, the little man pulls himself up to his full and rather unimpressive height, glowering up at the Darkling who is towering over him. Aleksander’s sneer ratchets up a notch, the blue of his eyes lost to the black of his shadows.

“Now, see here…” Bååt begins, tone decidedly belligerent.  

For better or worse, though, the rest of his reply is lost, as his previous words finally penetrate the thick skull of his Imperial Uselessness who looks apoplectic as he bellows: “What!! What do you mean he proposed to her.” He casts a dismissive glare at the offending ambassador. “Insult! He’s insulted me in my own home.” The Apparat whispers in his ears again, the red on the Tsar’s face turning purple. “That’s not any better, you blithering imbecile. They’re trying to poach me damn Sun Summoner, and at me own damn party.”

There was another flurry of whispers, this time from one of the Ravkan nobles, no doubt pointing out that this was not in fact his party, and that the Tsar is likely going to cause a diplomatic incident if he continues in this vein for much longer. As if to prove Aleksander right, that’s the moment the Tsar explodes with, “I don’t give a damn if he’s offended, you mealy mouthed cur. He’s trying to pinch the Sun Summoner. Our Sun Summoner. There’s only one of them, you know, and he’s trying to pinch her. This is an act of war!” The Tsar thumps his fist on one meaty thigh, his jowls quivering, as he glares at the now sweating Fjerdan ambassador.  

They’re collecting quite a crowd now and Aleksander is all too aware of the ticking bomb that is his Alina, who is only quiet now because of the pacifying efforts of Ivan’s Heartrendering in keeping her calm and docile. A battle it’s clear The Heartrender is losing… and losing fast.

If there’s any hope of salvaging this situation - or being able to use it to their advantage later - they need to leave now before Alina re-enters the fray and has her say.

A nod at Ivan and escape plan C is in motion. Trusting that with the distraction of the Tsar having a public temper tantrum they won’t be missed, Aleks steers the quiescent Alina into one of the many rooms marked off bounds. There Marie is waiting impatiently with an increasingly frustrated Genya, who it appears has been trying to teach an excited Marie how to play poker. Without much success, given her frosty expression.

“Is it time?” Marie asks jumping to her feet, hand already reaching for the veiled hat Alina wore for her first presentation to the Tsar and Tsarina, “Am I on?”

“Yes,” Ivan replies in his usual succinct way, levelling her with a distinctly unimpressed stare as he issues her orders. “You are to go to the dining room and mingle with the guests for a short while before retiring. It is imperative the Sun Summoner is seen away from the Ballroom.” Marie nods, clearly giddy with excitement at having an important role. It speaks to her distraction that she has not questioned - or more likely not noticed – the unusually still and quiet form of the actual Alina. Genya does though, and shoots Aleksander worried looks while completing a quick final check of Marie‘s disguise.

A few moments more the Alina double is out the door, Genya and an even more surly Ivan in tow.

There’s a hooded cloak on one of the chairs, left for just such a situation and Aleksander wraps it around the somewhat dopey figure of his beloved, before whisking her out of the storeroom and down the labyrinthine passages towards the familiar mahogany doors that mark the entrance to his private quarters.

 


 

It takes nearly fifteen minutes for Alina to shake off the residual calm from Ivan’s interference, but he knows when she does as she bolts up from the sofa he had settled her on, and shakes like a dog fresh from a bath, before rounding on the now locked door and shouting, “Coward! That’s right, you run Ivan… but don’t think I’ll forget this! Or that you can hide from me!”

“Feel better?” Aleks asks wryly from where he is sitting behind his desk, studying a newly arrived letter.  

Alina shoots a withering stare at her illustrious leader. “I hate it when he does that,” she complains with a scowl. It’s an abuse of his powers. How would he like it if I super-heated his food or… or gave him a sun headache.”

“Poor Alinochka,” he laughs, putting the letter down in one of the many piles. “It’s for a good cause, my sweet. Don’t think Ivan did it lightly.”

“Hah!” Alina scoffs, her eyes still trained on the door. “He enjoys it.”

“Perhaps,” Aleks shrugs. But on this occasion he did you a favour.”

“A favour,” Alina screeches, outraged. But Aleksander just nods solemnly. “He stopped you intervening in what was fast becoming the diplomatic incident of our age.” He holds his hand up to forestall the complaint he can see brewing in Alina’s murderous expression. “I don’t know what happened exactly, but Ivan’s actions mean that this should all have blown over by morning – most likely brushed under the diplomatic carpet of things best not remembered - and you cannot be blamed for it. That falls on our wise Tsar.”

At that Alina subsides, her logical side reluctantly agreeing with Aleksander’s point, and grudgingly thankful for the intervention.

“Still should have let me at him,” she says, somewhat petulantly, kicking the floor in disgust. Aleks laughs again.

“I would have paid good money to see you flatten him in a duel,” he grins, eyes shining with merriment.

“Disgusting old goat,” Alina grouches, “not sure he’d be worth the set-up effort. He’d be down and out within in minutes.”

“Seconds, surely,” Aleksander laughs, clearly amused at the prospect.

“Well, the Tsar did say he wanted a display to remember…” Alina’s smile is as wicked and sharp as her tone.  

“He did indeed, not sure he had this in mind – but then that’s often the case with our illustrious monarch,” Aleksander replies wryly, pouring two glasses of wine and handing one to Alina.

“To you, dear one,” he says, raising his glass, “for a highly entertaining evening, long to be remembered and treasured.”

Alina grimaces, gently swirling the red liquid around the glass. “Not sure it’s one I want to remember,” she confides quietly.

Aleksander frowns, placing his glass down as he studies the troubled expression on Alina’s face. “Why’s that, dearest?”

Glancing up, Alina’s eye glitter with gold flecks, her anger returning in droves. “Those miserable old goats wanted to sell me off to some Fjerdan prince. Not one of the immediate royal family, of course,  a lesser prince, so that my grisha blood wouldn’t pollute the purity of the royal line.” She snorts, and kicks the corner of the rug in frustration.  

“They were laughing about it. About bartering me off like a brood mare. Like an animal. As if they had the right!”

Aleksander’s frown deepens, “what did you say to that?”

“I told him, that I would sooner marry a sasquatch than someone from the country who murdered my father, and that the only time I would set foot in Fjerda would be to tear it down one tundra at a time,” Alina says plainly, her eyes now a burning molten gold.  

Leaning against his desk and taking a fortifying sip of wine, Aleksander watches the emotions playing out across Alina’s open face. He longs to go to her, to wrap her in his arms, but the keep away vibes are so strong even he can’t miss them. His poor Alina. It’s wound that has been there so long Aleksander had half-forgotten it was even there. When Alina was young, she had nightmares about that day, nightmares of blood and death, of foreign men chasing her. For weeks after, she had only slept if he or her mother had been with her. As time passed the nightmares grew less frequent, until eventually they seemed to stop all together, but he of all people should have remembered that just because the nightmares fade it doesn’t mean that wound has healed – and it’s clear now, it hasn’t. It’s been festering. Lord Blazhenov and Bååt the blithering idiot, had unwittingly lanced a boil and now all the puss was pouring out.

He hates seen her so distressed, shoulders hunched and defensive. Decision made, he reaches for her hand, pressing it gently in a show of support and solidarity that softens the stiff lines of Alina’s shoulders. “Then what happened,” he asks, half in trepidation.  

“Then the Tsar appeared, and the shouting match started in earnest. But you were there for that bit.”

“You know what the worst bit is?” She asks Aleks, her gaze searching when it meets his. “It wasn’t the way Blazhenov and Bååt just started discussing my marriage right in front of me, as if I wasn’t even there. As if have no say in my own marriage. It was the total lack of respect. A lesser prince, Hah!” She laughs coldly.  

“I won’t let them sell me off, Aleks,” she warns darkly, “the only person who will decide if I marry is me, and me alone.”

Aleksander frowns in discomfort, the awkward fact that such practice is normal amongst the higher echelons sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. More pressing though than that distressing truth is the impact it could have on them… on the hopes he can no longer deny or suppress. He wants Alina to be his wife, his and his alone. Reality has an unfortunate habit of intruding though, and today it’s wearing steel plated boots as it jumps on his nascent plans.

“Ahh,” he says tonelessly, only distantly aware of what his mouth is saying.

“And you were hoping for the crown prince?” To anyone else such a remark might have appeared rude or uncaring, but Alina can hear the pain and doubt only thinly concealed behind the veneer of sarcasm. Oh, that silly man, she thinks. He’s misunderstood.

“I don’t want a prince, crowned or otherwise,” she says simply, waiting for him to ask the question she knows is desperate to escape his lips.

“Then what do you want?” It’s barely a whisper, but Alina hears it and the poorly disguised longing hidden within it.

Slowly and gently, as if he is a wild animal she’s afraid of spooking, Alina touches his chest, her hand lying flat over his heart. “You.” She replies, voice and expression resolute. “I just want you.”

There is a look of joy and wonderment in his features as heart felt delight suffuses his face, making him shine. Around them she feels wisps of shadows wrap tenderly around her.

“Oh my precious girl,” he murmurs, his eyes smouldering with emotion. “How you continually surprise me.” His gaze makes Alina’s blood sing and heat as it races through her. They are standing so close now, drawn together by the energy crackling between them.

Leaning down, Aleksander brushes a whisp of hair that has escaped her elaborate hairstyle behind her ear, his fingers lingering and touch electrifying. It’s like lightning is coursing through her veins as Aleksander gently tilts her chin up so her eyes meet his own. His eyes are black and smouldering with suppressed emotion as he cups her cheek. “Tell me to stop, Alina.” It’s a whisper so quiet that for one aching moment Alina thinks she imagined it, but then he says it again, his gaze feverish as he studies her.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs, her hand sliding up the fine contours of his chest to grip his collar and tug him towards her.

The knock comes at exactly the wrong moment.

Aleksander freezes, his mouth but a hairsbreadth from her own. The knock sounds again, this time with a voice shouting, “Moi Soverenyi “

With a hoarse laugh, he jolts backwards, the hand that had been cupping her cheek so tenderly now running through his hair in evident agitation. There’s a third knock, and muttering an oath, Aleksander stalks to the door wrenching it open.

She’s too far away to hear what Ivan says, but not so far that she can’t see the impact it has on the man she loves. Gone is her Aleksander of a moment ago and in his place is the feared General Kirigan.

Aleksander’s back is ramrod straight, the lines almost vibrating with his furious anguish, and Alina knows with a sickening twist to her stomach that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong.

Within seconds the door is closed, and she watches helpless, as Aleksander leans against it for a long moment, his head bowed and fists clenched.

“Aleks?” She asks gently. His gaze when it meets her is hollow and pained.

“I’m sorry Alina, so sorry,” he murmurs, striding forward to grasp her hands.

“Aleks?” She tries again, uncertain what’s wrong but certain something calamitous has happened. “What did Ivan want.” This time it’s not a question and she’s not requesting information, she’s demanding it.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, he tells her. For a moment there is a strange ringing in her ears, and she sways where she stands.

“What?” She demands hoarsely.

“Marie is dead,” he repeats gently, “there was an assassin. He’s been caught, but not before…”

“Marie… but she can’t… there must be some mistake, some confusion.” But he shakes his head, expression solemn and full of pain. “I’m sorry, Alina. I truly am. But there is no mistake. Garin is with her.”

Alina is still and silent as the news sinks in. Marie is dead. Her friend. The woman who had been her body double that night, she’s dead. The ringing grows louder as her fury mounts. This is their home, their safe haven and some… some assassin crept in and destroyed it.

“Alina, I must go,” the voice is tormented, and it’s this that draws her back.

“Go?” She echoes.

Aleksander nods, “yes, dear one. Ivan has the assassin, but they need me present before they start the interrogation.” He presses a glass into her shaking hands, his eyes troubled and full of pain.

“Drink, precious girl, you know where my room is, go and lie down, you’ll be safe here and I will be back as soon as I can.”

She takes a fortifying gulp, the amber liquid burning her throat and chasing away the lingering effects of shock. “No,” Alina says firmly, resolutely, shaking her head.

Aleks pauses with a perplexed frown, and Alina steps forward, drawing equal with him again. “Remember your promise, Aleks,” she says quietly, placing the half-full glass carefully on his desk. “Together.”

He nods, solemnly, his gaze unwavering. He doesn’t try to talk her out of it or impress upon her the grizzly nature of the business they are about to see to. Instead, he merely holds out his hand, which Alina takes, and together they leave the room.

 


 

If Ivan is surprised to see her accompanying their General, the Heartrender doesn’t show it, and nor do the five Oprinichki who fall into line behind them. Aleksander keeps his hold on her hand the entire way, his grip strong and almost desperate, as if he fears she’ll be snatched from him at any moment. She’s never been to the jail on the lower levels before - hadn’t realised they existed, truth be told, which makes her feel naive as, of course, the Little Palace has cells. It may be the home of the grisha, a school and a safe haven, but it’s also a working garrison, and the headquarters of the Second Army. Where else could they store munitions or captured criminals or enemy soldiers.

The lower levels are an odd place, and not really in keeping with what Alina had expected of a dungeon. They’re clean, for a start, and spacious, and with their low arched ceilings it seems more like a vault than a dungeon. There’s no torture equipment - that she can see, either, or rats. Both of which she had thought of as fixtures in dungeons.  

They pass a firing range, a wine store and various other rooms before the group enters another section of the complex. There are six guards on the door who all salute when they see the General and bow when they see they spot Alina. Beyond the door is a tunnel, and in the dim light she can just make out that there are metal bars set into its wall. These are the cells, then.

The cells themselves are more like alcoves hewn from the thick grey rock of the tunnel, and have barely enough space to fit a bed, a bucket and a wooden chair.

Without a word, Ivan leads them to the fifth cell, his expression grim. Fedyor is standing by the sturdy bars of the gate, he nods as they arrive, slotting his key into the lock and opening the door so that their party can enter.

The cell is small, and there’s only enough space for her and Aleksander. The door remains open surrounded by guards, and Aleksander is careful to ensure that she’s in the position closest to the door – no doubt in case a quick escape is needed. It’s a sobering realisation.   

The man before her is small, portly and so very ordinary looking, and he blinks up at them with a bemused expression. His large glasses and fussy waistcoat give him an unthreatening appearance and, for a moment, Alina wonders if they got the wrong man.

“Light please, Alina, if you wouldn’t mind,” Aleksander murmurs, pausing her perusal of the assassin. A clap of her hands and the cell is illuminated by four swirling balls. The man on the bed gasps and shies away from her, covering his eyes in horror. “No, no, no!!” He wails. “No, it can’t be true. It’s a trick, a grisha trick.”

Aleksander grabs him, hauling him off the bed with inhuman strength. “This is no trick,” he growls, low and furious, the cell darkening rapidly as his shadows swirl. “You admit it then - you planned to kill the Sun Summoner?”

The man nods shallowly, pale and sweating in fear and Aleksander pushes him away in disgust. “Why?” He demands darkly.

For a moment Alina thinks he won’t answer, but then Fedyor does something with his hands and suddenly the man is babbling, his story spewing out of him like a fountain.

It’s sickening and infuriating, even as it brings tears to her eyes. Zlatan. General Zlatan ordered this atrocity. Aleksander had been right, the other General is planning a coup and to secede from Ravka. Had been planning it and moving pieces quietly for years, getting ready for the right time. A time that had finally been drawing close. But then her power was discovered, and with it the protective presence of the Fold came under threat. Zlatan had been safe all the time the Fold acted as a barrier separating west Ravka from the mainland. But a Sun Summoner? That was a problem he had not anticipated, one that could destroy a decade of planning and scheming. What was a self-respecting rebel to do when faced with the destruction of all he held dear? Pay someone to remove the problem, of course.

And that’s where Arken Visser came in. He was the stooge, the patsy, the only slightly unwilling assassin tasked with eliminating the only person capable of truly ruining the General’s plans.

Listening as the man explains the plot makes Alina sick to her stomach. The callous disregard for life, the casual way he refers to her as “the girl” or the “grisha”. Here is a man who refers to himself as a rescuer of grisha - a saviour for those who don’t wish to fight or be conscripts into the Second Army. Here is a man who sees himself as a moral, good man, and yet he sees nothing wrong with what he agreed to do. His panic is over failing, not in succeeding, and to Alina it shows him for what he really is - a man who profits from others fear and misery. His business model is built on the exploitation of fear. He might call himself the Conductor, as if what he does is laudable, but what he really does is traffic grisha.

“You disgusting gutter snipe! You repugnant canker!” Aleksander’s voice is like ice it’s so cold, around them the room darkens ominously with thick black shadows. His hands tighten and one wraps around Arken’s throat.

The man nods desperately as he claws at the strangling grip the General gas on him. “Please, I had no choice,” he pleads, “have mercy.”

“Mercy?” Alina questions softly, speaking for the first time. “We should have mercy?” She steps forward, watching dispassionately as he flinches back in terror.

She eyes him coldly. “Why should we show mercy.” She takes another step, her hands glowing with light. “Where was your mercy when you slit my friends throat. Where was your mercy when you assaulted the Oprinichki who ran to her aid. Where was your mercy when you then tried to kill Genya as she was trying to save the girl you murdered in cold blood.”

Another step, and she’s less than an arm’s length away. Arken is shaking in Aleksander’s grip, his feet twisting and kicking as they try to find purchase on the floor. “Where was your mercy, sir.” Their eyes meet and she sees the naked terror in his face. Her eyes flash gold and a string of light wraps around his throat.

“Mercy,” he croaks, tears making his eyes glisten.

Next to her, Aleksander is still and silent, and Alina realises he’s waiting for her judgement, that this is down to her. She knows what the men behind her want. They want revenge. If left to them, Visser wouldn’t leave this cell alive. Beside her, Aleksander is a coiled spring of tension. He’d do it, she realises. He’d kill Marie’s assassin in a heartbeat and likely never feel a moment’s regret. It’s something she seriously considers as she studies the quivering wreck of a man dangling in the air. He deserves it.

She stares at the man, eyes burning with the sun, weighing him and his actions. “No,” she says quietly, firmly.

The man pales, his eyes bulging in fear.

Aleksander glances at her, it might be a millisecond, but in it he reads her mind and nods.

“Noooo!!!” The man pants. “No, please!”

For a long moment, Alina dreams of tightening the golden lasso around his neck, of burning through skin and bone until there is nothing left. But then reality comes back, and she remembers her dreams – of how easy it would be to become a monster; to become judge, jury and executioner. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, that’s what her mother says, and this road would start with a single action. An action that would feel just except for the fact that it’s vengeance, not justice, and it would start her on a path to ruin. A path of a thousand temptations. It’s a road she knows in her heart she must not walk.

She turns away, allowing the light around his neck to fade.

“Thank you. Thank you!” Arken sobs, but his relief has come too soon.

“Don’t thank me,” she says, her tone icy. She looks at the angry faces of the guards and grisha outside the cell. “It’s not kindness to spare you. You will be tried and sentenced in a court of law,” she says, looking at their audience. “Where you will tell them this tale of murder and rebellion. You will be sentenced and likely die for your crimes. But before you do, it will be with the knowledge that your actions ended what hope your precious coup had, but more than that, you will die knowing how hated and reviled you are - not just amongst grisha but by everyone in Ravka. Marie will have justice, and you, sir, will rot and be fodder for the crows. So no, this is no kindness. Kindness would be to kill you now hidden away and secret, because before you die, every last sin will be exposed on a country wide stage.”

There is silence for a moment, and then she hears the stamp of feet as the watchers outside the cell show their supper; even the habitually dour Ivan is looking at her with rare approval.

Aleksander releases the man, pushing him away with enough force to send the smaller man tumbling in a trembling heap onto the thin bed. The look he levels at the man is contemptuous and full of the shadows swirling around him, “The Sun Summoner has spoken,” he says darkly. “Look at her,” he commands the Conductor. “Look at the woman you tried to murder. Look at the goddess you sought to destroy. Look and weep for your stupidity.”

It’s a damning statement, one growled out between clenched teeth, and Arken cries in earnest, rocking backwards and forwards, looking for all the world like a broken man.

They leave him then, his cries chasing them down the tunnel.

There will be no forgiveness, no reprieve for Marie’s murderer, but she will not become like Zlatan, killing those in her way like a thief in the night. This will be done properly in a court of law and before the people of Ravka so that they can see the rot that has crept in and the danger that General Zlatan poses.

 


 

 

The next stop is the dressing room. There’s blood everywhere. That’s the first thing Alina realises. It’s on the floor, splattered across the walls, and on the ceiling – even the fine crystal of chandelier didn’t escape. It’s a gruesome sight. Stomach churning and nauseating, made worse by the acrid smell of blood.

There is a blanket on the floor, covering what can only be Marie, but for the moment all her attention is on Genya.

The Tailor is paler than usual, and her eyes are pinched with pain. Garin is crouched next to her, his hands covering her injured right shoulder. The white of her uniform is stained crimson down that sleeve, and Alina shoots across the room, her need to check her surviving friend too great to ignore.

“Genya,” she breathes. The Tailor flashes a drained smile at her, “it’s worse than it looks,” she reassures Alina, nodding at Garin who is frowning in concentration and appears not to have noticed her arrival.

Tears spring unbidden to her eyes as she surveys the carnage. The double of the kefta she is still wearing is back on the manakin in the corner of the room, the gold embroidery catching the light. It’s a stark reminder of why this happened. Marie had been changing, her duty for the night finished.

Aleksander has moved to the blanket now and pulls it back to examine Marie’s body. Genya must understand the question in his glance, for she says sadly, “she asked to die with her own face, Moi Soverenyi.”

It’s yet another terrible realisation, and Alina feels again the full weight of the injustice and the depth of her culpability in agreeing to this plan.

Something of her thoughts must be apparent on her face - or perhaps Genya just knows her that well - as her friend states, “It’s not your fault.” The redhead levels a firm stare at both her and Aleksander. “Either of you. No one could have predicted someone could get in here. But more than that, Marie knew the risks, she accepted them. Don’t take away from her courage by regretting her sacrifice.”

Alina nods, shakily. It’s a difficult message to accept - it’s so much easier feeling guilty than accepting your own cosmic insignificance, or that other people are free to make choices that could see them hurt. For the first time she feels a flutter of sympathy for Aleksander and his need for control, because this hurt. This loss hurt - and selfishly she would give much to make it go away.

 


 

The decision to look is hers alone. Aleksander watches her with dark worried eyes, and even Genya seems intent on protecting her from what will no doubt be a traumatic experience. She’s seen dead bodies before though, and there’s a part of her that can’t believe this new reality until she’s seen it with her own eyes. She knows Aleksander wishes he could protect her from this, but it’s a mark of how hard he’s trying and how seriously he’s taking his promise, that he only hovers uncertainly next to her as she prepares to pull back the blanket covering her friend.

It's as bad as she feared. Marie’s face is frozen in a rictus of fear and pain.  The wound to her throat is jagged, uneven and poorly done – not the work of a trained killer – and, as a result, she suffered, horribly, needlessly, dying too fast for help to save her, but slowly enough to know the end was coming and feel every desperate beat of her heart.    

Staring down at the mutilated body of her friend, Alina feels a tear slip down her cheek. This wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a mistake, this wasn’t the work of a madman. This was premeditated murder, a coolly calculated assassination. It should have been her lying on that bed, it would have been her had Ivan not insisted on a body double.

Marie, poor guileless, ever optimistic Marie. She had been so happy to be chosen for the honour of Alina’s double, her friend had been thrilled, excited beyond all measure, and so proud of her important job, but now look at her. Alina’s last sight of her had been a smiling, laughing grisha, giggling her way into the replica kefta Genya had created for the performance.

She wasn’t laughing now. Would never laugh again.

Light sings through her veins, scalding hot with her fury and grief. Her friend. Her friend. Zlatan had taken this, had stolen her friend from her. More than that, he had stolen something precious from everyone at the Little Palace, something irreplaceable.

As if from far away, Alina feels her hand squeezed, a larger hand wrapping around it, encasing it, reminding her of the man next to her. Aleks. Her Aleks. His eyes are as full of emotion as hers, dark and stormy with grief and anger. This hurts him, Alina realises as she studies him, and not just because it might have been her - this hurts him because it’s an attack against his people, an attack in the safe haven he’s fought to build them. He hurts because despite his avowals that he doesn’t care he still knows the name of each and every serving grisha. It hurts him because he cares so very much. She squeezes back, pleased when she hears a soft sigh of relief.

Reaching out with her free hand. Alina smooths a gentle hand over Marie’s hair, her promise silent but no less resolute. “They will pay,” she vows, “We will make them pay.”

Notes:

*Hides behind the sofa*. I have to say, this has been one of my least favourite chapters to write in many ways. I loved writing the interaction between Alina and Aleks (hopefully the sweetness is making up for 150,000 words of angst), but I found the presentation scene a pig to get through, especially the bits with the Tsar, but the worst aspect without a doubt was the ending.

As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially as we're getting to the exciting bit.

Next up: As the World Falls Down: "I'll paint you mornings of gold, I'll spin you Valentine evenings." A funeral, a winter ball and a trial. Oh, and Vasily and Nikolai both make an appearance.

Chapter 24: As the World Falls Down

Summary:

The unthinkable has happened and now they must all live with it.

Notes:

Hi lovely readers, sorry for the wait for this chapter - both my hubby and I have had covid, which rather delayed things. This chapter is a whopper thought at 13,700 words, so hopefully that makes up a bit for the wait.

Credit for the title goes to the amazing David Bowie.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Little Palace Alina awakes to the following morning is a different world to the one the night before where she astonished the stuck-up nobles of the royal courts and triumphantly stood her ground with the Fjerdan Ambassador. For a long moment upon waking Alina wonders at the empty, despairing feeling and the desire to cry, but then in a rush it all comes back to her.

Marie is dead.

Murdered.

Her friend was murdered while wearing her face. Murdered because she had been wearing her face.

Sitting up, the heavy black fur cloak falls from where is has been tucked around her. Glancing around, for a moment Alina doesn’t recognise the strange dark room she has awoken in, but then a door opens allowing a spear of light to permeate the gloom and she just has time to glimpse the familiar furniture of Aleksander’s study before the door is shut with a resolute click and she hears the sound of soft footsteps growing nearer.

Swinging her legs round, Alina moves so that she is now sitting on the sofa, the soft cushion her head had been pillowed on just minutes before now on her lap like a favoured doll that she can’t help but squeeze as the emotions of the day before roll over her.

The footsteps halt beside her and she feels a gentle hand rest on her shoulder. “How are you, dear one?” Aleksander’s beloved voice asks softly.

“As well as can be,” Alina replies, her voice croaky and hoarse from the tears of the night before.

“I wished to leave you sleeping as long as you could,” he says regretfully, “but Ivan made the valid point that after the…the disruption last night it’s important we are both seen at breakfast today.

Standing, she disentangles herself from the heavy cloak that carries his scent, and hands it back to its owner. In the dimness she can just make out Aleksander staring at her before he pulls her into a fierce embrace, his arms tight and unyielding around her.

Seconds tick past before he steps back, eyes shadowed. That recent events have shaken him is clear to Alina. To those who do not know him, Aleksander might appear to be his usual calm and collected self, but she can see the strain he is under in the tense set of his shoulders and the pinched look in his eyes.  

 


 

It soon becomes clear to Alina that by that first meal there isn’t a grisha in the place that hasn’t heard the news and it casts a dark pall over what had been a happy bustling place.

Marie is gone, and with her so too Is the feeling of safety and security. The senior grisha are quiet and pale faced as they poke listlessly at their morning meals. Even the younger years are quieter than usual, skittish and fearful as if they think the assassin is hiding around the corner. Just waiting to strike.

Fedyor tells her later that Aleksander had made a speech the night before, alerting everyone to what had happened and to the danger. “He knows, you see,” the Heartrender explains softly, “there’s no keeping secrets in this place. Not one like this, at any rate. Too many people involved, and you can bet that at least one will blab something they shouldn’t, and that would have been that, cat out of the bag. This way, the General has been the one to deliver the news and he’s made sure everyone’s on the same page. “

Lessons are cancelled that day to give the inhabitants of the Little Palace time to grieve and recover from the shock of the announcement. For the younger ones, this is cause for cheer and celebration even if the fear of the phantom assassin is still very real to them. It’s the first sign to the older ones that they can recover from the shock and pain of this tragedy, that in time normality will resume.

 


 

There is no normality for Alina, however. While her friends and peers might have a day to spend however they wish, there’s little chance of that for the Sun Summoner. For once Ivan, Fedyor, Aleksander and Genya are in complete agreement. Until the Oprinichki and Fedyor’s team of Heartrenders have finished their deep sweep of the palace and the grounds, there’s no chance of Alina returning to her suite or being allowed out of Aleksander’s rooms unless absolutely necessary. Visser had let slip something when Gregori brought his breakfast that morning which suggested he had an accomplice. The news had been met with horror, but not surprise, and the result was another complete search was now needed.

Too tired and shaken to protest, she merely settles herself in Aleksander’s study with a blanket, a glass of warm milk and a book to pass the time. Gradually the warmth from the fire lulls her to sleep.

 


 

She’s woken some time later by familiar voices and the sound of movement.

“The Tsar must be informed,” Aleksander says tiredly, slumping into the padded seat of the sofa with evident exhaustion.

“For the trial?” Alina queries softly, sitting up from where she had been curled fast asleep. Smiling reflexively when Aleks takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

“Yes, precious,” he says gently. “You commanded that there be a trial, so a trial there must be. Ivan and I are making the arrangements”

Ivan, sitting in the chair opposite her own, grunts and makes a note on the pad balanced on his knee. “Aye, Moi Soverenyi,” he says as he scribbles.

Alina nods, angrily brushing the sleep from her tired eyes. “It’s what Marie deserves,” she says darkly. “A quick death is too good for Visser. I want every last secret dragged out into the light so that everyone knows what Zlatan is planning. I want everyone to know of Marie… of her bravery… of her sacrifice.”

When she looks up its to find Ivan watching at her with a rare look of approval.

“Have the search teams found the accomplice?” Alina asks softly, half dreading the answer. Her frown deeps as Aleksander and Ivan share a speaking glance.

“No. Not yet.” It’s Aleksander who answers her question, but it’s Ivan’s face that reveals how put out by this news he is. The Heartrender looks thunderous.

“We’ve found evidence that he arrived with others in Os Alta, but it’s unclear whether these individuals are a part of the plot or just convenient cover,” Aleksander continues, his voice weary and showing how exhausted he is.

Troubled, Alina shifts her position, her eyes finding Ivan’s. “Would you leave us please, Ivan,” she asks. For a moment she fears he will disobey her, or else look to Aleksander for confirmation, but he does neither – merely picking up his papers and notebooks, before bowing to both of them and leaving without comment.

“Did you sleep at all last night, Aleks?” she asks as soon as the door has clicked into place.

The man before her looks exhausted, dark rings circling his grey eyes, his face pale and drawn.

Tiredly, Aleksander shakes his head. “There wasn’t time,” he answers truthfully. “There was so much… and I was needed by the search teams and the children. The younger years were particularly fearful and upset last night, it took a while to calm them.”

Standing, Alina walks over to Aleksander’s chair, perching on the arm so she can wrap a comforting arm around him. Leaning over she places a kiss on his temple. “My poor Aleks,” she says softly, “you need to rest. No good will come of you working yourself to death.”  

It’s the wrong thing to say – or, perhaps, the right thing – as with a choking gasp Aleksander pulls her into his arms, one hand cupping her head and gently stroking her hair as he holds her against his chest, the floodgates opening at last. “I could have lost you,” he murmurs against her hair. “Saints, Alina, it could have been you… it… it could have been you.” She feels something wet dripping onto her neck and realises with a start that Aleks is crying and its his tears she can feel.

Wrapping her arms him, she just holds him to her, letting him vent and cry out his pain and fear.

 


 

Ivan’s message had clearly been relayed to the Tsar as three high ranking First Army officers appear after lunch to view the body, bearing orders from his Imperial Uselessness as regards Aleksander’s request for a trial. With Aleks tucked up in a meeting with Vasily, it falls to Ivan and Alina as the two most senior officers to escort their First Army guests to the room where Marie’s body is still lying under its sheet.

“Messy.” Colonel Azimov sneers, his bushy moustache twitching as if he smells something unpleasant.

“Indeed,” the man next to him agrees, “still, a better outcome than the alternative,” he says directing a significant look at her.

“What does that mean?” Alina demands, bristling at the tone. “A girl has been murdered. My friend. I fail to see how this is ‘better’.”

The Major frowns severely at her, his dark eyes flashing with annoyance. “It is better young lady. You are irreplaceable, she is not. Much better the assassin killed her than he got the Sun Summoner.”

Alina turns white with anger as she stares down the officer, beside her Ivan’s stance changes, segueing from relaxed to lethal in the space of a blink.

It’s at this point the third officer interjects. Up until now, Alina hadn’t paid much attention to the third man, content to ignore him after finding out he’s yet another Lantsov.

“What my colleague means,” the man starts with an apologetic grin and soothing voice, “is that of course the loss is great - especially to those who know and love her - but strategically it would have been a catastrophic loss to the whole of Ravka if we lost our sun saint.”

At the first word Alina’s snap to the man, staring in surprise as she recognises her anonymous friend she met on the way back from Baghra’s. He looks quite different to the man she had met those weeks ago, no longer dusty and dishevelled from the road, but dressed in an obviously expensive tailored military uniform of imperial white with the most ridiculous hat Alina has ever set eyes on. The thing is enormous, standing over a foot tall, and made taller still by the large red plume. She had thought the military headwear of the Colonel and Major had been bad enough, but the prince’s is in a league of its own.

“Hello again,” Alina says dumbly, shock stealing her words.

“Hello again, Sankta,” Nikolai says, bowing lowly in her direction. “I only wish our second meeting had been under better circumstances.” His tone is so considerate and commiserating, so like the friend she had made those days ago out in the gardens, that she feels her annoyance soften, and a smile flit across her face in welcome.

“You have to understand,” she says, as the shock dissipates and she remembers the reason for her anger, “Marie was well loved. What to you may be an acceptable loss, is an unacceptable one to us. Let me remind you, gentleman that not only have we lost our friend, but that this is our home and it has been violated, desecrated by someone who’s objective was to murder.”

It’s an eloquent rebuke and it has the desired impact. Azimov loses some of his puffed up pomposity, regarding her with understanding and what might be compassion. Nikolai smiles sadly and nods. “I am certain it was not the Major’s intention to diminish the pain, nor the tragedy of this sorry event,” he says in a conciliatory tone. He nudges Major Kerisimov.

“Indeed,” the Major grunts, not sounding particularly apologetic, “no offence was intended.”

Azimov lets out a relieved sigh, clapping his hands together. “Excellent,” he says, moustache quivering. He looks to Ivan. “Perhaps we can now go over some of the finer details of this tragic…event.”

In his usual calm and efficient way, Ivan explains the security plans for the previous evening; describing numbers, rotations and the checks that were carried out on guests.

“That all sounds very sensible. Do you know how the assassin got in?”

Here Ivan looks slightly uncomfortable and Alina listens with interest to the new information.

“Yes,” the Heartrender says, shifting his weight and clasping his hands behind his back in a textbook parade rest. “A cloak and hat similar in design to those used by the General’s Oprinichki were found in the room near the knife. We believe Visser must have seen the guards before had his own set made up, so that he could infiltrate the Little Palace.”

It’s a chilling thought, and she can see the importance of Ivan’s suggestion hit home with Nikolai who then says, “Clever. Very clever. Of course, in such a uniform his presence would be unlikely to be questioned, if it was noticed at all. It’s the same with servants.”

“That is our working theory,” Ivan agrees with a sour look. “With over two hundred Oprinichki guards stationed in Os Alta it is difficult to know them each by face alone. The guards that work within the Little Palace itself are all known to the senior staff, but those who are on grounds or gate detail are seldom seen regularly by those of us based here. With the increased security last night, an extra Oprinichki would draw little attention.”

The explanation is accepted by both Nikolai and Azimov with little comment, but Kerisimov it seems cannot leave well enough alone.  

“Of course,” the Major says, flicking lint off a jacket that has clearly never seen war or any action outside of a billiards room, “this would not have happened had General Kirigan accepted his Imperial Highness’ very magnanimous offer of providing and managing security.”

For a moment there is complete stillness in the room but then chaos explodes as both Azimov and the prince start remonstrating with their thick-headed colleague.

Ivan, enraged by the slur against both grisha and the security he had personally overseen, steps forward with hands raised in a position Alina knows only too well from combat training.   

It’s only luck which allows her to grab hold of his arm as he passes her. Keeping a restraining hand on the Heartrender’s elbow, Alina turns to face Major Kerisimov, brown eyes glowing a molten gold in her fury.

“Are you suggesting, Major, that Marie would not have died had your guards been in charge?” She asks incredulously.

“Certainly,” the Major retorts, red faced and belligerent. “Such a failure would never happen in the First.”

“Bollocks.” “Nonsense.” Alina and Nikolai say at the same time. Even the Colonel is looking decidedly uncomfortable with his subordinate’s comment.

“Ahh,” Azimov says, venturing somewhat nervously into the quicky escalating tensions. “Now then, let’s not get distracted. Our purpose here isn’t to assign blame, after all. His Imperial Highness was most clear in his instructions. Our job – our only job - is to determine whether a crime has been committed and, if so, what should be done about it.”

Nikolai and the Major are both nodding, even Ivan looks reluctantly as if he is willing to let this go, but Alina can’t – won’t – not when the integrity and honour of her people, her friends, have been questioned. This is not a burden for Ivan to bear, this is not his fault, and she will not allow such accusations to go unchallenged simply because of political expediency. She won’t allow it.

“Forgive me, Colonel, but a serious allegation has just been made. It cannot be simply swept aside, not when it shows such bigotry towards my officers. This is not the first slur from the Major, and I find it unacceptable.”

“What would you know of it, madam!” Kerisimov barks.

She’s just debating whether to point out to the pompous Major that she put outranks him when Nikolai does it for her.

Cuffing his fellow officer round the head, he said, “you do realise Kerisimov that she outranks you. Commander in the second army is equivalent to Colonel in the First.”

What!” The Major splutters, turning puce.

“It’s true.” Nikolai continues unrepentant, “she outranks you.”

Sadly for all, the Major chooses this moment to continue, this time catching hold of her wrist as he starts to say, “now see, here…”

“Back off,” Ivan growls, voice low and if not actually threatening than not far from it.

“Pardon?” The Major scowls at the Heartrender.

Ivan looks down at where the Major has grabbed hold of Alina’s wrist. “Otkazat’sya have no right to touch the Sun Summoner, especially stupid Otkazat’sya.”

The insult clearly lands as intended as the Major straightens, letting go of Alina’s arm so he can pull himself to his full height - which, while impressive, is still a good two inches shorter than the Ivan.  

Ivan just continues to glower at the shorter man, his expression cold and immovable.

The situation is saved by Nikolai, who quickly steps between the two men, stating sharply – “Enough, Kerisimov. If you cannot behave with the respect due to your superior officers, then you will be made to wait outside. Do you understand?” the prince adds with a dark look at the Major who, faced with the evident ire of both Colonel and prince, subsides with ill grace.

“Good. Good.” Azimov blusters, clearly unsettled by the display. “You’ve interrogated the man responsible?”  

“Yes,” Ivan grunts, still eyeing the Major with contempt.

“Goodo. He confessed?” The Colonel questions, tone deliberately blithe and light.

“Yes,” Ivan and Alina confirm at the same time.

“He said he’s working for General Zlatan,” Alina adds and watches carefully as the three First Army Officers all still, brows furrowed. Even Major Kerisimov appears to be troubled by that little fact.

“Zlatan,” Nikolai queries, “you’re certain he meant General Zlatan.”

“Yes,” Alina replies quickly before Ivan’s scowl of annoyance can ratchet up any further. “Visser said that Zlatan fears the destruction of the Fold and what it could mean for his plans to secede from Imperial Ravka to become a separate nation. It’s why we wish for an open, public trial. His crimes must be shown and denounced so that everyone knows him for the traitor he is.”   

The three officers share another long speaking look. “You can confirm this?” Azimov asks Ivan, watching him with suddenly shrewd, cold eyes.

Ivan only nods. There is another look between Azimov and Nikolai, who then says with in a dark, troubled voice, “well, that puts a rather different interpretation on his absence.”

“Aye,” the Major adds, glancing at his Colonel. “His Imperial Highness specifically invited General Zlatan. He accepted the invitation, but has not yet arrived. The last communication we had from him was that had been renewed fighting along one of the contested border points.”

“General Kirigan has been concerned about General Zlatan’s separatist beliefs for some time, Colonel Azimov,” Ivan adds. “I believe he has raised it several times before at the Senior Staffers Monthly briefing.” No one could have missed the sardonic edge to the Heartrender’s comment, nor the pointed barb, and Alina watches with a combination of amused horror at the very visible affront apparent on the faces of the Colonel and Major. Only Nikolai appears to share her amusement at Ivan’s cutting comment, and he winks at her when he catches her eye.

Electing to ignore Ivan’s provocative remark, Azimov simply nods and turns to his fellow officers, conferring in hushed, hurried whispers that Alina politely pretends not to be able to hear.

This continues for some minutes, accompanied by the occasional oath or angry gesture, and just for a moment Alina wonders if they will be refused a trial.

Such concern doesn’t last for long, though, as not long after the officers emerge from their huddle, all three with matching grim expressions.

It’s Nikolai who gives them the news. He and his fellow officers agree that there is ample evidence of a capital crime having been committed and, as such, the suspect is to be remanded by the Second Army to be brought to trial two days after the Winter Ball.

The three First Army officers leave shortly after reaching this decision, heads bent together in conference as they return to the Imperial Palace.

Watching them depart, Alina lets out a relieved sigh, they’ve achieved what they needed too. Marie’s murderer will have his day in court and there will be no where left to hide for the traitorous General.

 


 

Marie’s funeral happens two days later on a suitably grey and dismal day. The entirety of the Little Palace – teachers, students, guards and servants alike – are in attendance, their faces solemn as they fall into the sombre procession across the grounds behind the Little Palace to the little plot given to Aleksander years before by the then Tsar Nikolai III for use as a graveyard.

In keeping with grisha tradition, Marie’s body is to be burnt, and the ashes scattered across the earth to nourish the flowers that grow there. It’s a sweet tradition that hides an ugly past – of a time when the bodies of fallen grisha were desecrated, their internal organs and bones carved from them to be used in charms and potions. Even internment would not protect the dead from being defiled from those determined enough; and so the tradition of cremation had begun.

Along with the inhabitants of the Little Palace there are several representatives of the First Army – including Nikolai – and even the Apparat appears, his head bowed low as he prays over the casket containing her friend.

The farewell is shorter than the previous funerals Alina has been to, reminding her more of the Army where the dead are laid to rest in mass graves with little ceremony or tenderness. Aleks gives a short speech, his words promising justice for Marie and vowing to increase the security of the Little Palace so that grisha can once again feel safe there, but it is Nadia – Marie’s closest friend – who gives the eulogy and closes the ceremony by singing the familiar lament.

All to soon – too soon for Alina – Marta steps forward, bringing her hands together with a loud clap. Fire, bright and hot, shoots from her outstretched hands to cover the coffin, setting it ablaze.  

Watching the flames, all Alina feels is a numb sense of disbelief. She still can’t believe it, can’t believe that her friend has gone, has been taken from her. She thinks of Marie’s awe when they first met, in her delight at seeing every new trick or skill she learnt. She thinks of her friend’s open, almost childlike sense of fun, of her optimism and joy. She thinks of her friend, and a tear slips down her cheek.   

 


 

The walk back from the pyre is almost worse than the trip there had been. There is no formal procession back to the Little Palace, instead people drift off in groups or on their own until only Alina, Nadia and Genya are left. Nikolai was one of the first to leave, the evident discomfort of his fellow officers pushing them to leave as soon as was reasonable. He’d smiled at her as he walked away, dipping his head in a show of respect. Aleksander had followed soon after with Ivan and Fedyor, probably to continue Arken Visser’s interrogation.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” she says at last, her voice cracking and hoarse from the tears. Genya shakes her head, “No, it shouldn’t,” she agrees softly.

Tears are still falling from Nadia’s eyes as she turns to the other two. “Do you remember,” she says, voice trembling slightly, “that games night when David dared Marie to kiss Ivan?”

“What?” Genya cackles in surprise. “David? My David? When was that? And where was I?”

The laugh that escapes Nadia is high and slightly sharp with nerves and tears, but beneath it her amusement shines through. “About two months ago,” she says with a giggle as she nudges Alina, “it was just after Alina came to the Little Palace, and David dared Marie to kiss Ivan the next time he came in the room…”

“Then what happened,” the Tailor demands as she wipes tears of laughter from her eyes.

“He was so shocked he just walked straight back out again,” Alina explains as Nadia descended into a fit of giggles. It leads on to another story, this time about a book Marie had misplaced, a certain romantic story that was a little on the raunchy side, which resulted in her trying to describe the novel to an increasingly confused Opinichki without telling him either the name or describing the picture on the front plate by which he could have identified the missing book.

And so it continues, the three of them sharing stories and laughter as they sit watching the dying flames. It feels freeing sitting here and talking like this, in remembering the fun and laughter. Healing, almost, in some vital and unknown way.

 

 

“Can I ask for one thing, Alina?” Nadia asks as they start to collect their scattered belongings.

Pausing, Alina looks at the other girl in surprise. “Of course,” she says.

Nadia smiles, eyes still wet and glassy with tears. “Could you make the sun shine? Marie always loved the sunny days best and she’d… she’d have loved to know the sun was shining for her, just once.”

It’s nearly enough to start them all off crying again, and Alina watches as Genya wraps an arm around the Tidemaker, pulling her into a tender embrace. Alina doesn’t answer, instead closing her eyes and reaching inside her for the place that burns with power.

High above them, the sun burns fiercely at the call, a beam of light pushing through the clouds to alight on the now smouldering embers of the pyre. It looks like a halo, bathing the ashes in a golden glow.

Next to her, Nadia and Genya both gasp with delight, and Alina opens her eyes to see the fruit of work. It’s a fitting final tribute to her friend, she thinks as the three girls turn and slowly make their way back to the Little Palace.

 


 

The day after the funeral is nearly as bad as it involves yet another dress fitting, this time for the Winter Ball, which is now only a day away. It feels to Alina like yet another task she has to get through, an inconvenience delaying Visser’s trial.

Irritated and irritable, Alina at last retires to her bedroom, determined to find something that will take her mind off both the ball and the trial. It’s then that she spots the book Aleksander had so thoughtfully lent her before… before all this unpleasantness.

His grandfather’s journal is old and sits heavily in her hands as she turns it over.  

The writing is tiny and scraggly, rendering the text nearly illegible. Fortunately for all, Alina has never let a challenge get in the way of reading a book. Borrowing a high magnification lens from David, she sets to work. Many of the entries in the book have been damaged beyond understanding by time and water, but some are still legible enough for her read.  

 

13th day of Janus in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Eighty-Eight

Today my wife was delivered of a fine girl blot. Our little Bag-blot is a fine and healthy smudge. She has my dark hair, but I believe she has her mother’s eyes.

This journal I shall keep separate to my workbooks to chronical our blot early life.

 

20th day of September in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Ninety-five

My poor child. There can be no doubt blot. She has been twice cursed. Once by being born like me blot. The second to be smudge blot such a gift. The control of blot is not natural. May the saints forgive me.

 

1st day of December in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Ninety-Nine

My little Baghra continues to grow, although she still struggles blot control the demons. My wife grows alarmed and fearful, for we have another child, soon to arrive. I continue my research into how to rid Baghra of blot and give her the life she blot.

 

2nd day of February in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred

I am no longer convinced as my blot is that our little Baghra is possessed. Mother told me a tale shortly before blot died. A fantastical smudge blot blot blot blot. I can hardly believe it. Blot. But if it is true, then what a path my daughter must face. I must find if it is true, unlikely though it seems.

 

15th day of August in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and three

For three long years I have looked, and no answers have I blot. My wife grows weary of our constant travels, yet how can I rest now. No answers, but so many more questions, I have. The search continues. I must find the smudge smudge that Mother spoke of – they will know.

 

5th day of October in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four

I can scarce believe it, and yet… and yet… it would explain smudge blot blot…

 

7th day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four

I met a strange man today. My questions have apparently not gone unnoticed, for he was most interested in blot blot. There was little I could smudge, for fear that he might blot Baghra.

 

9th day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four

The mystery deepens. I met the man again today, quite by chance – or so I blot. He asked if I seek that which was lost. I replied that I seek that which may be found to protect one that I blot. By chance, this seemed blot blot smudge. He shook me by the hand then and introduced himself as Tomas and told me such a tale as I could hardly believe and I dare not write for fear it may smudge smudge blot.

Before we parted, Tomas told me where I might look, if I still wanted answers. It will be a wearisome journey, but I must go. His parting words to me, I cannot forget. Should I have the need look to the Sun, for her warriors are many and will answer the call.

 

22nd day of March in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Six

I’ve found it. At last I have found it. The sacred something blot blot. I hadn’t wanted to believe the old tales, but this is proof blot smudge. Proof! Evidence that my mother was right. All these years I’ve thought her stories the rambling of an old dying woman, but she was right. They did exist. They court of Night and Day existed - and so too do their crowns. I can hardly believe smudge, but I can no longer deny the evidence of what my daughter’s powers mean. Baghra is the answer. Young though she is now, little though she knows it, the royal line runs through our veins and it has run true in her. My little princess blot blot.

But the danger is great. Blot still exist, and they have not forgotten this history either. I fear for her safety. Bad enough to be born controlling shades, but if anyone realised what it means, her life will be in great danger.

My wife is stupid smudge, she doesn’t understand. She fears our little Baghra because she is different. If she knew the truth though… smudge smudge blot.

 

23rd day of April in the years of the saints Nine Hundred and Six

There is nothing for it. I cannot tell my secret. Though I know the Soldat Sol would blot protect blot take blot smudge grace, and would guard blot, I cannot risk it. A secret is safe so long as only one blot it. There’s no choice. I will have to take the blot and hide them. The broken blot can be remade, but not until it is safe blot. I will leave clues here for my daughter to find. Once the Sun Saint appears, then it will be smudge.

 

12th day of October in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Six

Things are getting worse. I fear blot smudge Baghra. We have had to move again from blot. The villagers were blot suspicious. I fear for our people, smudge. I fear that there may come a time when they will turn on us, those born with gifts they do not understand. My dreams grow dark.

 

18th day of November in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Ten

My journey is hard, only the thought of my little blot keeps me going. I have heard tell of a suitable herd in the mountains, but smudge old bones find this cold slows me. I must find smudge. Then my task will truly begin. My foolish wife does not believe blot. She must never know the truth of my life’s great-blot work.

 

1st day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Fifteen

I have at last found the blot. I followed the tracks deep into the mountains thinking to find smudge, but instead they found me. He is magnificent. Natures king. He will be the guardian, to keep smudge smudge. My only hope is that this is not a grave error of smudge. I must have faith. Merzost will not abandon its smudge-ren.

 

31st day of December in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Fifteen

The deed is done, I have hidden the crowns. They are safe. Time is catching up with me, I fear. I hear the hoof beats of death following behind. My only hope is that my daughter understands the clues I have left. That I haven’t blot another mistake.

 

15th day of March in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Sixteen

Baghra… my daughter, forgive me…

 

Although many of the entries are damaged, almost beyond comprehension, there is enough still legible for Alina to gain a new understanding into Baghra’s early life and it fills her with compassion. What a life the old woman had been born into. Again, Alina feels the great fortune she has in her Mama, who is a source of indefatigable strength, support and love to her daughter. Aleksander’s mother didn’t have that – instead, it seems she grew up with an absentee father and a mother who feared and disliked her. How damaging such a youth must have been. Small wonder that she grew to hold otkazat’syas in the contempt she does now.

Since the discovery of her power, Alina has been feted, celebrated and placed on a pedestal, which is bad enough, but she has little experience of being disliked and vilified in the way Baghra it seems – and likely Aleksander too – have had to live with. It’s an unpleasant thought, an injustice that galls her. Because of circumstance and the cultural preference for light Alina is seen as a saviour. The reverse is true for Aleksander and his mother – their shadows damn them, condemn them to be seen as evil and untrustworthy.

There’s something about the words in the journal though, which resonate with her, reminding her of something just beyond her grasp.     

Exhausted and wrung out Alina feels her eyes getting heavier and heavier. The words of the journal blurring in and out of focus as her head nods and jerks as she tries to fight the siren call of sleep. It’s a battle she soon loses, her head coming to rest on the desk pillowed by her outstretched arm.

 

When her eyes open, she is once again in the familiar frozen tundra she has come to recognise so well. This time though it’s night, the sky a dark velvet blue speckled with stars.

There’s no flying this time, no sense of chasing something that must be found. Instead, there’s a pervading feeling of peace - as if she has come to her journeys end.

Behind her there is a soft crunching sound as if something large is walking across the snow, and then there is the sensation of breath on her neck. The warm puffs of air makes her shiver and the fine hairs on her arms stand up in alarm.

‘I am only dreaming’, she says to herself firmly, trying to command her pounding heart to slow. ‘This is a dream - and things can’t hurt you in dreams.’

As if to show her the folly of her thoughts, the thing behind her chooses that moment to nudge her in the small of her back, nearly sending her flying with the force of it.

When she remains still the thing nudges her again. This time with more force. Trembling, Alina steels herself and slowly turns.

Two large brown eyes set in a white face meet her own, and a shivering sigh escapes her.

‘Oh, what magnificence’, she thinks in awe as she gazes at the majestic stag. She has never seen one so tall or so proud before. Nor has she ever heard of deer being white.

The stag stands a good 17 hands tall, taller than Beauty or the Arabian she has seen in the stables. The creature is pure white, almost ethereal in its appearance, and upon its head lies the most impressive set of antlers she has ever seen.

The stag draws himself up under her assessing gaze, preening and stamping his hooves as if to say, ‘yes, admire me, for an I not the most beautiful creature you have ever set eyes on.’

Unable to resist, Alina stretches one shaking hand out, the tips of her fingers cautiously brushing his nose. Instead of running away though, as she would expect any other wild creature to do, the white stag leans into her touch, nuzzling her palm as if welcoming her like a long-lost friend.

‘Welcome,’ his eyes seek to say, ‘welcome, friend. I have been waiting for you.’

 


 

With a gasp Alina shoots up in her chair, once more finding herself in the familiar blue tones of her bedroom.

For a long moment the room seems to spin around her, and Aline is forced to close her eyes as she tries to stop the dizzy feeling and regain control of her rebelling stomach.

Once the world has righted itself, her eyes open and drop to the journal she had fallen asleep reading. Could it be it was just a dream brought about by Ilya’s words. No, surely not. She’s been having this dream for weeks now. Not the ending perhaps. But the lead up to it, certainly.

Uncertainly, she turns her attention again to the journal, only to take a deep shuddering breath at what she sees on a page her sleeping fingers have accidentally flicked too.

Not a dream, then.

She shoots to her feet, and rushes to the door, only remembering at the last moment to grab the journal before she out into the cool hallway.

 


 

Mal is loitering in the vestibule as she hurtles down the stairs, the precious book still clasped in her hands.

“’Lina,” he calls when he spots her. His eyes lighting up in delight.

“Not now Mal,” she says brusquely, rushing past him, guiltily calling back over her shoulder. “Bad time, try after the winter ball,” and continues her mad flight down the familiar corridors to Aleksander’s rooms.

“But, Firecracker,” the tracker tries to protest, only its too late, Alina is already out of sight.

 


 

To say that Ivan is less than thrilled to see the Sun Summoner hurtling towards him at breakneck speed when he is mid-way through reorganising the accounts in his newly complete filing system is an understatement. He months ago concluded that Alina’s superpower should have been chaos rather than sun summoning, and this is just one more example to add to his ever-growing list.

As if to prove him right, Alina barrels past a clerk, sending papers flying, as she calls out a hasty apology enroute down the corridor. Before Ivan can admonish her, however, the traitorous Oprinicki on guard outside the General’s rooms, have opened the doors for her. Grinning to each other as she flies passed.

Scowling, Ivan directs his most fearsome glare at the two entirely unrepentant guards. ‘Traitors, the lot of them’, he mutters, bending to assist the clerk who is still staring starstruck at the once more closed to doors of the War Room.  

“Was that the Sun Summoner?” the clerk, asks dazedly, a look of bemused adoration on his young face.

Papers in hand, Ivan shoots a disgusted look at the hapless clerk, and stomps grumpily to his desk. Open on top of a stack of paper is the General’s diary. Balefully, the Heartrender glares at the neat entries listing the meetings and activities for the day with a sinking feeling. The appearance of that girl never bodes well for his orderly life.

 


 

“I’ve found it!” Alina exclaims as she bursts through the doors of his study, his concentration shattering like glass under a hammer at the unexpected intrusion.

“Alina?” He asks, confused, glancing up from a report to find the one and only Sun Summoner hopping about in her excitement.

“The answer,” she cries, her eyes studying the book in her hands as she flips resolutely through the pages.

“Forgive me, Alinochka,” he says at last, rubbing his tired eyes and replacing his pen carefully in the ink pot, “but I still don’t have the pleasure of understanding you. What..”

“The answers been here the whole time, staring us in the face. Your grandfather’s journals, Aleks. The answers in your grandfather’s journal.”

For a moment Aleksander pales, his eyes darting to the bookcase nearest his desk with something that looks like fear in the whites of his eyes, confused by such a reaction Alina pauses, but in a flash the moment is gone and Aleks is leaning forward on his elbows, his attention fixed on her, and Alina shakes it off as a trick of the light or her fevered mind.

“What answers, dear one?” her closest friend enquires, his interest as clear as his confusion.

“About what we are – where we come from.” Bouncing with excitement, Alina hands him the journal. “Read the entries, Aleks. You need to see what he wrote.”

It takes some minutes even for a fast reader like Aleksander to cover the pages and entries Alina points out to him, but when he does, he sits back against the soft leather of his chair and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Forgive me, Alina,” he says, “but I don’t understand. The diary is too damaged to make sense of – and saints know both mother and I have tried over the years – and where it is not damaged, the writing is nonsensical, the ramblings of a man losing touch with reality...”

“But don’t you see,” Alina exclaims excitedly, “your grandfather knew, Alek, he knew what you were, or rather what your mother’s power meant. Those journeys he went on, he was looking for evidence of the fable, and when he found it, he protected it the best way he knew.”

Aleksander looked blankly at his love, hardly able to follow as she seemed to make a jigsaw out of ill-fitting pieces.

“The stag, Aleksander,” she says impatiently when it becomes clear that she alone knows what she’s talking about, “what animal did nature gift a crown?”

“My grandfather was mad when he wrote those diaries, Alina,” he reminds her carefully as he looks down at the page she has shoved under his nose. The diary is open to a drawing of his mythical stag, the stag he once thought to use as an amplifier for the Sun Summoner. The same stag that Oretsev appeared to have actually found. The scribble at the top is one he has seen a thousand times before and makes as little sense now as it did the first time he saw it: Nature’s king is crowned.  

Nonsense, utter nonsense. Even his mother – who revers her late father in a way she does no one else – agrees that Ilya Morozova was as mad as a hatter by the end of his life, always ranting and raving about some secret or other. “It was likely a blessing,” his mother had told him one dark night long ago, “that the villagers did what they did. He was mad, unbalanced. At least the end was quick, better than a long lingering death.”

“Of course you couldn’t understand it, Aleks,” she interrupts impatiently. “water damage stole some of the words and you didn’t have the pieces needed in order to solve the puzzle!”

“And you do?” Aleksander questions dryly, running a hand through his hair.

“Not at first,” Alina agrees with a nod, “but now I do, or if not all than certainly enough to understand a good deal more than you do.”

“You’ve been searching for your grandfather’s stag thinking it’s an amplifier, but it’s not - it’s something far more precious and important.”

From the bemused look on his face, Aleksander is no less confused now than he was when she barged into his study some twenty-minutes before waving the journal around in her excitement. Heaving a heavy sigh, Alina flops back

“I know I’m not explaining well,” she said softly, “it’s just, it feels like I finally understand something that’s been bothering me for weeks.”

The look Aleksander levels at her is piercing as he considers her words. “What mystery, Alina?” He asks gently.

So Alina tells him.

She tells him about the strange dreams that started not long after she came to the Little Palace. She tells him about the book the Apparat gave her with the story of the Court of Night and Day and the parallels she saw between the powers described in the story and their own.

She tells him about the frustrating sense of missing something, of the unanswered questions she has about the origin of their powers and how they came to inherit them.

Through it all Aleksander listens attentively, fingers steepled under his chin.

Finally, she explains, “that’s what clicked when I read your grandfather’s journal. It’s coded, and he’s careful in his wording, but he refers to the Court and to the Soldat Sol. He hid the crowns in the one place he thought no one would think to look, and he was right - but the story got out, or he told the story so people would remember, and people did start searching, only not for what he actually hid but for items of great power. Everyone assumed it was an amplifier, but they were wrong - or partly wrong, I don’t know what the crowns do, exactly, but they aren’t just amplifiers. They’re so much more than that.”

Her hands wave as her excitement grows, “but don’t you see, Aleks, it means that the story is true, or bits of it at least. It means we’re not the first with these gifts, and it means we need to find that stag.

“Hmm,” Aleksander hums, studying his grandfather’s journal again, brow furrowed in concentration. “The Soldat Sol is a myth, Alina. A legend.”

“You mean like Morozova’s stag?” Alina counters pertly. Her sarcastic remark draws a laugh from Aleks, but he then he shakes his head. “There was enough corroborating evidence about my grandfather’s creation that I was reasonably confident it did actually exist and wasn’t just a story. But there is no such evidence for the Soldat Sol. Maybe they lived many years ago, like the Templars in Kerch, but they’ve long since passed into myth and legend, Alina.”

“No they aren’t. They’re real.” Alina replies indignantly. “Ask Botkin, he’ll tell you. He’s Soldat Sol, I’m sure of it. Or the Apparat, he’s one too. Ask them, please.”

For a long moment he looks searchingly at her, looking for something, but then he nods and makes a note on a pad beside him. “Very well,” he agrees. “We can investigate further - but after the winter ball, Alina. If they do exist than this secret has kept for hundreds of years. It can surely keep for a few more days,” he adds when he sees her move to protest.

“There is much that needs to be done,” he reminds her gently, “and not much time to do it all before the ball is upon us.”

“Very well,” Alina murmurs, trying not to feel too disheartened or down cast by the delay. She does understand though, with less than 24 hours to go before the ball there is a lot to be done in preparation, not least a final dress fitting and her daily sparring session with Baghra. More than that though is the preparation for the trial, which the Tsar had scheduled for three days time. The delay which had seemed to Alina the day before as being far too long now seems too short for all the work Aleksander has explained to her must be completed to ensure the trial is a success.

 

 


 

Little though Alina feels like praising anything a Lantsov has been part of, even she can’t deny the splendour of the decorations for the Winter Ball. The theme this year is frost and everyone – even Aleksander – is bedecked in variations of icy blues and glittering whites. It’s strange to see Aleks in a different colour to his habitual black, but as ever he cuts a handsome figure dressed in a military styled long white jacket and white trousers. Instead of black embroidery, Genya has replicated his distinct design in pale blue thread. It’s gives him a powerful and ethereal look, accentuating his dark hair and grey eyes.  

Alina’s dress is another work of art. With the kefta specifically banned by the Tsarina, Genya has been free to design a masterpiece of a ballgown. The floor length white dress is made from rough silk that whispers when Alina moves. In comparison to the court, the dress appears quite plain and understated at first sight, with a modest straight neckline that sits just below her collar bones and long sleeves, but sewn into the silk are thousands and thousands of blue and white crystal beads. The effect when she moves is stunning, making her dress shimmer and shine. As with Aleksander, the Tailor has replicated the unique pattern of embroidery on Alina’s kefta, arranging the tiny beads so that they look like miniature sun bursts.

Along the halls, grisha stop to compliment Alina on her dress and wish her luck for the ball. Genya preens with each admiring look or comment, visibly chuffed to have one of her creations so admired. All this pales into insignificance though to Aleksander’s reaction when he sees her on the stairs. The sharp intake of breath is audible to Alina even some 30ft away, and she spots the amused glance Fedyor shares with his normally surly partner.

Aleksander’s eyes though are riveted on her, the pupils large and dark in the well-lit room as he takes her in.

“Well?” Genya demands impatiently after a few seconds.

Aleks starts, seeming to come back to himself, as he darts an embarrassed look at the two beaming Heartrenders, before focussing on Genya.

“Adequate,” he says with a straight face.

“What?” the Tailor shrieks, her cheeks matching her hair in outrage.

Amused, Aleks laughs, shaking his head fondly at the redhead. “Astonishing, Genya,” he says with a grin. “Your dress is a vision. Alina is simply… she is simply breath-taking.”

It’s the clearest and most public declaration yet of where their relationship is heading, and Alina feels her heartbeat start to race in delight as he steps forward and lifts her hand to place a gentle lingering kiss on her palm, the look in his eye making her shiver. From behind his back he produces a bouquet of dark blue irises – her favourite flower – offering them to her with molten eyes and a deep bow.

 

Instead of walking, as they usually would, Alek’s carriage is ready and waiting for them as they leave the warmth of the Little Palace. Such extravagance would normally have Alina frowning, but on this occasion she can see the sense. The gates of the Imperial Palace have been thrown open tonight and even here secure within the compound of the Little Palace she can see the orange glow of the torches of the peasant’s ball. The annual commoner’s dance is traditionally held on the same night as the Winter ball at the Imperial Palace as a way for them to show their appreciation of the work and efforts of the common people. Food and ale is provided by the Tsar and Tsarina and the gates to the Imperial park opened so that revellers can dance and enjoy the royal grounds.

Alina had attended one Peasant’s ball with her mother when she was fifteen. It had been a memorable night, not least because of the sheer number of drunk men milling around. She had enjoyed the dancing though, and the music.

A few weeks ago, she would have thought nothing of the Peasant’s ball. Now though she sees the worry in Aleksander’s eyes and the tense posture of their guards and understands it. Marie’s death is like a black cloud over the Little Palace. The unthinkable happened, one of their own was killed within the safety of the Little Palace, and she appreciates the awareness of risk in a way she could not before. What had seemed to her for years as a jolly party she now views with caution. It’s for this reason she knows that Aleksander has ordered his carriage made ready, even if it is only a five-minute drive to the steps of the Imperial Palace. A carriage is safer than walking.

Bowing low, one of the guards opens the door for her, but it is Aleksander who offers his hand and helps her into the plush interior of the carriage, ensuring that she is settled before climbing in himself.

 


 

Looking around her, Alina has a strange sense of déjà vu as she takes in the familiar black velvet cushions and blue trimmings. “This is very like the carriage I woke up in the day Ivan kidnapped me,” she comments conversationally as with a jolt they started moving.

“I should think so,” Aleks says with a wry smile. “That was my favourite coach.”

“That was your… oh dear,” Alina murmurs, looking for the first time a bit worried. “Erm, Aleks, did you know…” she starts, then trails off unsure how to explain the fate of that particular conveyance.

“That my favourite coach while bullet proof proved less resistant to a flaming arrow? Yes, I am aware of that fact.”

“Oh, good,” Alina breathes, looking relieved.

“Although not at the time. I only realised when I went looking for it and found it missing. I’m sure Ivan enjoyed that debriefing greatly.”

The last is said in Alek’s driest and most sardonic tone, and it makes her chuckle. She’s still giggling over his pithy remarks when the driver announces their arrival, and they disembark.

The laughter feels good, and it helps dispel her nerves as they join the line of sumptuously dressed guests waiting to be announced. Staring around her, Alina understands for the first time why Genya was so particular about her wearing jewellery and ornaments in her hair. All the guests are bedecked in their finest, and have clearly emptied their jewellery chests this evening – often resulting in gaudy rather than inspiring splendour – but the end result makes her feel shabby, like an imposter who has no right to attend the same event. Aware of the stares and the whispers around her, Alina’s shoulders become hunched as she grows increasingly uncomfortable.  

“You look beautiful, Alinochka,” Aleks whispers, leaning down so that his lips touch the shell of her ear. “But where is my brave Alina, the girl who told the Tsarina off for being rude, who declared herself my equal.”

It’s the right thing to say and Alina feels her nerves settle. These are just people – expensively dressed, incredibly arrogant and self-opinionated people – but people all the same. She is their equal. Her back straightens and her shoulders pull back, her head held high.   

It what feels like no time at all it is their turn.

It feels like every eye is fixed on them as the herald finishes announcing them and Aleks starts to escort her down the grand sweeping staircase and into the throng of watchers.

The ballroom, already Alina’s favourite room in the Imperial Palace because of the enormous windows that take up two of the four walls and the fact that it has seemingly escaped the Tsarina’s unique taste for interior decoration, is even more stunning than usual with traditional evergreen foliage wrapped around the stately columns and large displays of white and blue dyed roses.

But the wonder doesn’t stop there, for above them, suspended from the high domed ceiling are 12 twinkling chandeliers, their crystal pendants gleaming and glittering as they reflect the light from hundreds of Fabrikator made candles. The effect is magical, transformative and Alina cannot help the way her head tilts back as she stares at the wonderous sight.

It’s Aleks’ amused laugh which eventually draws her back from her awestruck staring, and she blushes in embarrassment as he continues to chuckle under his breath, his gaze fond and warm where it rests on her.

“I forget that this is your first time attending a large party here,” he says softly, leading her across the room to where there is a servant handing out flutes filled with a sparkling honey toned wine. “It feels like you’ve always been with me now, that before is nothing but a bad dream.”

Pleased and flattered, Alina squeezes the arm her hand is resting on, smiling when his warm dark eyes meet hers.

“It is a magnificent sight though,” he adds, with a nod to the ballroom, passing her a glass of the fizzing liquid. “Champagne,” he explains when he catches her eyeing it dubiously.

With an exaggerated grimace, she takes a sip, the bubbles exploding over her tongue before the flavour hits. It has a sweeter taste than the wine she has tried before, and already she feels it relaxing her.

Conversation flows easily between them after that, and they spend the next half an hour happily milling about the large room as it grows ever more packed with people, sipping their champagne.

The first set is announced with all the pomp and pageantry to be expected of the Lantsov’s, and Alina watches with interest as the corpulent Tsar leads his stick-thin Tsarina onto the floor at the head of the line. What the Tsar and Tsarina lack in taste or dancing ability, they make up for in hauteur as they move about in the complicated patterns with little grace.

It’s an amusing sight, and one she and Aleksander enjoy watching. Even more amusing though is the sight of Vasily being pursued by what appears to be a very determined woman, who resolutely dogs his every step and movement in the dance.

Two more sets pass by in a similar fashion, with them hovering about the sides, enjoying champagne and the odd little nibbles Aleksander informs her are common at this sort of event. Gradually, however, she becomes aware of the whispers around them. Aleks, she knows, is doing his best to ignore them with all the fortitude of many years diplomatic experience, but as she becomes increasingly alert to them, so she find her temper fraying.

It’s been a hope of hers for years that one day she will dance with Aleksander, and after three glasses of the bubbly wine, an idea strikes her. ‘Why not’, she thinks as she overhears another man wondering whether she has taken a lover, and if so whether she would be open to more than one. Why not dance with Aleks tonight.

The third set ends to loud applause, couples leaving the floor to find refreshments or their next partners while the musicians prepare for the next set to start.    

Draining her glass, she all but shoves it at a nearby servant, as she grips Aleksander’s wrist with clear intent.

“What are you doing?” He questions with a smile as he lets Alina pull him on to the dance floor.

Alina’s smile is distinctly wicked and sharp as she replies. “Why giving the gawping old gossipers something to talk about, of course.”

It makes Aleks laugh as he spins her into place just as the orchestra strike the beginning strains of the waltz. Although she hadn’t known the order, Alina feels her grin widen as she recognises the melody. While the waltz is by no means a new dance – it having become common some years ago in Kerch – it’s still new enough to be considered semi-scandalous by the more conservative members of the court, and Alina can hear the whispers growing louder when it becomes clear just who the Sun Summoner is dancing with and for what dance.

Aleks pulls her near, arranging his arms into a classic waltz hold. “Then let’s give them a show,” and off they go, swirling and twirling with 15 other couples.  

 

Dancing with Aleksander is as heavenly as she thought it would be. The man is an excellent dancer – well, after 500 odd years of practice, he really ought to be – but Alina is pleased to have her suspicions confirmed. He’s confident leading, but not in the assertive, almost dictatorial way, of her dancing instructor who was forever pulling her this way or that; instead, he’s considerate, not so much leading as guiding as they spin in perfect timing with nary an incorrect step.

It's only after the initial thrill of satisfaction and novelty calms that she starts to realise the possible error in her plan… she is dancing with Aleksander. She is dancing pressed up against the man she loves in what is considered one of the most intimate dances, and only now does she really understand why the Waltz was considered scandalous for so many years.

His eyes catch her, warm and molten and full to bursting with emotion, and Alina feels her heart start to race. The arm around her back tightens slightly, the centimetres between them evaporating like mist so that they could almost be embracing rather than dancing.

The music continues, the tempo increasing along with the volume as the orchestra reach the crescendo. Around them the couples spin faster and faster. By some good fortune – or more likely, Aleksander’s careful timing – they are in the centre of the floor now, surrounded in a ring by the other pairs and mostly hidden from the curious eyes of those watching.

It feels like falling in love all over again, like a promise and a new beginning.    

With a final spin, Aleksander dips her over one arm and the dance is over, leaving them both breathless and reluctant to part from the closeness and intimacy they have found in these stolen moments.

“To be continued later?” Aleksander queries softly, his lips kissing her ear, so that she can hear him over the applause.

She tilts her head away so she can meet his burning gaze. “Maybe,” she answers him as softly. “If you’re very lucky.” Her wicked smile showing the tease for what it is.

With heart stopping gentleness, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers trembling slightly where they rest again her pulse. “I am already lucky, my Alina. The luckiest man in Ravka, for I have your heart. There is not a man more fortunate or blessed than I.”

 


 

They are just making their way to where the refreshments are when their progress is interrupted.

“My lord General, General Kirigan,” a voice bellows from just behind them, and Alina watches as Aleks goes still and his expression changes from one of joy to distant displeasure in the blink of an eye.

“Yes,” he says, tone quelling and unwelcoming.

The man in question is either inured to such a tone, or else doesn’t notice it in his excitement, as he barrels towards them, a look of absolute delight on his face.

“General Kirigan, sir,” he says again, this time with an incredibly low bow that almost sees his nose brushing the floor.

“And you are?

“I have so much I wish to talk to you about,” the man blurts out excitedly, bowing again.

“Wonderful,” Aleksander replies sarcastically. “Could it not wait until tomorrow, Mr…?”

“Oh,” the man bleats, for the first time looking self-conscious. “Do forgive me, my Lord. Mertzov, General. David Mertzov, I’ve just been given the position of Major in the Ninth Imperial Infantry, and I was wondering…”

Seeing Aleks is fully occupied being talked at by the First Army Officer, Alina looks around, hoping to spot Gabrielle amongst the mass of people. It’s not to be, there are too many people – too many blonde women in variations of white to be able to pick her friend out from the crowd. For a while, Alina meanders her way through the groups of people, just exploring and enjoying the ability to crowd watch. The musicians are playing a reel and it amuses her for some time watching the stately dressed members of the court dance, jump and cavort in time to the lively music.

She might have stayed there longer if not for a gentle touch to her elbow which has her almost jumping out of her skin in surprise. Wheeling around she is confronted by an apologetic Nikolai. The younger prince is dressed like the rest of the attendees in a white coat and trouser, his, however, has the addition of royal blue sash stamped with the Lantsov crest. It’s the first time she’s seen him wear the crest and it’s an unfortunate reminder of the family he belongs too.

“Forgive me, Sankta,” he says, bowing for a second time, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Heart still pounding, Alina crosses her arms and looks levelling at him. “Perhaps you’d be better to announce your presence in the usual way, then.”

Nikolai puts a hand against his heart as if he has been mortally wounded by her words, “a hit,” he cries, “a palpable hit… and a just rebuke from the finest lady here.”

Alina laughs, blushing and shaking her head. “You, sir, are a terrible flatterer, and evidently one in need of glasses. There are many much more beautiful women here.”

“I do not think so,” Nikolai refutes, his jocular expression slipping for a moment to reveal a flash of something intent and serious. In a second though his jovial smile is back in place, leaving Alina to wonder if she had imagined the moment.

“Now, I’m afraid I must beg your forgiveness again, my Lady,” Nikolai says, not looking repentant at all. “But I had been hoping for a dance all evening, and thought there was little chance of it while your guard dog was with you.”

“What did you do,” Alina frowns in mock rebuke, simultaneously trying to recapture their earlier camaraderie and bury the unease now curdling in her belly.

The prince scratches his ear, his cheeks pinking slightly. “Nothing bad,” he hastens to explain. “I merely pointed him out to Major Mertzov, he’s new and has many… thoughts he wished to share. He’s a great admirer of the General, and… well, I thought…”

“Ahh,” she breathes, her gaze returning to where the man in question is just visible through the crowd. Aleks who has the look of a man who wishes to be anywhere other than where he is. Following her eyeline, the prince winces theatrically.

“You may wish to hide if he ever finds out who was responsible,” she advises, trying not to laugh at the look of concern which briefly replaces the prince’s happy smile.

It doesn’t take long though for Nikolai to rally, “Even should he kill me for it, I will consider it a worthy price to pay for the sake of a dance of the most radiant lady in Ravka.”

“A sun pun,” Alina groans, allowing the prince to escort to the floor, “you just couldn’t resist, could you.”

“Never!” Nikolai proclaims with a laugh and a wink, and then the music starts and their conversation is paused.   

 


 

The heat of the room is oppressive and stifling. There are no windows open despite the crowd packed within the ballroom and Alina knows she can’t be the only one feeling giddy and faint from the dangerous combination of heat, alcohol and dancing. The wine Aleksander had brought her earlier in the evening is a pleasant but far off memory now. Beside her, Nikolai must guess the direction of her thoughts as instead of leading her back towards the dance floor he instead directs them towards a slightly less crowded area. “Wait here, my Lady,” he says with a gallant bow that makes her laugh, “while I set off on the dangerous quest to find refreshment.” The sly wink he sends her as he turns only makes her laugh harder, gasping for air as her eyes shine with mirth.

Despite her worries and concerns she has enjoyed her first formal royal ball immensely. The staring she could do without, but as the night wore on her fellow guests seemed to forget her existence as they progressively got drunker and drunker. Even Vasily has behaved himself – although she rather suspects that’s due to a lack of opportunity rather than a belated realisation in her complete lack of interest, he has been kept very busy by the Teban princess, after all – and dancing with Nikolai has been a joy. Her new friend is witty, charming and an excellent dancer, keeping her entertained throughout their set with his running commentary on the nobles in their vicinity and outrageous tales of his experiences abroad. She doesn’t believe half of what comes out of his mouth, but she can’t deny that this is the only Lantsov she even vaguely likes.

It’s only natural that such thoughts remind her of another dance partner. Her cheeks heat as she recalls her dance with Aleksander, the way he felt against her as he spun her through the intricated steps of the waltz. Even the memory of it is enough to make her blood burn and she feels that giddy happiness of earlier threaten to turn her into a walking candle.

It's then she spots the doors leading to the terrace, one of the tall glass doors is open a crack, a beguiling draft caressing her overheated skin. It’s a matter of seconds for her to slip out the doors and into the dark night. The terrace is empty except for the shadows cast by the twinkling lights of the Imperial Palace and with a deep, relieved sigh Alina gratefully slumps against the stone balustrade, breathing in great lungful’s of fresh cold air.

The night is quiet and peaceful. Through the clouds she can just make out the pinprick glittering of a thousand stars, their majesty dulled by the flickering lights of the palace. Even with the windows and doors closed she can hear the faint melody from the orchestra. Rolling her shoulders, Alina shivers as the cold night air seeps into her skin. The chill is refreshing after the furnace like heat of the ballroom and for once she doesn’t call the sun to warm it away. Instead, she lifts her head to stare at the night sky, absently noting the ever-shifting clouds. An unsettled sky her Mama called such a phenomenon, a sign she would say of a change in the weather, most likely heralding snow and an end to the unusually dry weather they had been enjoying.

Another shiver runs down her spine, this time unrelated to the wintry air. A sense of foreboding settles over her and unbidden she recalls the words of the old woman who had lived down their little lane used to say to her. Unsettled sky, gods roll the die.    

Overhead an owl shrieks making her jump and twist around, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

Around her, the once peaceful shadows now feel ominous and menacing in a way she can’t explain.

Worried now, and only too aware of the fact that no one knows she’s out here, she turns her back on the garden and starts walking towards the doors as fast as the corset of her ballgown will allow her.

It’s a mistake

 


 

Inside the ballroom, Aleksander tugs at the high collar of his jacket in annoyance. It’s like a furnace in here, and the sweltering heat is doing nothing to aid his patience, which is rapidly running out as the bespectacled Major accosts him with yet more thoughts. It isn’t that they’re all bad, or even that he necessarily disagrees with some of the man’s thoughts on ways to economise and improve supply lines, it’s just that a ball isn’t the best place for these sorts of discussions. The heat saps his patience, making him irritable, while the deafening music makes it difficult for anyone to discuss anything, let alone important points of strategy.

That the newly introduced Major Mertzov is eager to do well in his new career is clear – as is the reason why meritocracy and not nepotism based on birth should determine an officer’s rank and occupation.

It’s as the newly minted Major has just launched into yet another idea he’s had – this time relating to the improved ballistic efficiency of First Army canons – that a lady in a white dress glides past them, distracting him. It’s not so much the lady, although that is evidently the Major’s thought as Aleksander pauses mid-sentence, but the dress, which bares a passing resemblance to Alina’s, once more bringing his precious girl to the forefront of his mind.

A quick check of his pocket watch informs him that he and the Major have been conversing for the better part of an hour and that he really ought to find Alina and check that she has not been waylaid by the vacuous Vasily or any other unwelcome individuals. With their normal guards banned from the Imperial Palace for the Winter Ball, he and Alina are the only two Grisha in attendance tonight. It isn’t the most comfortable position, nor the most welcome one, but he ruthlessly tamps down his instinctive worry. He has seen the security plans for the night – has been an active influence in improving them – the risk to Alina is minimal, not even the assembled hoards of the legendary Fjerdan warrior Sigrund would have much luck reaching her here in the Ballroom of the Imperial Palace.  

With a bow and a promise of a much longer and more in-depth discussion at another time, Aleksander leaves the Major and begins looking for his wayward Sun Summoner.

When a quick scan of the surrounding people fails to find Alina he starts to search properly.   

The last he had seen his precious girl, she was being swung around in an energetic dance by the younger and less odious Lantsov princeling. So he starts there. Alina isn’t on the dance floor, but Nikolai is, this time with a striking blonde who is simpering and cosying up to him in a distinctly provocative fashion. It’s a matter of moments for him to interrupt their dance as they move past him. The girl glares at his interruption, her eyes narrowed and angry, but he ignores her. “Moi Prince,” he says offering the youngest Lantsov a bow, “Forgive me for the interruption, but we must speak.”

With a nod and a bow of apology, the prince escorts his partner to a seat and gestures for the General to follow him to a slightly quieter part of the room. There is an amused smirk on his face as he eyes the Darkling’s less than customary outfit. “Got you too, did she?” He queries in amusement. “Good old Mater, she does have a way of getting what she wants, doesn’t she? Shame Father won’t allow her into diplomatic talks – she’d have all the Generals and Kings dancing to her tune… assuming that tune is gossip or clothing related, not sure she’s that interested in land or rights… or politics, for that matter.”

“Have you seen Alina,” Aleks demands irritably, his patience already stretched to breaking point, and not aided in this moment by Nikolai’s facetious attitude so reminiscent of his brother.

The prince’s grin widens. “Lost her have we?” He asks, tone mocking, “tut, tut.”

“This isn’t a game, boy,” Aleks hisses, eyes darkening rapidly as the panic he has so far held at bay starts to grow exponentially. “I thought you her friend, she certainly claims you as such.”

The smirk dies and instead there is a look of confusion on Nikolai’s face. “I am her friend,” he says earnestly, “she is a dear, sweet lady.”

“Then you should be more concerned than you are. Have you forgotten so soon what happened the night of the presentation.” The point evidently strikes home as Nikolai pales. “Of course,” he says, “forgive me, General.”  

The prince’s eyes drop to the floor for a long moment, fingers drumming against his thigh with restless energy as he considers his answer.

“Yes, we danced a set,” he says at last, “but I left her by the west doors some time ago to get her a drink. When I returned she had vanished. I assumed she had been asked to dance or else spotted a friend she wished to speak to. Are you sure she is not here?” He asks, a frown marring his handsome features.

Aleksander shakes his head, the gnawing unease in his stomach becoming a full blown stampede. She isn’t here, he can feel it – or rather he can’t feel her, can’t feel that gentle brush of warmth he has grown so used to over the past months.

“Very well,” Nikolai says firmly, all traces of the jocular prince vanishing like morning mist. “I’ll alert the palace guard. We need to conduct a full search of the Palace and the grounds.”

 

The search takes time, especially given the need for discretion so as to not alarm the guests. The prince and his men have taken the inside of the Palace, while Aleksander instructs his guards to the do the same for the path between the two palaces. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that Alina had grown bored of the ball and thought to walk home – even if such a decision is a foolish one that they will be having words about later.

He has remained in the ballroom, ever hopeful that the missing sun saint will reappear as suddenly as she disappeared. It’s as he’s stalking around the periphery for the fourth time that he spots one of the servants locking the west doors.

“Ho, there,” he calls striding towards the nervous servant.

“Moi Soverenyi,” the servant mutters bowing low.

“You there, were these doors not locked?” he demands, voice pitched low, as he motions towards the keys still in the servant’s grip.

“Aye, sir,” the servant replies. “They were meant to be, but it must have been missed.”

“And have you seen anyone going out onto the terrace?” he asks, half afraid of the answer.

“Aye, a young lady, sometime past now. I would think she’d have come back in. It’s perishing cold tonight.”

Hope wars with fear in his chest. It would be a very Alina-ish place to hide if she was in need of a break from the thronging masses inside, and given her powers its not as if she would feel the biting cold the way others would. She’d likely still be out there, star gazing and enjoying the respite from the stifling heat of the ballroom.

With a nod he commands the servant to wait while he steps outside.

The cold bites into him the moment he leaves the warmth of the palace, the icy winds sending shivers down his spine makes his chest hurt with each breath he takes.

The terrace is dark, shrouded in shadows but there is enough illumination from the pale light of a waxing moon and the twinkling lights from the ballroom for him to see that it’s empty and devoid of life. For a moment he just stands there, cold seeping into his bones, and closes his eyes in defeat. Alina isn’t here. For one moment he had hoped – been sure that this was her hiding place and that all would soon be well again – but clearly he had been wrong. She isn’t here, likely it wasn’t even her who the servant saw – there were many white clad women at the ball, after all.

He is just turning to leave when he catches a flash of blue in the corner of his eye.

There, draped haphazardly over the low stone balustrade, is the pale ice blue wrap he remembered Genya pressing into her hands just before they left.

A few steps and he has the soft garment in his hands, it’s no longer the pristine item he recalls from earlier, but instead the wrap is now dirty and sporting a large tear from where the delicate fabric has caught on the rough granite. The clues don’t end there, for once he starts looking, he can see the signs of a struggle, of damage to the undergrowth as something large forced its way through the dense shrubs that separate this section of the royal gardens from the next.

There is only conclusion to be reached.

Alina, his precious girl, is gone.

Someone has taken her.

Notes:

Cue the evil laugh. So... who expected this little twist, and anyone want to venture a guess as to who her kidnapper might be?
We're officially on the homeward stretch now with this story (finally) and I can't wait for you where things are going. This chapter has been planned out for months and its taken a long time to get here, but hopefully people enjoyed it :).

Unusually, I'm not going to give a teaser of the next chapter - it would give too much away, but I will give you a little hint. The title is Last One Standing.

In other news - has anyone read a story where Aleksander is actually who he says he is when he tells Alina that he's the descendant of the Black Heretic? I might have another story idea, but interested to see if its been done before.

Chapter 25: Last One Standing (part 1)

Notes:

High everyone, I hope you're enjoying the story. We're entering the endgame now - only a few more chapters left (Yay!). This is the first of three parts. They were originally meant to be one chapter, but the flow wasn't right and as it was super long (20,000 words near enough), I divided it into three, which I think works much better.

Thank you to everyone who has commented so far. It means a lot as a writer to have people review with their thoughts and reactions - and I love reading them, so please keep them coming :).

This chapter is mostly from Aleksander's perspective, with a few cameos from our favourite heartrenders.

Credit for the title goes to the incomparable Thomas Bergensen from Two Steps from Hell and his song 'Last One Standing', which provided the soundtrack for writing this.

Enjoy :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

For a long moment all Aleksander feels is numbness. The torn garment in his hands might as well be made of lead with how heavy it feels. Above him, the moon casts her cool light upon the terrace, but it no longer looks romantic and idyllic. Instead, it’s like his heart and mind – monochrome and cold, all the warmth and colour of life sucked out of it.

Alina is gone.

His precious girl is gone.

Someone has taken her. Stolen her. Taken her from beneath his very nose, in a place he had been repeatedly assured would be safe.

Safe? Ha! What a cosmic joke the illusion of safety had turned out to be: first an assassin and now a kidnapper.

He should have known better.

He had known better – had he not counselled against this? Had he not fought to have the Oprinichki stationed within and around the Imperial Palace, but he had been overruled by the Lantsovs, and for what? The sake of a party? The need to maintain the illusion of solidarity between grisha and government until their plans were ready?

Nothing is worth Alina’s loss. A loss so great it feels like a giant, yawning chasm has reopened inside him. Not since the creation of the Fold has he felt like this.

With a roar of impotent rage, the protective numbness disappears and his emotions come screeching back to life, shadows erupting around him like a vengeful cloud. One of the ridiculous cupid statues decorating the terrace loses a head, another is bisected with devastating precision by the shades lashing around him, his anger growing by the second.

His heart and soul are screaming, the inner peace of the last few days shattered like glass. With steely determination, he lifts the torn and bloodied wrap to his lips, pressing a kiss to it as he vows that he will find her, he will bring her home and then he will make whoever dared to do this pay with blood and tears.  

 


 

Pandemonium. That’s the only word for the hellish situation Aleksander now finds himself in. The world of the Imperial Palace is more akin to the first circle of hell than a ballroom right now, but he suspects even the devil would likely balk at having so many perfumed, screeching harpies around on a constant basis… and that’s just the men.

Since returning to the ballroom with the blood stained wrap, the Imperial Court has descended into chaos - such as to make it difficult to think let alone actually do anything.

His first instinct had been to quietly slip away from the party and return to his own base from where he could organise search parties. What prevents him is the sour knowledge that Alina’s disappearance isn’t something he and the Second Army could conceal for long – especially as Nikolai is already looking for her as well. More than that though is the risk if he does. Ravka is a large country, her kidnappers could be anywhere. It’s folly of the highest degree to cut himself off from much needed help - like it or not, they stand a much better chance of finding and rescuing their missing saint if the First and Second armies work together on this… and that means the Tsar has to be informed.

It’s a decision he rues now. The plan had been simple: find Nikolai, brief the Tsar in quiet and then head back to the Little Palace to mobilise a rescue party. It had been simple, efficient … and of course it had gone wrong.

As he pauses by the doors, deliberating on how best to approach the Tsar, one of the bewigged idiots from the Tsarina’s circle spots him - or more accurately spots the torn and bloody wrap - and promptly starts screaming bloody murder.

In seconds the entire ballroom it seems has stopped what they’re doing to gawp at the spectacle of a woman with an outrageously tall wig descend into hysterics. It takes several moments for the watchers to understand the significance and content of the screaming, but once they do pandemonium quickly follows.

So much for The Plan. Time for plan b; improvise. Elbowing his way through the hysterical guests, Aleksander finally reaches the royal dais.

“What the deuce is going on, Kirigan?” The Tsar demands when Aleksander reaches him, dark eyes flashing murder and more than a bit dishevelled. The tableau before him is less than reassuring. Vasily is slumped in his chair asleep, the Tsarina po faced and more interested in watching the light reflect off the diamonds covering her heavily braceleted wrists, while their illustrious leader looks half cut and like he’s barely following events.

It’s at this point the only semi competent Lantsov returns. Nikolai appears, out of breath and no longer pristine. Behind him are several high-ranking officers from First Army and Imperial Guard.

“Have you found her,” the boy bleats out, only to pale when his gaze lands on the cloth clenched in Aleksander’s hands. “Oh, saints preserve us,” he murmurs, making the sign against evil, “that’s Alina’s.”

Eyes fixed on the most useful member of their ruling family, Alexander nods. “I found it on the terrace…” he starts only to trail off, unable to finish the sentence. There’s no need for him to though. Unlike his brother and parents, Nikolai, it appears, has more than a modicum of intelligence and sense, and he quickly pieces together the evidence to arrive at the same conclusion Aleksander had reached only a few minutes before.

“She’s been taken then?”

“Yes.”

“Saints,” Nikolai murmurs. “Tell me what you need. The First Army awaits your command.”

It’s at this point that the Tsar interrupts, his already ruddy face turning almost puce with annoyance. “What the devil is going on here,” he explodes. “Why are people screaming and why the deuce would the First Army be helping Kirigan?”

Patience wearing thin, Aleksander turns to the Tsar, his shadows now starting to manifest around him, as he offers the torn garment to Ravka’s ruler. It’s only through force of will that his voice remains steady and detached as he replies coolly, “Moi Tsar, I regret to inform you that Miss Starkov has been abducted.”

“Abducted?” The Tsar queries, his chins wobbling. “Don’t be ridiculous man. People – especially Saints – don’t get abducted from my Palace. She probably just left it somewhere and forgot about it.”

The Tsar looks again at the cloth ass he turns it over in his hands, eyes squinting with the effort of trying to focus, “how did it come to be in this state?” he asks suddenly, “Does the Sun Summoner not have decent clothes. You should have said, Kirigan. We’d have been pleased to dress her for the occasion.”

For a moment there’s only incredulous silence while Nikolai and Aleksander share a commiserating glance, and Aleksander can only be thankful that Nikolai answers this time. His patience is perilously thin right now and if he has to deal with much more of this idiocy instead of searching for his Alinochka Ravka will likely be in need of a new ruler before dawn.

“You’re missing the point, Father.” The prince says with a bluntness only another Lantsov would be able to get away with. “The wrap was in perfect condition when Miss Starkov joined the festivities.”

“Then how did it come to be in this state?” The Tsarina interjects, still not looking up from her bracelets.

“She’s been taken!” Aleksander snaps in response, his patience now well and truly exhausted. They’re wasting time. Who knows how much of a head start Alina’s kidnappers have, and here they are giving them yet more. With each minute that passes it will be harder to track them, and the odds of finding Alina will quickly worsen.  

“Taken?” The Tsar queries, sounding perplexed, as if the concept is not one that makes sense to him.

“Yes,” Aleksander snaps. “Taken. Kidnapped. Abducted. Choose which verb you like; it comes down to same thing. We need to call out the armies and the Imperial guard, and we need to do it now!”

 


 

It takes a further ten minutes for the sozzled Tsar to finally grasp the extent the problem and the need for a rapid response.

Never the quickest thinker in the room, his Imperial Uselessness’ already limited grey matter appears to be taxed to the extreme by the combination of crisis and his blood alcohol level.

Each second that passes, though, feels like an eternity as he waits for the royal walrus to find and engage both remaining brain cells in order to make his decision. At last the tsar gives the nod, and then almost as one they spring into action.

Within moments, the less useless Lantsov, Major Mertzov and General Molkovich have left to assemble their respective divisions. For Aleksander, it’s the sign he’s been waiting for, and without even taking the time to take his leave, he exits the ballroom at speed.

 


 

Time, which seemed to drag interminably in the ballroom, speeds up once he is back within the confines of his home. The Oprinichki on guard are clearly taken aback when he throws open the front doors with more force that necessary, causing them to clang loudly against the stone walls of the vestibule. The four guards have that vacant startled look speaking of a hours of inactivity and boredom that comes with being stationed in one location, and Aleksander thinks the Tsar could have waltzed through the room naked and they would have still shown the same reaction.

Two are dispatched to rouse Ivan and Fedyor, while the remaining pair are sent to the stables to wake the head groom, with instructions to ready his horse and prepare provisions.

Ivan, needless to say, is neither impressed nor particularly happy at being summoned from his bed at 2 in the morning on what had been his night off. He’s even less pleased to discover the reason why. Though the Oprinichki have few details to pass on, the harried nature of the General’s entrance and the glaring absence of the Sun Summoner very quickly have the Heartrender putting two and two together.  

“It’s that girl, again,” he mutters to his partner as they hastily dress, “I knew she wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble for one night!”

“Come now,” Fedyor says cajolingly, “we don’t know that Alina is the reasons for our midnight summons. She might be an entirely innocent party and something else has happened to get Kirigan in a snit.”

“Bah,” Ivan replies grumpily, “and there will be a squadron of the Tsarina’s pugs flying over the palace tomorrow.”

Fedyor stops and frowns at his partner, “I think you mean pigs.”

Ivan shrugs and stares balefully at the other Heartrender, “pigs, pugs, what different does it make? Either are far more likely than that girl not being in some way to blame.”

“Well,” Fedyor says, as they resume their fast walk through the corridors of the Little Palace, “quite a bit, I’d think. For a start, you’d need a much bigger hat if it was pigs.”

 


 

A few minutes later and Ivan is once again proved correct. The pair have barely made it through the door to the General’s study when they come face to face with what their possessed leader.

“She’s been taken,” Kirigan snaps, shuffling and throwing the formerly neat piles of papers on his desk around as he searches for something. Ivan winces. His filing system! His baby! It’s this carnage he later blames for the distraction which makes him slower than usual.

“Who has been taken, Moi Soverenyi?” He asks, mind very much not on the words coming out of his mouth but on the wanton destruction of the perfect filing system.

The glare Kirigan levels at him is black enough he takes an automatic step back, hands raised in the universally recognised gesture of peace. “Alina, of course,” the General grunts, returning to his frenzied search. “Where is it, I know it’s here somewhere. Why must people tidy up!” the latter is muttered under his breath, but Ivan hears it clearly, and winces again. He’d thought the General would be pleased. He’d perfected his new filing system and, having implemented it everywhere else, he had spent a fun evening bringing order to the chaotic eco-system that was the General’s desk and surrounding area.

Evidently, Ivan could have picked a better time to do this. But in his defence, how could he have known that their Sun Summoner would go and choose this night to be kidnapped.  

Next to him Fedyor draws in a sharp breath. “Alina?” he questions, straightening. “Who? How?”

“Sometime in the last one to two hours,” he hisses, now moving on to the draws. “She’s not been seen since just after midnight when she stepped out on to the terrace. As to who, your guess is as good as mine.”

Ivan raises his eyes skyward, as if praying for patience. “What is it you are looking for, Moi Soverenyi?” he asks, suppressing another wince as minutes for the last supply committee go flying across the room.

“My travel map of Ravka,” Kirigan answers distractedly, tipping the contents of another draw onto the floor and rummaging through the debris.

“You’re going after her,” Ivan states, glower firmly in place and arms crossed, beside him he feels Fedyor let out a low whistle.

“Alone?” Fedyor asks in tone which suggests he already knows the answer.

Kirigan looks up, eyes wild, “Yes! Mertzov and Molkovich are readying search parties from the First Army. I need you and Ivan to do the same with the officers stationed here. Conscript anyone you think could help – Orpinichki, grisha, servants, if you like.”

With a shout of triumph, the Darkling stands, map clutched in his hands.

“But would it not be better to wait, Moi Soverenyi?” Fedyor asks, “We don’t know who took Alina, nor how many men they have. It’s too risky you going alone, we might not be able to reach you should you need assistance. We could be ready to leave within 90 minutes – wouldn’t it be better to wait and travel with one of the teams.”

It’s sensible advice, but Aleksander merely shakes his head. There’s no time. Alina had already been gone for well over an hour, there’s no time to wait for the team his loyal Heartrenders’ wants to accompany him. “She’s been gone too long already, Fedyor,” he says, shoving the map into a pack and readying himself to leave, “there’s not a moment to lose – travelling with the search parties means too long a delay, not to mention I’ll travel faster on my own.”

Eyeing the recently closed door, Fedyor catches his partner's eye. "You know, I almost feel sorry for them," he comments conversationally.

Distinctly unimpressed, Ivan merely raises a brow and huffs, inured after many years exposure to his love's peculiar sense of humour. "Between an angry Sun Summoner and an incensed Darkling, I'd be surprised if there are any left standing at the end of this."

"Good!" is all Ivan has to say on the matter, a devilish glint in his eye.  


 

For all his good intentions, however, Aleksander is still delayed.

It’s Ivan who points out the folly in dashing off half cocked, with no plan and attempting to covertly track a group of marauding kidnappers while dressed in white through a dark forest. There’s a good reason, after all, why his signature clothing colour is black - and it’s not only because he summons shadows.

With Ivan assisting, changing clothes takes only a few minutes, time which Fedyor utilises to pack supplies into the saddle bag he has procured from somewhere.

Back in his habitual black, Aleksander feelers calmer and more in control. He is the Darkling, the most feared General in Ravka. Whole battalions have turned and run away just at the sight of him. He will find her. He will.  

With that in mind he dismisses Ivan to prepare the officers he wants and order the groom to saddle another horse. On one matter his loyal second is correct - in the dark forest, at night, he will need an experienced tracker. Fortune has smiled on him in this matter though, and with malevolent glee he finds Alina’s flirty friend where he has bedded down in the stable block along with the stable boys. It’s a matter of moment to wake the boy, dark amusement rushing through him at the palpable horror on the Tracker’s face as he realises who it is who’s standing over him. A few more, and the horror has morphed into terror as the lad realises why he’s been woken. In credit to the otkazat’sya, though clearly tired and half asleep, he grasps the issue quickly and is out of bed in short order, pulling on his boots and coat with military efficiency, but there he pauses.

“Well,” he snaps, casting a glowering stare over his shoulder at the brunette. “If you’re going to come, get a bloody move on, man! We haven’t got all day.”

Whatever the holdup, his command is enough to get the boy moving, and with a grip like iron, he corrals Oretsev into the saddle of the large bad-tempered bay, suppressing a smirk as the foolish boy nearly falls twice and looks distinctly uncomfortable atop the surly creature.

Next to the bay stands Beauty, his black coat gleaming in the candle light. The head groom has already saddled his favourite, and Aleksander is relieved to see the saddle bags have been attached as well. All that’s left is for him to check the buckles and tac are secured properly, before swinging into the saddle.

In the weak pre-dawn light, two figures can be seen galloping away.

 


 

Finding Alina’s abductors proves to be as challenging as Aleksander had first feared. With several hours head start, the kidnappers have had plenty of time to make their get-away. But then Alina’s little tracker friend starts to come into his own. He’s good. There’s no denying that. The man might be a smug, pain-in-the-arse, and far too familiar with Alina for Aleksander’s peace of mind, but he is undeniably good at tracking.

Within half an hour of leaving he has caught the first signs of their trail; his keen eyes picking things up that Aleksander - even if he hadn’t been a panicked mess - wouldn’t have spotted in the half gloom of the early dawn. At first the trail takes them along the Vy, heading in the direction of Balakirev. On a well paved road they make good time, and by mid-morning they are more than a third of the way to the other city. It seems strange to Aleksander that Alina’s kidnappers would choose this route – it might make for a speedier escape, but it also makes it easy for a rescue party as well, and they must surely know that rescue will be on its way.

The trail goes cold shortly after midday, and it’s an anxious time until the boy picks it up again heading off into the dense forest around the Petrazoi mountains. The irony is not lost on Aleksander, nor the parallels with Alina’s desperate flight to the Little Palace. As the first day passes, one thing becomes clear – they’re heading west. It sends a shiver down his spine. South would suggest Shu Han. But West means it could be anyone: Fjerda, Kerch, Novyi Zem, even Shu Han or the traitorous Zlatan could be behind this. It’s an open field, and that makes it much more difficult to plan or pre-empt what this unknown enemy will do.

If it’s Fjerda, then they will look to go north soon as they will wish to avoid Kribirsk and Adena.

Kerch and Novyi Zem will want to get to the port of Os Kervo as quickly as possible – they will also wish to avoid Kribisk, and would likely look to cross at one of the narrow points, such as Tsemna, using one of the smugglers routes. While Shu Han would head for the southern pass at Caryeva.

That left Zlatan. The most difficult one to predict. That he would wish to get back to West Ravka as quickly as possible is a given, but how he would do this is the question. He’s brazen enough to commandeer a skiff and simply leave from Kribirsk. Thanks to his Imperial uselessness and his decision not to alert others to his General’s earlier betrayal, no one in the First Army would question him either. Alternatively, he could choose to use one of the smugglers paths. It would be riskier – but then he has the Sun Summoner with him - he might well view it as lower risk than attempting to cross at Kribirsk in case they have been made aware of his treachery.    

These are the thoughts that plague him throughout the day. Round and round they go, unceasing in the relentless circle of worry and fear. His own personal torment. One not helped either that by the fact they’re moving slower now, their pace reduced to that of an arthritic ant, by the failing light rendering it difficult to follow the clues and marks of the abductors passage. This is compounded further by the need to leave a clear trail for Ivan and the other officers to follow, which slows them even more.

They continue though until all but the last vestiges of light have gone, when the tracker calls a halt, concerned they might wonder off course and not be able to find the trail again the next day. It’s not the news Aleksander wants to hear, but desperate as he is, he can see the sense in Oretsev’s caution. Annoyed, frustrated and increasingly worried, Aleksander finally falls asleep.

 


 

Unsurprisingly, he dreams of Alina.

 


 

He wakes suddenly the next morning, hand outstretched toward where Alina’s ghostly form had been seconds before, her hand clasped within his own. The loss sits within him like a physical ache just beneath his heart. It steals his appetite and what’s left of his patience, making him a surly and unpleasant companion for much of the next day.

The only good news that second day is the boy’s announcement that if their pace has slowed, so to has their quarry’s. The dense undergrowth and circuitous route – clearly chosen in order to avoid the main paths, is likely more of a hinderance to Alina’s kidnappers than it is to Aleksander and the Tracker, who merely need to follow through the broken foliage and trodden down plants rather than forging the path in the first place. It’s meagre reassurance, but it’s the only comfort he has.

 


 

“You’re Alina’s friend, aren’t you?” The boy asks during the third day, familiarity and a shared purpose having wiped away the deference and fear with which he had treated Aleksander, much to the older man’s disappointment.

“You know,” Oretsev continues, undaunted by Aleksander’s determined silence, “the one she used to write to. She’d spend hours writing letters home. We used to tease her about her boy back home… or we did,” he admits with a rueful smile, “until she put itching powder in Dubrov’s trousers when he was having a bath.”

“Alina is a friendly girl,” Aleksander says, refusing to be drawn, “I’m sure she has many friends she keeps in touch with.”

The Tracker nods, looking thoughtful - or constipated, it’s hard to tell with his face, “yeah, that’s true enough. She’s got this way, hasn’t she,” he adds with a dreamy smile, “that just gets to you, gets under your skin, until you’d rather cut an arm off than lose her.”

Its crudely put, but It’s also a sentiment Aleksander understands only too well when it comes to his precious girl. Hadn’t he spent much of the last 15 years feeling the same. It’s a feeling that resonates.

He glances at the boy again, unsurprised to see the melancholy expression on his face. “Not that she ever really looked at me twice,” he hears the boy mutter as he pulls gloomily on the reins, causing his horse to snort grumpily at the move.

It gives him a brief pang of camaraderie with the other; unrequited affection is a painful aliment, as he knows only too well.

“You care for her,” it’s a statement rather than a question.

The boy nods, head tilted down. Despite being over 20 years of age, a seasoned officer and a full-grown man, in that moment he looks so young to Aleksander.

“What makes you think I’m this friend?” He asks in an attempt to distract the Tracker from his dark thoughts.

Mal looks up, “‘cos of how you are together,” he says, showing an unexpected level of insight. “She’s comfortable with you, trusts you. Even with us she always kept this bit of distance, like she was keeping something back, but she’s not like that with you.” It’s a startling observation and it makes Aleksander more candid than normal.

“I first met when she was five,” Aleksander confesses quietly. “Her caravan was under attack. Her father had already been killed, but Alina and her mother were among the survivors. I took an interest and kept in touch afterwards.”

“‘Cos she’s the Sun Summoner?” Oretsev asks shrewdly.

“No!” Aleksander snaps, angered by the suggestion. “I found out the same time as everyone else. I…” he trails off, uncertain how to explain that which has always mystified him.

“Yeah?” The boy asks, eyes wide and alight with suspicion. It’s this more than anything which forces the answer from him.

“Because she fascinated me,” he admits. “This little girl - a tiny whisp of a thing with blocked powers - she should have been easy to say goodbye to and forget, but she wasn’t. What called to me was her fearlessness. She was unafraid of me, of my shadows. She used to curl up in them like they were a blanket. Do you know, boy, how many people I’ve met over my life who aren’t scared of me for being the Shadow Summoner, even if they pretend they’re not?” It’s his turn to look down now, patting Beauty’s neck in a poor attempt to hide his discomfort. “A handful at best. Children tend to run screaming when they see shadows, but Alina ran towards mine. Such trust was - is - priceless. It drew me to her, and so I stayed in her life, visiting her whenever I could. It’s been the single greatest privilege of my life to call Alina my friend.”

Clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and how far they’ve veered into the forbidden territory of feelings, the Tracker slides from his horse muttering that the trail is getting more difficult to see.

Blessed silence returns.

 


 

The fourth day dawns overcast and cold, the icy air heralding fresh snow.

“It’s going to snow in a couple of hours,” Oretsev announces, squinting at the clouds, unknowingly echoing Aleksander’s own thoughts.

It’s another worry to add to his growing list. Four days. It’s been four days since Alina was taken. Four very long days. With each day that passes his worry grows. Is she well? Are they taking care of her? The cold will mean little to her, but without food or water even the strongest grisha will soon struggle and become ill.

It’s a concern the Tracker clearly shares as his shivers increase from a gust of wind. Their only comfort so far is that there has been so sign of violence along the trail. They’ve found each of the makeshift camp sites, but apart from the typical debris and mess left from camping there has been no blood or evidence of a fight.

His hope is that Alina is awake and playing for time by cooperating. The alternative - that she has not awoken – is too hard to bear and brings a lump to his throat.

She must be okay, she must be. He feels it in his heart that he would know if she weren’t, but it’s a paltry comfort in the midst of so much uncertainty.

 


 

They find them just as dusk is falling, almost 100 leagues north-west of the Little Palace, near the town of Adena. They group have camped for the night in a large glade with rotating patrols moving about the perimeter.

Leaving the horses a safe distance away, Aleksander and the Tracker creep closer, keeping low to the ground and making use of the abundant ferns to provide cover as they sneak towards the edge of the glade.

The clearing itself is much like the one he first met Alina in all those years ago, but it’s the layout of the tents that catch his attention – these are not the makeshift shelters of a ragtag group but uniform structures, carefully laid out in a clear grid pattern, and in a very familiar shade of green grey. This is a military camp – that is obvious from the setup – but more than that, however, is that it’s a First Army camp.

That can mean only one thing. Zlatan.

As if to prove him right, at that precise moment the man in question ducks out from the largest tent, moving towards the centre of the clearing where there are perhaps thirty odd soldiers in various states of dress and battle readiness milling about the central fire.    

For several moments everything seems calm, but then chaos erupts. The men and women clustered in groups start shouting and waving their weapons angrily.  

Aleksander can see Alina now, standing there, clad once more in a First Army uniform, her hands shackled and kept apart by what looks like a thick bar of wood. This far away he can’t hear what’s being said, but then it quickly becomes apparent he doesn’t need too – Alina’s actions shout louder than any words. She’s squaring up to the other General, her body language screaming defiance. There’s a flash of bright white light, and then her hands are free.

Illuminated by the flickering fire, Alina looks resplendent, goddess like, as she takes control of the situation.  

Around the clearing, Zlatan’s supporters draw back in fear, some stumbling in their haste to escape. It might have ended then, but Zlatan has never lacked courage, and Aleksander knows with a sinking feeling that things are about to take a turn for the worst.

It does.

 


 

In hushed whispers he sends the boy away, instructing him to find Ivan and warn him. Oretsev argues, a belligerent glint in his eye as he tells the General he won’t leave Alina. It’s a feeling Aleksander knows only too well, but someone has to go and alert the search party that will be hot on their tail, and that someone can’t be him. He needs to be here, close to Alina, in case she needs him.

At last, after several minutes of futile arguing, he carries the day and the boy leaves - grudgingly and ill tempered - but he does obey, and Aleksander is once more alone.

It’s as he’s changing positions sometime later, in an attempt to get a better view of the showdown between Alina and Zlatan, that he realises his mistake. His only warning is the rustle of a bush and then he feels the unmistakable point of a sword prod his shoulder.

“Well now,” a cold voice states from behind him, “what do we have here.”

The sword prods him again, this time on the arm. Taking the hint, Aleksander turns over, and comes face to face with six unimpressed faces.

“Looks like the General was right, boys,” another man replies with a sneer, “we was being followed, and lookie what we’ve caught,” the sword tip moves to hover over his heart, “General Kirigan himself. The boss will be pleased.”

Alone, in a compromised position, and facing six armed and hostile enemies, Aleksander realises he’s committed an amateur’s mistake – one there will be a very steep price for – he’d forgotten about the patrols. He can’t kill or subdue all these men, not with five swords and an axe inches away from his skin; and even if he could, this close to the encampment there’s no way the other members of Zlatan’s merry band of marauding murderers won’t be alerted to the scuffle – and then what of Alina? The distraction might buy her time to escape, but it might also push her captors into rash behaviour which could lead to her being injured… or worse.  

There’s also the Tracker to consider. It’s essential that Oretsev finds Ivan and the rescue party. With him as their prize its unlikely that the scouts will think to look for anyone else, giving the boy precious time to get away.

Beneath his skin, his shadows roil, itching to destroy those who would threaten him. It’s a supreme act of will to supress the urge to unleash the power at his command but he does so, the risk of doing otherwise is too high.

There is only one thing he can he do now, and that is lay down his sword and surrender.

Notes:

So what did you all think? Anyone guess it was Zlatan behind the kidnap?

I know this has ended on another cliff hanger (hides behind the sofa), but the good news is that the next chapter is pretty much written. If enough people review, who knows, maybe the motivation fairy will pay me a visit and it'll get finished in time to post this weekend ;).

Hope everyone is well and having a lovely weekend :).

Chapter 26: Last One Standing (part 2)

Notes:

Happy Sunday folks :). It was my birthday a couple of days ago, so as a belated present I've posted this chapter :).

As usual, this is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are definitely mine :).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

All things considered, Alina muses as she bounces around in the back of what feels like a poorly sprung cart, kidnapping is rather dull. Oh, it’s probably more exciting for the kidnappers, but so far her experience as a kidnappee had been both underwhelming and rather boring. The hood over her head is an irritating inconvenience, the manacles around her wrists keeping her hands separated and ropes tying her legs an irritation, but she isn’t feeling particularly threatened or worried.

Not yet, anyway. Not since her surprising chat with Zoya. They needed her to get them back across the Fold. Her presence and health are essential if they want a quick and uninterrupted crossing back to the safety of Novokribirsk. If they have any hope of escaping the furious vengeance of a seriously upset Darkling, then they needed to get the Fold between them as soon as possible. For that they need both her alive and cooperative.

What was going to happen once they got to their destination, however, that is a cause for concern. Her use would be over and the risk of her escaping or acting against them would likely be too high for them to consider letting her live. The alternative, however, is worse – that reaching Novokribirsk isn’t the end but merely the prelude to another act, one she has no idea about. It’s a worrying thought.

Alina groans as the cart hits a particularly bumpy bit of the road. The men who had taken her the previous night had not been careful or conscientious kidnappers and had taken little care with her recumbent form while they made good their escape. As a result, she feels like one big bruise and her ribs in particular ache fiercely whenever jolted.

Alone in the darkness of the hessian sack, her mind replays the events of the past few hours and the startling revelations that came after she awoke.  

 


 

Someone has a headache. No, wait - scratch that. Someone has the mother, father and grandfather of all headaches. It’s as if an irritable and poorly trained band has taken up residence nearby and are diligently practicing a particularly energetic piece on bits of her skull.

Groaning at the unrelenting onslaught, Alina slowly prises open an eye in the vague hope that this will, if not improve matters, at least explain why it feels like she had downed an entire bottle of kavas and then wrestled a bear. It doesn’t. The world around her is still black and unknown, and to add to her general enjoyment of the situation, with every breath the sickly smell of oats invades her nostrils, making her nauseous.  

Her bones ache, particularly her ribs, the throbbing sensation joining in a discordant rhythm with the pounding in her head, so that it feels like a wave of pain travelling up and down her abused body.

In a bizarre way though, the darkness helps, giving her head time to recover and for the memories to start inching their way back to her conscious mind.

What she remembers is not good news. She recalls snippets of the party, of the exhilarating dance with Aleksander, of laughing with Nikolai, and of drinking more glasses of the intoxicating fizzy wine then she probably ought to have. She remembers stepping out on to the terrace, burning hot and filled with joy and excitement.  

Then comes her last memory, one of the unsettled sky and suddenly feeling afraid, of deciding to return indoors and then a sudden sharp pain to the back of her head.  

A phantom pain shoots through her head, as if in sympathy with her recollection, and unconsciously her hand moves to touch the place only to be stopped by the sharp pain and rattle of chains making her aware for the first time that it’s not just her head that is covered.

Around her wrists are heavy metal cuffs, attached to a strange heavy bar, designed to keep her hands separated.  She doesn’t need her eyes though to know what the device is – Genya had showed her a picture of one months ago: the summoner’s harness. It had been designed several hundred years ago by Count Razimova to subdue grisha by keeping their hands apart, and therefore unable to summon. It’s a horrible item, with an even more horrible history. Grisha awaiting executing merely for the crime of being born grisha would be forced to wear them for days or weeks until their eventual execution. It’s a cruel device – one made crueller still by the addition in some sets of tiny metal barbs set into the manacles so that even slight movement was torture to the poor person wearing it.

Hers, fortunately, appear not to have that particular adaptation, but it’s a pale comfort to the panic now starting to fester within her.

She knows she’s been taken, but not by whom. Nor does she know why she’s been kidnapped. She remembers overhearing Fedyor briefing Ivan about the number of threats made against her: from those who worship her as a living saint and want her for themselves, to those who believe she’s a demon that must be destroyed, but perhaps the most terrifying are those who would look to use her as leverage against Ravka in some way. The Shu and Fjerdan delegations had both made overtures during the festivities to try and entice her away from Ravka. Were they behind this?

Around and around her thoughts go, swirling on and on, as she travels further away from the safety of her home.

At last, though, she feels the world start to slow down, and it’s with surprise that she realises she’s been in some sort of cart or conveyance all this time. A shouted order is relayed and then the world stops completely and she feels herself lifted and moved as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes.

 


 

The first thing Alina sees once she’s blinked the sunspots from her vision, is Zoya’s scowling visage, her dark brows beetled together in evident displeasure.

“Zoya?” She breathes, startled and unsure.

“Well, you’ve done it this time, princess.” Zoya hisses through clenched teeth.

“What are you doing here? And more to the point, Where am I?” Alina asks instead of replying to the barb. “The last thing I remember is going out for a breath of air on the terrace.”

Zoya’s frown deepens and she darts a worried look over her shoulder toward the flap of the tent Alina has been left in.

“You’re in Zlatan’s camp,” she murmurs so softly Alina has to strain to catch the words. “His men grabbed you over a day ago, drugged you and brought to the rendezvous point… which is here.”

Alina pales, her eyes drawn to the gap between the flaps through which she can see men moving around.

“And you’re here because you just happened to be passing?” She queries, her tone sardonic.

Zoya’s frown deepens to an outright scowl. “Right now I’m checking to make sure the dunderheads who saint-napped you haven’t irreparably damaged Zlatan’s prize and our ticket for a safe voyage across the Fold.” The words might be acerbic, but Alina can almost taste the message hidden with them and it makes her pause, the cutting response she’s prepared dying on her lips as she considers the Squaller’s words and the intent way the other girl is watching her.

She must be on the right path though as a thin, approving smile breaks through the glower. “Not going to shout at me, Sankta,” Zoya says mockingly, her voice raised.

Outside a man shifts, drawing Alina’s attention to the shadowy shape she hadn’t noticed that’s just visible through the canvas prison.

“Why bother,” Alina replies loudly in a scathing tone. “It’s quite evident what you are - a traitor. I’m sure even someone of your intelligence would be self-aware enough to know that.”

“Why you!” Zoya growls, bringing her hand down onto a nearby sack, a meaningful look in her eye. Taking the hint Alina shrieks and jerks as far away from the former Squaller as possible.

As if satisfied by the show, the shadow moves then, growing smaller and his footsteps growing fainter as he walks away. Another surreptitious look around has Zoya relaxing, switching from her previous position kneeling to sitting cross legged next to her former nemesis.

“Good,” she breathes, clearly relieved. “He’s bought it. Johan will go report to Zlatan now. We don’t have long, so I need you to listen.” Alina nods warily.

“Zlatan’s plan was originally to kill you, but seeing the reaction to the assassination attempt he’s changed his mind - he knows he governs west Ravka only by popularity, and he knows now that the west will revolt if he is seen as having harmed you. You might not be the saint I’d have picked, but there’s no denying that you’re the one we need.” Her head drops here, shame making her avert her eyes. “You don’t know how sorry I am for what happened that day,” she says, close to pleading as Alina has ever seen the proud grisha.

“I was wrong, Sankta. Wrong and jealous and so very foolish - and I did something unforgivable. I was angry at first and I blamed you for the loss of my powers. Botkin showed me how wrong I was - that I was the only one to blame - it’s been a hard lesson to learn.”

“But why are you here?” Alina questions softly, more moved than she wants to admit by the squaller’s words.

“Atonement,” Zoya replies with a wry smile. “I hurt a great many people over the years. This is my atonement. Botkin knew Zlatan was planning something, and he offered me the choice. I could go my own way, or I could join the Soldat Sol and fix my mistakes.”

Her eyes meet Alina’s then, fierce and determined. “I’m many things, Alina, but I’m not a coward and when I do wrong, I fix it. So I agreed. Botkin sent me home with the instruction I was to ingratiate myself into Zlatan’s inner circle and watch. It was my report which alerted the Little Palace to the threat of Zlatan in the first place.”

Here her voice becomes mournful and raw with pain. “It wasn’t enough though. I didn’t do enough. I didn’t like Marie, but I’m truly sorry she’s dead.” There’s such remorse in Zoya’s voice that Alina itches to clasp her hand in solidarity and comfort in the shared pain of the loss that has cut them both so deeply, but her hands remain bound and useless in her lap. Instead, she catches the other’s eye, her own full of compassion and tears. “As did I,” she says softly. “It was my face she was wearing, my risk she took on herself… and ultimately my responsibility for the price she paid for it.”

There’s an odd look on Zoya’s face, as if she’s seeing Alina clearly for the first time. “Sankta,” she breathes, bowing her head in an unmistakable mark of respect. When she raises it though the sorrow is gone, replaced with a fervent light - “I don’t know exactly what Zlatan has planned,” she says, her voice low but full of promise, “but I vow to you I will do all in my power to make sure you live and that his plan fails. My loyalty and life are yours.” It’s an oath that shocks Alina to her core, but before she can do more than blink in surprise there is the sound of voices getting closer.

Hurriedly Zoya replaces the hood, bending low to whisper in Alina’s ear. “Now that he knows you’re awake, Zlatan will call for you soon. Whatever you do, don’t be pathetic. He respects strength. Think apex predator, not food chain prey. Be the person you were that day in the training yard and get yourself off the menu!”

With that the other grisha stands, collecting the provisions she had placed nearby, and Alina is left alone once more in the hazy darkness of the hessian sack.

Outside she hears muttered greetings and the sound of someone yawning.

 


 

She doesn’t have to wait long, as only a few minutes later two burly men dressed in First Army green arrive to escort her to their general.

The tent she is led to is dark compared to the bright glare of the outside, and it takes several moments for her eyes to adjust and allow her to see more than vague shapes half shrouded in gloom.

General Zlatan stands and crosses the space between them, bowing sharply when he reaches her. Head up and back straight, Alina takes note of her captor.  The man before her is tall with dark brown hair and a close-cropped beard. This, then, is Marie’s murderer - oh, Arken Visser may have wielded the knife, but he was little more than a stooge, a patsy, an extension of the man now standing in front of her with an ingratiating smile.

Zlatan her looks nothing like the shadowy figure of her nightmares. He isn’t the sinister monster her imagination has conjured with an evil countenance and exuding malevolent intent. Instead, this is an ordinary looking man. So very ordinary. There’s nothing about his round, boyish face and open countenance that screams evil, and yet the fine hairs on the back of Alina’s neck are standing on end, sending a chill racing down her spine.  It’s a strange thing, but somehow her kidnapper is all the more terrifying for his ordinariness.

“Ahh, Miss Starkov. Come in, come in,” he says pleasantly as he attempts to usher her into the tent. The inviting tone and welcoming manner are at such odds with her experience so far that for a moment Alina stands there in perplexed stillness. She isn’t given long to get over her surprise, however, as a forceful nudge in the small of her back reminds her of the two armed officers escorting her. Unlike Alina, they aren’t confused by the strange reception, and instead seem rather annoyed by her continued insistence on standing in the doorway like a poorly positioned statue. Another nudge, this one more pointed and forceful than the first, gets her moving, and she steps hesitantly into the dingy confines of a standard issue First Army command tent.

“Tea, Miss Starkov?” Zlatan asks, leading her by the arm to one of two large pillows set off to the side, in what has clearly been set up as a more social area. Between the cushions there is a low table, made from a repurposed crate, with a tea set balanced on top. The makeshift seats are common in the First Army where chairs are often viewed as a cumbersome and unnecessary extravagance for all but the most senior of officers, and Alina isn’t surprised to see them here. Aleksander has described Zlatan – with grudging approval, it must be said – as ruthlessly efficient and pragmatic. In fact, if he hadn’t been set on destroying the country Aleks is trying desperately to save and reunite, he would probably have quite liked the other General, otkazat’sya, or not. What is surprising though is the actual tea set balanced on top of the crate. Given the minimalistic, shabby chic aesthetic of the rest of the camp, the tea set is an out of place oddity.

However, after hours of travel (whether conscious or not), Alina is parched and not too inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, and she sits with little fuss on the cushion indicated. Zoya’s reassurance warms her more than the tea she lifts hesitantly to her lips. She’s needed to get them safely back across the Fold. No General, unless they were mad, would go to all this trouble to acquire her only to poison her now.

She grimaces as the hot liquid slides down her throat. First Army tea. Disgusting! On this point she is wholly and completely in agreement with Ivan. Army tea is an affront to the taste buds. Having grown up with her Mama’s tea and Shu tea etiquette firmly drilled into her, it had been a shock to the system the first time she had tasted the regurgitated muck served in the First Army. It’s no better now, and the only thing that stops her spitting it out is that regardless of the taste it is hydrating her, replacing much needed fluids.

For a few minutes the only sound in the tent is that of two people drinking. Finally, however, Zlatan replaces his cup, an amused grin lighting his face and making him appear almost boyish as he observes, “not to your taste?”

Alina blushes slightly and puts her cup carefully on the crate. “What gave me away,” she asks wryly.

Zlatan laughs, his head thrown back, “only someone devoid of tastebuds would,” he answers, eyes dancing devilishly.

Alina relaxes slightly and smiles back, remembering the lessons Botkin had drilled into her if she were to find herself alone and away from the Second Army. Build rapport, make friends, do what’s needed to survive.

Inwardly she might be full of nerves and anxiety, but outwardly she appears calm and friendly. She needs to understand more of why she’s been taken. She needs to know the risks facing her. She needs to get a lay of the land.

The only way to do this is to build rapport… and Zlatan is making it easy for her. Still smiling, the General picks up the tea tray, depositing it on his desk, just as Zoya and another officer arrive bearing two steaming bowls.

“Ahh, perfect timing,” Zlatan says as he accepts his bowl and spoon. Alina’s hands are still imprisoned in the custom manacles, and she watches with annoyance as a bowl clearly intended for her is left just out of her reach by the unnamed man. Her host nods at Zoya, who steps forward with a key to undo her right hand from the heavy iron cuff.

“A demonstration of trust,” the General says, between mouthfuls, but Alina can read between the lines. If she behaves, she can eat, if she looks – even for an instant – like she might be about to summon the man behind her will no doubt act… and it won’t be pleasant.

Quietly she eats, the hot stew much more palatable than the revolting tea had been.

It might fill her with dread to sit and break bread with the monster who killed Marie, but needs must, and no good will come from tipping her hand too early. Behind her the man assigned to watch her shifts, clearly unsettled.

 


 

All too soon her bowl is empty, as is the mug of spiced wine offered to her along with her meal. Full and no longer thirsty, Alina settles herself more comfortably on the pillow. It’s an act Zlatan clearly takes as a cue for he suddenly starts talking about the majesty and beauty of West Ravka – the long golden beaches of Os Kervo, the innovation and modernity of Novokribirsk, the spa town of Ivets, with its long history of wine growing and health resorts. He tells her about the variety of merchants, the wealth generated by trade with Novyi Zem, and the rich independent history of his adopted homeland.

Zlatan speaks eloquently, his devotion and love for West Ravka clear. Along with the idyl he paints though is a darker side – one of a country subjugated to and by the whims of a dangerous incompetent autocrat, who used the land as a piggy bank, viewing it as asset to strip of resources rather than valuing it for its rich culture and diversity. 

It's a passionately delivered defence, and if Alina were of a more suggestable nature she might buy it. Tobias Zlatan is charismatic and charming; he oozes self-confidence and magnetism. It’s no longer a wonder to her that this man has attracted the following he has – he’s like her Aleks, handsome, charismatic and charming, and that’s a dangerous combination. He’s also completely convinced of his own rightness and blinkered to the ethics of the decisions he’s making.

Marie’s murder is a misstep to him – one he apologises for and waves away in the same breath. He doesn’t care about the young life snuffed out on his orders. He doesn’t care as to the brutal, painful death he inflicted on an innocent, nor the pain he will cause to countless others if he succeeds in his revolutionary plans. No, Zlatan only sees the glory and righteousness of his self-appointed mission. The freedom of West Ravka.

It makes Alina feel sick. Her mama used to say that the first thing a principle does is kill someone. Certainty is even worse. Certainty pushed her to spurn Aleksander’s offer of safety and board the skiff that fateful day. It nearly killed the 200 people on board. Certainty is what drove Aleksander away from her – certainty of her fear and revulsion should she know the truth. Certainty is what caused Marie’s death.

Certainty, in Alina’s experience, leads only to trouble – and trouble is coming right at them. Its name is Zlatan.

Aleksander will be coming for her, this she knows with certainty. Just as certain is that civil war will only impoverish, exhaust and destroy their nation. United they are strong, divided both sides will fall; either to each other, or to their rivals; Shu Han and Fjerda.

The confident certainty in Zlatan’s face fills Alina with dread. No good will come of it, she feels it in her bones.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find you so reasonable,” Zlatan says with another easy grin, reaching forward to press her free hand. “I worried that you had been corrupted by the Lantsov’s, but I see now I needn’t have worried. I was right, I knew if I could only speak to you away from the evil of that place, that you would soon understand and see things my way.”

To this Alina can only nod, her mind too full of whirling thoughts for her to construct a compelling lie.

“You must be tired,” the General comments, mistaking her quietness for exhaustion. He presses her hand again, making her skin crawl. “I will bid you goodnight.” He stands and crosses to her, proffering a hand to help her rise. Once standing though Zlatan lifts her free hand to his mouth, pressing a courtly kiss on the back. The act distracts her and in her distraction her wrist is once more locked within the confines of the spreader bar, the manacles biting into her bruised skin.

“Forgive me,” he says, pressing another kiss to her hand, “I know your heart and your goodness, but my officers’ as yet do not. In time they will come to trust you, but for now this is necessary.”

The lie lies heavy on the air like ash. Oh, it’s finely couched in political doublespeak, but Alina is no longer the naïve girl who arrived at the Little Palace. Dealing with the Lantsovs and the political intrigue of the Imperial court has been a baptism of fire, but she’s survived, and through it she’s learnt and grown. She knows a politician’s lie when she hears one, and this is a whopper.

Zlatan might be playing the charming revolutionary, but the side she’s seen tonight is just that – an act. He’s a careful and calculating man, and he using his men as cover for the fact he clearly doesn’t trust her. It’s a good plan. It’s what Aleks would do if the situation were reversed.

Alina smiles. Although it makes her life in the meantime more inconvenient, she would have thought less of him if he had immediately trusted her. But then it’s not as if this piece of metal separating her hands is much of an impediment to her should she wish to be free of it. It might hold a common summoner, but not the Sun Summoner.

It’s a mistake.

Another to add to Zlatan’s growing tally.

 


 

That night she dreams of Aleksander. They’re standing by the well in the secret garden he showed her all those months ago. The bare trees are glistening with frost and their breath puffs from them in clouds of white mist.

“Alinochka,” Aleksander whispers, his face pale and pained, as his image shimmers like a reflection in a pond. “How is this possible?” He asks, one ghostly hand reaching toward her beseechingly.

She grasps his fingers, lacing them with her own. “We’re dreaming, Aleks,” she replies softly.

“This can’t be a dream,” he says hoarsely, “I can touch you, feel you. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Alina smiles, she knows this confusion, and she would probably share it if not for the familiarity months of these sorts of dreams have given her with this strange in-between world. 

“It’s not a normal dream, darling,” she explains, pressing his hand against her heart as if to anchor them both. “It’s a… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like an in-between state, not a dream but not our waking reality either. Do you remember the battle at Caryeva?” she asks, staring intently at him. Aleksander nods, frowning.

“You were there,” he says slowly, as if it’s a struggle to locate those memories, “there on the battlefield. You held my hand as the Jurda Parem took hold.”

“Yes. This is how I was able to help you.” She explains, forcefully pushing away the potent tangle of anxiety and fear that swarms her whenever she remembers that horrid day.

“Then this is real,” and Aleksander pulls her towards him, encasing her in a crushing hug that lifts her off the ground.

“Alina,” he whispers, “my Alinochka. My precious girl.”

The contact and endearments are a much-needed balm to her fraught nerves, and Alina feels tears start to well behind her closed lids as the emotions and uncertainty of her situation hit her all over again. Since waking in that tent, she has ruthlessly suppressed her reactions to appear as calm and controlled as possible Now, in this safe space, with the person she trusts most in the world, she feels the bravado that’s been wrapped round her like armour crumble slightly.

In response Aleksander just holds her tighter, one hand buried in her hair, the other clasped firmly around her back. “Precious girl,” he murmurs against her hair, brushing kiss after kiss against any part of her he can reach.

Wrapped in his embrace, Alina feels her nerves calm and her resolve steady.

Ever in tune with her, Aleksander clearly senses this as he steps back, releasing her from his arms in order to asks, “who took you?”

“Zlatan,” Alina grimaces, and rubs her wrists as phantom pain flares where the manacles would be in the waking world.

It’s the first sign she’s waking up, and she looks up with panic as she sees Aleksander come to the same realisation.

“I’m coming for you, Alina,” the spectral form of Aleksander says, gripping her dream hand tightly. “I’m coming.” It’s a vow that she feels in her bones, no matter the distance between them. She can feel the sincerity and power of his oath.

The comfort is a pyrrhic one though.

With a cry of distress, she’s wrenched out of Aleksander arms and out of the dream world. When she opens her eyes it’s to a hooded figure shaking her roughly awake.

“Up you get, princess,” the man grunts as he shakes her shoulder again. This time his fingers digging into her arm to the point of pain. “The General says we’re to be movin’ on, and that means you too.”

 


 

With the hood over her head time passes slowly for Alina. Her only awareness of the passing days, the changing position of the sun during the infrequent breaks she’s allowed to relieve herself and be given food. Through it all she remains stubbornly calm and unconcerned by the blatant hostility directed her way. She knows it frustrates her kidnappers; she can hear them complaining about her refusal to behave as the stereotypical kidnapped woman should – at least in their minds. Apparently, she should be crying, submissive and prone to fainting fits. How any of these three things would help the situation, Alina has no idea, but then in her experience men’s ideas of ‘proper female behaviour’ is seldom sensible or realistic.

It’s difficult though to feel truly afraid when you have the sun in your veins and you know rescue is coming – is likely hot footing its way across Ravka as she thinks. It’s not arrogance that makes her suspect that half the Second army and a large proportion of the First will already be enroute, but more than that, Aleksander is coming. She can feel it like a second heartbeat, a constant thrumming inside her chest reassuring her with every breath. He is coming. He is coming. It’s knowledge that makes the sun burn fiercely within her and brings a secret smile to her lips, because she knows in the same way that the sun rises in the east that no mere Otkazat’sya can stand between her and Aleksander.

While for her the experience has to this point been more inconvenient than terrifying it’s also been useful. With a sack over her head, it’s like the morons around her have forgotten it’s only her sight she has lost - her hearing is still as good as ever, and now she knows far more about their identities and plans than she thinks her kidnappers would really like her too. For instance, she now knows that there are around thirty people in this rag-tag group, and that they’re not all First Army. Perhaps two-thirds of Zlatan’s loyal followers might be, but he also has several grisha in his service. From her count there are three Squallers (not including Zoya), three Inferni and a single Tidemaker. Two of this number are deserters from the Second Army, but the remaining three are grisha who had been smuggled to Novokribirsk before they could be tested. It’s a small comfort that there are no Heartrenders present, as that would make escape much more challenging.

The quiet is also useful as it gives her time to think and plan. Though she could free herself easily, it makes sense to stay with the group; she lacks experience fighting over twenty seasoned officers – which makes it a high-risk strategy - but more than that, were she to succeed where would she go. Aleksander would be hunting for a large party. Lost and alone, and with few provisions, in an unknown part of Ravka likely poses more of a threat to her well-being than these dunderheads do. So no, it makes little sense to free herself now only to die of starvation or exposure before the rescue party can find her. With every day that passes though, Alina can feel the tension and fear in Zoya rise.

Until now they have stuck to the woodland tracks, moving only so fast as people can walk. It’s a very different experience to her last one travelling in the opposite direction. That took just over two days at breakneck speed. This is more of a Sunday afternoon amble by comparison. It’s for good reason though as the circuitous route they’re taking will make tracking and finding them much more difficult.

It’s when they turn direction on the fourth day that Alina knows she’s made a minor miscalculation - they aren’t heading for Kribirsk. Instead, they are heading further north, to a part of Ravka that consists of large, sparsely populated arable land, that’s dotted with tiny unnamed villages. This is not good news.  

Kribirsk may be the official army port, but there are jetties – both official and unofficial - dotted along the banks of the Unsea, used by traders, travellers and those who would prefer to avoid the attention of the army. It’s to one of these nameless places that Alina realises they are heading.

It poses a problem. At Kribirsk, Alina would be assured of support should she need it. Another dock, one where there isn’t a First and Second army camp, is much higher risk and much less likelihood of her being able to call for help. More than that though is the new concern that Aleksander and the others will have made the same miscalculation she has, and will make for Kribirsk in the hope of cutting the kidnappers off.

This knowledge changes things, and Alina knows that she has to escape – and escape soon if she wants to avoid whatever fate awaits her in Novokribirsk.

 


 

It’s a long eight hour wait before the opportunity arises for Alina to leave. She’s had a long time to think in the back of this benighted cart. There are two options that she can see: one – she tries to slip off at a convenient moment and hope that she can get to a sufficient distance away before they realise that she’s gone; two – that she breaks free with a show of strength in order to cow her kidnappers into letting her leave.

The first plan, she knows with a leaden weight in her stomach, is more sensible, but far less likely to succeed. The guards are too punctual with checking on her and the breaks between them too short for her to get far enough away. Even without a Heartrender, the risk of being caught is uncomfortably high. The second option is ballsy, but far more likely to pay off in the long run. She knows she can break her manacles with just a thought, the next step will be to put on enough of a show that Zlatan and his goons will feel sufficiently scared – read terrified– to let her walk out of the camp unhindered. From there it will be a simple task of finding Aleksander so that they can deal with the traitors.

The sun is low in the sky when the General finally calls for camp to be made. It’s Yosef who pulls the bag off her head this time, and Alina looks around with interest in the gloomy light at the clearing they have stopped in. Around her, men are bustling setting up the tents and cookpots with typical military efficiency. Though the sun is low – and getting lower by the minute – she guesses the time to be no later than half three, or four o’clock. The temperature is dropping rapidly now, and Alina is thankful yet again for the sun warming her and keeping her from freezing. Though Zoya has tried to ensure she has blankets and has helped her change from the flimsy ballgown into the more substantial white shirt and green trousers of the First Army, without her powers she would likely have been seriously ill from exposure by now.

Patience has never been one of Alina’s virtues, and it’s even worse now when her heart is hammering away in anxious anticipation, as she waits for the perfect moment to make her escape.

At last, the moment comes though.

As Zlatan strides across the camp, she stands and calls out.

“My thanks for your hospitality, General, but I think it’s time for me to leave.”

As one, the men and women in the camp stop and stare at her – some confused, some hostile and some simply curious.

Zoya, standing by the supply tent, slaps her hand to her forehead and shakes her head, before ducking inside as if intending to hide from the insanity Alina is about to unleash.

In any other context, the ex-Squaller’s behaviour would annoy Alina, but this time she can’t be anything but relieved. She needs Zoya out of the way if it comes to a fight. She doesn’t want to harm her fellow grisha, but if Zoya is present and unharmed after she flees, it might arouse Zlatan’s suspicion – and that would never do. For one thing, she might need her help again in the not-so-distant future if her more than a little bit crazy plan fails. 

The effect of her words is instantaneous, Zlatan stops dead, his air of affability morphing into one of contempt. There’s nothing of the passionate revolutionary now. This man is cold, dispassionate and removed - a far cry from the man who argued so persuasively for West Ravka’s independence and the pivotal part she could play if only she understood the truth.

His eyes slide over her, making her shiver under his icy gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asks in a derisive tone.

“I’m leaving,” Alina says firmly, “and you’re going to let me.”

“Oh, Miss Starkov,” he says, a mocking lilt to his voice that has Alina bristling, “you do disappointment me.”

“My apologies,” Alina snaps, drawing her shoulders back and glaring at the General, “but I’m sure you’ll understand why the opinion of a traitor means little to me.”

Around them his officers scowl and glower at Alina, many fingering their weapons with ominous intent as they understand her insult. Zlatan, though, merely lets out a dark chuckle.

“I thought you were too quiet, too… amenable,” he says, head tilted slightly to one side, like an owl watching a mouse.

Another shiver runs through her, but Alina merely meets his cold gaze, her own implacable and calm, “and there was me thinking I’d missed my calling on the stage.”

Zlatan smiles, shark like and severe, “indeed. Perhaps the saints knew what they were doing after-all when they made you the Sun Summoner.”

It was a subtle insult, but an insult nonetheless, but all Alina feels is a sense of vague amusement.

“Now, enough of this nonsense. You will sit back down, eat your dinner and cooperate.” The General says calmly, as if it’s a given that of course she will do as he commands.

“And what will you do if I don’t?” Alina asks, eyebrow raised and an obstinate look in her eyes. “Whack me on the hand with a spoon? Lecture me?” She looks at the men and women gathered in a circle around them and sniffs derisively, “torture me?” She looks back at Zlatan challengingly. “Forgive me, but I think not.”

“I think you will do as you are told, little Saint,” the General replies, expression glacial. “I grow tired of this… disobedience”.

“Good,” Alina says, “Let me go and it’ll save you from more of it. Because I promise you this, try and keep me and I’ll make life as difficult as I possibly can, and believe me when I say it’s not wise to anger a saint.” Her eyes sweep around the glade, making sure to meet the gaze of each and every one of Zlatan’s officers.

While her words visibly unnerve most of her captors, they have no such impact on their General. “Such fire,” he comments silkily, “such misplaced confidence. I’m almost impressed.”

“You think I’m bluffing?” Alina asks, voice level but dangerously soft.

“I know you are,” Zlatan smirks. “You’re bluffing with an empty hand, Miss Starkov.”

“I know that the First and Second Armies will be out looking for me,” she points out bluntly. “I know that the Tsar has a put a bounty on your head, I know that General Kirigan scares you and I know that if you have any hope of surviving then you need to cross the Fold before he finds you.”

“Is that meant to scare me?” He merely asks, sounding almost bored with the exchange. “You think you can win, but you can’t,” he continues in that calm, patronising way of important men everywhere. “It doesn’t matter if the entirety of the First and Second Armies on our trail. You are our prisoner and that is why I will be the last one standing in this battle, little miss.” This is delivered in an ice cold voice, devoid of emotion or humanity, and for a moment Alina wonders if the man before her is human at all.

“You think so, do you!” Alina snaps. Her hands glow and the shackles flare and bend, snapping off her wrists to clunk on the ground.

As one, Zlatan’s troops make the sign of evil against her, stumbling backwards in their haste to put more space between her and them, as if it would save them. Even the turncoat grisha appear shocked and frightened. She steps forward, hands still glowing.

“You think a lot of yourself, don’t you, little girl. What’s to stop us from taking you by force again. There’s more than thirty of us, after all,” the General mutters, watching her with distaste, his hand held out in a clear sign to halt his officers.

The nickname irritates her. What is it with men and calling her little girl, as if it’s a slur that will somehow shame or diminish her. She’s not little - is very much average height, in point of fact - and being female doesn’t make her lesser, though it clearly does in the eyes of some men. It’s galling and frustrating. She, at least, is according Zlatan the respect of being a traitorous, diabolical villain of reasonable intelligence, but he insists on talking to her as though she’s a small and rather stupid child.

She shakes her head and laughs dismissively.

“You need me too much to risk harming me,” Alina counters coolly, ignoring the armed man behind her who has clearly recovered enough to point his sword in her direction. He is of no consequence – no threat to her - and it takes only a quick thought to start heating the metal to a painful temperature. “And that’s why you’re going to let me walk out of here.”

Zlatan raises an eyebrow, “and why would we do that when we’ve gone to such lengths to acquire you?”

Alina smiles, it’s not a nice smile, and she glories in the sight of her kidnappers crossing themselves again. “Because, General, I’m asking nicely.” She picks up the broken chains that had so recently been biting into her wrists. “You can’t hold me,” she says simply, turning the melted steel over and over in her hands, “and you need me too much to be able to make me obey you. We’re at an impasse.”

Zlatan scowls, his dark eyes burning furiously into her own, trying to stare her down. As if to prove the point, the man who had been creeping up behind her howls and drops the sword. Screaming about witchcraft, he rushes past her towards the water barrel, his hand a bright vivid red and covered in blistering welts. Whispers breakout like wildfire, racing round the clearing. A grisha summoning without using their hands?... She can practically taste the fear.

Alina’s gaze is unwavering and fierce as she stands her ground. “You can’t afford to hurt me and I don’t want to hurt you – but that will change if you try to stop me leaving, and we both know, don’t we, who would win in that scenario.” For a moment the threat hangs in the air, and Alina can feel the watchers collectively holding their breath as they wait for their leader’s decision.

It’s at this moment when she can feel the power balance shifting in the air that the call goes up and her heart sinks. Distracted, Alina breaks the staring match as she tries to understand the coded whistles flying around the camp.

Someone has been found by the scouts. Less than 30 seconds later the tall black clad figure of Aleksander is roughly pushed into the clearing.

Oh, fuck.

 


 

“General Kirigan,” Zlatan purrs, a small smile stretching his thin lips, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Zlatan.” Aleksander replies dryly. “You seem to have my missing Sun Summoner. I’d have thought a man of your… intelligence, would have expected me.”

For a long moment Alina just holds her breath, her eyes darting between the two remarkably similar men. Standing on opposite sides of the campfire, the flames illuminating the clearing, the two Generals could be siblings they are so alike. Both are tall, with dark hair and grey-blue eyes, both have strong jaws and heavy brows. But that’s where the similarities stop. Where Aleksander’s eyes are kind and warm, Zlatan’s are cold and calculating. Where Aleksander’s mouth is generous and inviting, Zlatan’s is thin and unfriendly. Where Aleksander exudes protective fury, Zlatan is like ice. They are opposites and equals, and it sends an ominous chill down her spine.

The game has changed, and Alina is very much afraid it’s just changed for the worst.

“Ahh, yes,” Zlatan continues, cold eyes assessing, “the Sun Summoner. I’ve heard much about our long awaited Saint. So far, I have to confess I’m impressed. She has courage,” his gaze slides to her, “or should that be stupidity, in abundance. Why, just before you arrived she was amusing us all with a little demonstration of her powers in an attempt to leave.”

His eyes lock with Aleksander, who glowers at his fellow General. “You will let Alina and I go, Zlatan. You’re hopelessly outmatched. If you wish to live, let us go now and in return I will allow you to walk away with your life and what remains of your pride.” Around Aleksander’s shoulders, his shadows start to swirl and Alina wonders why he hasn’t yet acted. She’s seen him fight. She knows that even thirty opponents are no match for the infamous Darkling, and it makes anxiety start to churn in her stomach. Why did he surrender – for surrender he must have. Why didn’t he storm the camp, shadows blazing? Why stand and try to negotiate. It doesn’t make sense. Everything she knows of Aleksander declares that this is the antithesis of his normal behaviour, and yet here he is.

Similar thoughts are clearly running through Zlatan’s mind as well, though, for his cold stare keeps switching between them, a thoughtful expression on his face.

For a moment, Alina thinks they are back at an impasse, that a stalemate has been reached, but then Zlatan smiles. It’s a dark smile full of foreboding and promise. It sends a shiver through her, the burning sun in her mind turning cold with fear. 

The General’s eyes meet Aleksander as he murmurs, “bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“Alina is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them!” Aleksander rebuts immediately, his tone as dark as his shadows. Around them the ring of men are shifting restlessly, uncertain and clearly afraid of the shades writhing around the captive man before them.

“Oh,” Zlatan laughs, his tone just as ominous, “I wasn’t talking about her. The little Saint has played her hand of cards very well, she almost had us in checkmate, but then you arrived – a brave black knight to save her. What a stupid thing to do, Kirigan. I should thank you. You’re not a man prone to making mistakes, but here you have just handed me the answer to my prayer.” He grins, shark like and sword point sharp.

“West Ravka will honour you, once we’re free. Who would have thought our salvation would be delivered by the only man who could have prevented it. Irony indeed,” Zlatan’s smile widens, showing the yellow of his teeth and with a nod Alina suddenly finds herself held firmly by three sets of hands; two around her wrists, spreading her arms and holding her like she has been pinned to a board, and one around her neck, the elbow digging into her throat with painful force.

With a cry, Aleksander wrenches forward out of the grasp of men holding him, shadows spirally outwards as he tries to reach her. He makes it only a handful of steps, however, before Zlatan’s men have captured him, kicking his legs to bring him to his knees and wrenching his arms behind him with agonising force. 

Zlatan’s dark gaze slides to where Alexander is now kneeling, quiet but not subdued, his shadows writhing with intent yet strangely restrained. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, like he’s worked something out and he’s relishing the newfound knowledge. A sharp gesture signals another man to step forward, instead of a sword he has in his hands a cat o’nine tails. With a dark grin he swings his arm and the cat slashes through the air, the sound it makes as it lands is awful, but it’s nothing compared to the cry of pain that erupts from Alina. “No,” she shouts hoarsely, straining against the hands holding her, wriggling and pulling as she tries to escape their grip.

There’s a look of gleeful delight on Zlatan’s face when Alina at last wrenches her eyes from Aleksander’s battered and now bleeding form to that of his tormentor.

The General nods again at the man, who bows and backs off, the cat dangling limply by his side. It’s dripping blood, Alina realises with sickening horror, Aleksander’s blood.

Her eyes meet Zlatan’s, his dark gaze appraising and cold. “I think we at last understand each other,” he says, gesturing to his fellow General with cruel apathy. It makes Alina shiver as she stands under his gaze, her chin held high by will power alone.

For the first time she feels just how much danger they are in. Alone, she was safe in saying no. After all, what could they do to her? Nothing, not if they wished to have a safe return to their home. They had little they could use as either carrot or whip, but she’s just handed them the only leverage they need.

Her stomach is in knots as she realises with sickening clarity that Aleksander’s restraint had told Zlatan all he needed to know. With anyone else, Aleks would have used his shadows to devastating effect, but not with her. Just as she couldn’t risk him, he wouldn’t risk her – and Zlatan knew it. That’s what he had discovered while watching them.

Zlatan knew within moments of Aleksander’s arrival that he wouldn’t act if there was a threat to her – such as the men behind her. It had been her that General Zlatan had been trying to figure out, she realises. Aleksander might be temporarily neutralised, but she had been a wild card, one that could still have scuppered their plans.

Her reaction had blown that. It had shown her abductors that she valued the General of the Second Army. They might not know just how close they really are, but they don’t need to - it’s enough to know that she does.

She can’t - won’t - risk Aleksander, and that gives Zlatan all the power he needs.

Notes:

Comments feed the writer, please donate by leaving a review ;).

Last part in this section will probably be ready next weekend. Instead of a sneak peak at the chapter summary, I thought people might like a little peak at one of my favourite sections that you can look forward to next :)

It pains her to see Aleksander brought so low. Zlatan has been in meticulous in his plans and has equipped the team with every advantage possible.

Aleksander himself has been stripped of his Kefta and even his shirt, so that he sits, half naked, exposed and humiliated, on his knees upon the harsh wood of the deck. His wrists have been bound in special irons that keep his hands a foot apart so that he is unable to summon. It’s a sensible precaution, but a redundant one for summoners like them, as she had demonstrated to Zlatan only a few days before. She and Aleksander have no need of the traditional techniques people see grisha use - those are merely there as a tool to help less powerful or experienced summoners. Had Aleksander wished, his shadows would already have killed all those on the skiff. The dagger to her throat is all that stops him from giving in to his thirst for vengeance - that, and that alone, is all that is keeping him quiescent and obliging.

Chapter 27: Last One Standing (part 3)

Notes:

Hi lovely readers. As promised, here's the final instalment of Last One Standing. Enjoy :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When Aleksander woke up that morning it had not been with the intention of being kidnapped and used as a hostage in order to ensure the continued cooperation of an unimpressed Sun Summoner. To be fair, he hadn’t planned on Alina being kidnapped either, but that at least had been semi expected, with contingencies and options discussed at length. Those carefully crafted plans, however, are now in tatters as nowhere in the many possibilities he and Ivan had prepared for had they factored in his being kidnapped as well.

There’s no denying the pickle they’re in. The situation is dire, made more so the fact that Aleksander still has no idea where the rescue party is, or whether rescue is coming at all. The Oretsev boy might be a decent tracker, but the gods hadn’t gifted him with much in the way of intelligence, and for all he knows the boy could have forgotten his task or wandered off and got himself lost. It’s not a thought that inspires much confidence, especially when he then factors in the probability of a lone otkazat’sya bumping into the rescue party in an area that measures (at a conservative estimate) several hundred square miles of land. Most of it dense woodland.

It's not a happy conclusion to reach, but at least it gives his mind something to do while trudging through leagues of first forest and then wetlands at what can only be described as an insultingly slow pace. How it’s taken him four days to catch up with a group that are moving slower than snail, he has no idea. To make matters worse, his back is aching fiercely from the lashes the night before, and he and Alina are forbidden from speaking, either to each other or to anyone else. The ropes binding his hands are more for show than an actual restraint, but then with two swords and a rifle pointed at his back and a similar arrangement shadowing Alina, there is little need for physical restraints. Neither will be going anywhere.

On and on they trudge, slowly covering mile after mile, but with each step Aleksander can see Alina’s weariness increase. There had been no sleep for either of them after the fun of his capture and Alina’s almost escape. Instead, they waited out the long, cold hours of the night on their knees, a knife to the neck a constant reminder to keep them awake and alert. It had worked then, but he is not alone in recognising the increasingly sluggish movements and what they mean.

Zlatan’s troops see it too, and they mock her for it. Otkazat’sya and grisha alike – and hadn’t that been an unpleasant surprise to add to the shit pudding this week had turned into – grisha, two of them at least from the Second Army, and they were supporting Zlatan over their own General and fellow grisha. It’s a betrayal that stings. Grisha from Novokribirsk he could understand if they had never been found by the testers, but here are two that he recognises as being listed among the dead from skirmishes with Shu Han. Worse is to come though when he spots Zoya some hours later.

It's lunch time when he sees her. Alina is already sitting on the muddy ground, eyes pinched with exhaustion, gulping down some much-needed water. At first, Aleksander thinks it is an otkazat’sya who has provided this small comfort to her, and he starts to make note of her appearance in case they do get out of this alive. The black-haired woman, now helping Alina to eat, is showing unusual kindness to his precious girl, supporting her and encouraging her in soft tones. It won’t save her from his wrath, but it will buy her some leniency. Unlike the others, this one might be allowed to live.

Those thoughts are quickly forgotten, however, when the mystery woman stands and turns around. Zoya, his mind hisses. Zoya. It’s Zoya.

Over the years, Aleksander has heard other people describe anger as like a red mist descending, but for him his temper has always been black. Black like his shadows. Black like the night. Black like the cut. His eyes bleed black, obsidian shadows writhing across his skin like snakes.

Traitor his mind shouts. Traitor. Betrayer. Oath Breaker.

Around the camp, people start shouting, but Aleksander only has eyes for the traitor. Zoya steps back when their gazes meet and lock, evidently taken aback and shaken by the venom and fury emanating from her former General.

A harsh blow to his sore back breaks his stare and almost sends him to the floor. Another blow brings him to his knees. Alina’s cry is worse than the pain of the beating though. With each hit he feels her anguish and desperation grow, but he is powerless to help. All he can do in that moment is try to hold onto consciousness, a task which is growing increasingly difficult with each whack of the rifle butt.

“Please,” Alina shouts frantically, no longer able to keep silent. “Please, you’ll kill him.”

“It’ll take far more than a beating to kill the Darkling, little saint,” Zlatan says, his voice sounding tinny and distant to Aleksander’s foggy mind. “But I think he’s learnt his lesson. Enough Yoseph. He needs to be able to walk, unless you would like to carry him…”

The threat evidently works, as the pain stops, and Aleksander is left alone once more. His breathing is shallow and laboured, but it’s unfettered, and he can tell from decades of experience that while bruised, his assailant hasn’t broken anything. It’s a small relief amid a sea of larger worries. A punctured lung out here would almost certainly mean his – and likely Alina’s – death.

That brings his mental musings to the reason for his beating. Zoya.

What is Zoya doing here, and showing such compassion and caring to Alina as well – the girl she had put into hospital bed and nearly killed the last time they had been together. His last memory is of walking away from the former Squaller in disgust after interviewing her. Botkin had told him she’d left, but he had been distracted, first by Alina and then with the situation with Shu Han, and had paid it little mind.  

No, he thinks, working the problem through. Zoya joining Zlatan isn’t a complete surprise. Having left, of course she would return to her native Novokribirsk. He knows Zoya, knows her ambitiousness, her drive to be the best, her resentful nature. Isn’t that what led to the altercation between her and Alina in the first place? He knows those traits and he knows that spurned, angry and forced out that Zlatan would likely have seemed an ideal way to get her revenge.

But…

But why then the care shown towards the object of her jealousy and ire. He can’t refute the evidence of his own eyes. The subtle kindness the dark-haired woman had shown his love, the concealed consideration. Before he’d known her identity, he’d been impressed and moved by her actions. It didn’t fit, that’s the problem.

The Zoya he remembers would never have behaved in such a way, would never have been able to set aside her emotions to care for someone else.

She looks frailer than he remembers as well, with a gauntness that speaks of a lingering illness. A wild thought flits across his mind, dark and ominous. He may not be allowed to summon, but he can still sense grisha power, reaching out he filters through the grisha he can sense: Alina, first and foremost, burning like a sun and eclipsing everyone else. Next he finds the three Inferni, then Squallers and the Tidemaker. He searches, but Zoya still feels like an otkazat’sya to him. Could this perhaps be an act to gain Alina’s sympathy so that she will restore her power.

If so, it’s a dangerous game she’s playing. He will kill her himself before he allows her to hurt Alina again.

Part of the problem is that Alina herself seems comfortable with Zoya. The pair have an ease which is foreign and new, as if they have formed some sort of understanding. It’s a mystery that keeps him occupied when scant minutes later he is once more hauled to his feet and told to walk.

 


 

They walk until night has well and truly fallen. The waning moon is bright in a cloudless sky, and it illuminates the ground with a cold light, that allows them to keep going far longer than before. The movement is good though. Already the temperature has dropped to below freezing but moving keeps him from feeling the worst of it.

Finally, though, a halt is called, and camp is set up.

The next hours are interminable. Zlatan orders them to remain where they are, kneeling upon the hard, frozen ground. The six guards watching them have their orders. Neither summoner is to sleep tonight, nor are they permitted more movement than the occasional shift in position to alleviate sore muscles. The consequences of disobedience are made only too clear - the cat is laid out in an ominous promise should either grisha test the rules they have been given. The only reassurance Aleksander has is that Zlatan will not allow Alina to be harmed. If punishment is required, it is he who will bear the physical pain, although he is not so witless as to think Alina will escape the mental torment of such an act.

Part of their torture is to watch as the others eat, drink and make merry while he and Alina remain cold, hungry and thirsty. It’s a common tactic used most often to get prisoners of war to talk. Psychological torture can be far more affective than physical…as Aleksander knows only too well.

With the longer than usual march, it’s clear though that Zlatan’s men are tired, and most soon start to drift off towards the tents, leaving the lucky sods on first watch alone. The camp is quiet except for the grating snores of sleeping officers and the crackling flames from the central fire pit.

Lost in the quiet dance of the flames, time moves sluggishly in fits and starts, seeming to both move and stay still simultaneously. It’s why he’s taken by surprise when sometime later one of the guards appears with a steaming cup and offers it to Alina.

At first she stubbornly shakes her head, refusing the beverage unless he is given one as well. It’s typical of Alina – her loyalty and sense of justice would never allow her to accept something if it meant the disadvantage of someone she cared about.

The guard pushes the cup forward again, his irritation visible even ten meters away. Next to Aleksander, another guard shifts restlessly, placing his hand meaningfully on the club by his hip. The threat is clear, and he watches sadly as it strikes home. Fretful eyes meet his, and he can see that Alina worries whether she should take the proffered cup. A soft smile and encouraging nod are all it takes for her raise it to her lips.  

He’s grateful that Alina at least will have her needs met. His gratitude lasts exactly as long as it takes for him to realise the trap he has encouraged Alina into. She starts swaying, her eyes closing of their own volition even as she fights the powerful sedative she’s clearly been given. The drugged cup falls from her nerveless fingers, and Aleksander can’t help the panicked cry that escapes him as she slumps on the ground.

It must be a signal, as Zlatan soon appears, smirk firmly in place. “Calm yourself Darkling,” he commands, eyes fixed on the now swirling shadows, “she is only sleeping.” He casts a glance at the recumbent Sun Summoner, “I thought it best if we are to have a chat that our Sankta was not awake and fretting.”

“Bollocks!” Aleks spits, impotent fury making his shadows writhe. “You don’t have a considerate bone in your miserable otkazat’sya body.”

Zlatan looks away and shrugs, “think what you will,” he says dismissively, “but even you would agree, I think, that a rested Sun Saint is better than an exhausted one, given we are to cross the fold tomorrow at dawn.”

The General’s revelation isn’t news to Aleks. He’s known how close they were to the unsea yesterday before his capture, and the hours since have only brought them closer. By his reckoning they are but half a mile away, scarlessly any distance at all. The greater mystery has been why they stopped when they were so close, but that’s now explained. Alina has been awake for over 24 hours now, their guards determined and only too pleased to keep both Sun Summoner and Darkling awake throughout their journey. While he’s gone longer without sleep in the past, Alina has not, and Zlatan is clearly aware that an exhausted grisha is less likely to get then across the Fold safely than a well-rested one.

“Bring him!” Zlatan commands, his voice jolting Aleksander out of his thoughts as his guards roughly pull him to his feet and propel him along the path to the command tent

 


 

“What is it you want, Zlatan?” Aleks snaps once his guards have left and the two generals are as alone as it’s possible to be in an army camp.

“To talk, nothing more,” the otkazat’sya General says, reclining back in his chair with nonchalant authority.

“You care for her,” the other observes with cold curiosity. His tone no different to if he were remarking about the weather.

It may be couched as a question, but it isn’t. This is a fishing trip to confirm what his adversary already knows, and Aleksander is in no humour to satisfy anyone’s curiosity, let alone this man’s, with information that could be so easily used to hurt Alina further. He stays silent, head turned away in feigned disinterest.

“Come now,” Zlatan chides, lips twitching like he’s amused at a joke only he gets. If there’s something humorous about this situation, it certainly isn’t apparent to Aleksander. “We are both reasonable men,” the otkazat’sya continues, holding Aleksander’s gaze. “We should be able to have a reasonable conversation.”

“Even in an unreasonable situation?” Aleks replies dryly.

“Oh, but I’d think you’d agree that this is an eminently reasonable course of action. It’s what you would have done had fate placed our little Sankta in West Ravka, after all - and there would have been far more bloodshed if that had been the case. We both know you would have come storming across the fold with your army and laid waste to any who stood in your way.”

There’s truth in that statement, truth which stings far more than the gashes still weeping on his back or the bruises littering his body. Zlatan, curse his rotten otkazat’sya soul to the black mountains and back, is right and it reignites the shame he’s felt over those long aborted plans he once held for the Sun Summoner.

“You don’t deny it?” Zlatan’s head is tilted in thought as he scrutinizes his opponent’s stubborn silence.

“Where would be the point?”

“Indeed,” Zlatan murmurs, looking for a moment like he’s been caught off guard.

“You’ll think what you will,” Aleks continues, shrugging his shoulders as nonchalantly as possible, grimacing as the movement jars his bruises and fiery pain race down his spine.

“You wished to speak,” he reminds the other. “Do get on with it.”

“So I did,” Zlatan agrees, and then comes the offer Aleksander had half been expecting would come. His life for Alina’s freedom and continued safety.

“When we arrive at Novokribirsk, I want you to say goodbye to the Sankta, then turn around and walk back into the Fold.”

“And what do I get out of this suicide pact?” Aleksander ask, dark eyes assessing and calculating.

Zlatan laughs, “you make it sound like a death sentence,” his eyes meet and hold Aleksander’s own, “I’m a sporting man Kirigan, I’ll give you a sporting chance. You’ll have provisions and I’ll even give you a blue light and a pistol with one shot.”

Sporting man indeed, Aleks scoffs inwardly. There’s nothing sporting about this, only a thin veneer to cover what is otherwise an execution. He knows it. Zlatan knows it. A large proportion of the assembled population will know it. But on the face of it, Zlatan is being merciful and is allowing a dangerous enemy the chance to return to his own army. It would be a dangerous gamble, except for the fact it’s not a risk at all. Either the volcra will kill him or he will kill himself long before he can reach the eastern shoreline.

What makes you think Alina will agree to this? Aleks asks, “once I’m out of the way and can no longer be used as leverage, what’s to stop her raising your city to the ground.”

“She won’t,” Zlatan replies with smug certainty. “I know her type. She has a kindly heart, a softness to her, she wouldn’t hurt innocents, and in time she’ll come to see I’m right and to accept her new home. Why, in time, I might even marry her.”

Personally, Aleks isn’t so sure. There’s a core of durast steel that runs through his precious girl. Yes, she does have a kind heart, and yes she has a conscience that would balk at hurting innocents, but then there’s the other side to her. The side that’s fiercely protective of those she loves, the side that hates injustice, the side that burns like the sun and doesn’t shy away from what needs to be done. The side of her that told him only a few weeks ago, and in no uncertain terms, that she and she alone would decide who she would marry.

Zlatan thinks that because she’s calm that she’s malleable, that because she dislikes confrontation, that’s she weak and won’t stand her ground. He’s wrong on both accounts. He’s also wrong if he thinks Alina will meekly standby and watch him die to preserve her own life.

He thinks of the Fold and how it came to be; the fear, the rage, the pain, the endless grief that called it into existence. No, Zlatan’s wrong. So very wrong. There’s a good chance Novokribirsk won’t survive Alina’s pain.

But even so, he nods. There’s little else he can do. This course, and this alone offers, the best chance for Alina to come out of this nightmare alive.

“How do I know she will be safe?” He questions with quiet resignation.

“You have my word,” the other General replies, “West Ravka will allow no harm to come to their Saint.”

And there’s the crux of the matter, the reason Zlatan has changed tactics. Popular feeling is very much in favour of the Sun Summoner. Even in West Ravka, it appears. The other man has seen the sea change, and like all good politicians he adapted his strategy to win public support.

By bringing Alina to Novokribirsk, Zlatan will be a hero to the West-Ravkan’s. He will be the man who liberated the Sun Summoner from the tyranny and oppression of the west. He wouldn’t just win support, he’d be given power, the keys to the summer palace and unassailable position in West Ravkan society.

xxxxxxxxxx

Once more on his knees outside in the freezing winter night Aleksander has plenty of time to think. Zlatan could have been his mirror image. He’s who Aleksander would have been if he hadn’t met Alina that fateful day all those years ago. He would have been just as zealous, just as blind, just as fixated and determined and he would likely have caused enormous harm: to his people, to Ravka in general, and to Alina herself.

It’s a bitter realisation to have. More so tonight. Even on the eve of his execution he cannot regret meeting Alina – she’s his friend, his love, his guiding light.

His saviour.

Now it’s time for him to return the favour.

For tomorrow he dies.

 


 

It’s a long and lonely night Aleksander passes waiting for the dawn. His only comfort is the careful watch he keeps on the sleeping Alina, his resolve firming with each steady rise of her chest.

This isn’t how he imagined his ending, but it’s perhaps its fitting. The man who’d escaped death for so many years willingly embracing it to save the only person he’s ever really, truly loved. He’d hoped for a life with Alina, but if he cannot have that then giving his life for her seems a small sacrifice to make.  

Groggy from the lingering effects of the drug, Alina blinks awake. Her beautiful golden eyes dazed and confused as she fights off the last remnants of the sedative. It’s an endearing moment, and one that softens his gaze and brings a smile to his face.

Slowly she sits up, Zoya helping her regain her balance when she wobbles a moment. Aleksander’s smile turns into a troubled frown as he watches the former Squaller assist the woman he loves. Breakfast is tepid porridge which she helps the still woozy Alina to eat. It clearly helps, as does the extra strong coffee which she reluctantly swallows, grimacing at the taste of each mouthful.

To his surprise though, having finished with Alina, Zoya comes over to him with another bowl. Coffee is apparently reserved for the Sun Summoner – on the grounds they need her awake and alert – but porridge is another matter. It’s bland, watery and cold, but Aleksander wolfs it down, thankful for having a full stomach and the strength it will give him through what is certain to be a very trying day.

Breakfast over, the camp is quickly broken down with typical military efficiency, and they are once more on the move.

In what feels like no time at all they arrive at the bank and the skiff looms out of the early morning mist, large and ominously real. Until this point, there’s been a part of Aleksander that had stubbornly clung to a nebulous hope that somehow the situation was still salvageable and would yet turn out alright.

It’s a hope that is now dying a swift and brutal death as reality smacks him in the face with all the force of a canon blast.

Around them Zlatan’s troops are ebullient as they climb aboard the skiff. Shouting and hollering to their waiting crew mates. Some even start singing while they quickly set about securing the horse and cargo, and then set to making ready to leave.

Things are progressing swiftly and easily, until that is, Aleksander’s guards try to remove his cloak and kefta. Until now he has been allowed to keep his own clothes. A small mercy he has been incredibly thankful for given the freezing temperatures. Little though he likes it, he makes no move to resist, understanding only too well that there are some battles not worth fighting for during a war.

It proves too much for Alina though. Normally a calm girl, her temper is a fearsome thing once provoked – as Aleksander has recently been reminded. Light explodes from her in rippling waves that sends her guards skittering away from her screaming and clutching at their scorched limbs. Chaos breaks out, but Alina is fearless in her fury. She punches a man who tries to grab her, then uses him as a springboard to deliver a punishing roundhouse kick to the face of another man who had been sneaking up behind her. The Inferni get involved then, firewhips intended to restrain the Sun Summoner lashing out to wrap around her arms.

For one heart stopping moment Aleksander fears for Alina. Firewhips are a painful form of restraint, often causing terrible burns to those they are used on. He’s known people to lose arms from firewhips before now, the burns either turning gangrenous or else the heat damaging the surrounding nerves beyond repair. It’s a skill that’s taught only to senior grisha, and only under very careful supervision, and now these traitors are using it mercilessly on their own saint.

He needn’t have worried. Alina’s cry is one of fury, not of pain, and she catches hold of each flaming whip with angry determination. Around her the nimbus of light intensifies, and to his – and everyone else’s – astonishment the fiery red whips transform to sunshine gold, power flowing back down the lashes to toss the Inferni off their feet with devastating force.

It’s only the knife to his throat and the rifle suddenly pointing at his heart that brings Alina to heel. She subsides, once more motionless in the grip of two guards, and he stays still while his guards take his clothes and shift his bindings so that his hands are now tied behind his back. He knows this game. Knows that the aim is to humiliate him, to reinforce just how powerless he is. It smarts.

He and Zlatan might have an agreement, but his welfare was never part of the deal, and he knows that this is all part of the other General’s plan to make sure he has no chance of making it back to Kribirsk alive.

Satisfied that all preparations have been completed, Zlatan gives the signal and with a great shuddering jolt they are off.

 


 

It pains her to see Aleksander brought so low. Zlatan has been in meticulous in his plans and has equipped his team with every advantage possible.

Aleksander himself has been stripped of his winter cloak, his Kefta and even his shirt, so that he sits half naked, exposed and humiliated, on his knees upon the harsh wood of the deck. His wrists have been bound behind his back like a common criminal in another slight. It has long been convention in Ravka that high ranking prisoners of war should have their hands bound in front as a mark of respect. For Aleksander to have his hands bound behind his back is an insult.

It isn’t even a precaution aimed at preventing Aleks from summoning. After her demonstration two nights before Zlatan knows only too well that such restraints are redundant.  She and Aleksander have no need of the traditional techniques people see grisha use - those are merely there as a tool to help less powerful or experienced summoners. Had Aleksander wished, his shadows could already have killed all those on the skiff. The dagger to her throat is all that stops him from giving in to his thirst for vengeance - that, and that alone, is all that is keeping him quiescent and obliging, and Zlatan knows it. It’s why he feels safe to revel in his victory, to lord it over his captives and allow his men free rein to mock, hurt and humiliate Aleks as they like.  

The wrongness, the injustice of it makes her blood boil. Every whip, every cut, every cruel word from their captors, pushes her a bit more towards a cliff edge of despair. Alina doesn’t need to be told what their arrival in Novokribirsk will mean for them, but it isn’t her fate that causes her heart to ache fiercely within her, or for the sunlight to burn that little bit brighter around the skiff - it is for Aleksander she fears.

That he will die is almost a certainty now - his only hope of survival is to act now before they reach the dry docks in Novokribirsk, but she knows he will not - cannot - for the same reason that all she can do is to obey their captors and keep the skiff safe from the circling volcra.

A tear slips down her cheek, first one and then a second and a third. Her heart is crying out in pain - screaming in impotent fury - to have all this power and to still be powerless is the cruellest irony of all.

The light reacts to the emotional maelstrom inside her, flickering, dimming and shrinking as her tears flow unchecked. Beside her the man shouts and she feels the bite of the dagger into her vulnerable neck, a sharp sting followed by a trickle of sticky wetness, but she ignores it - all her mind, all her concentration is fixed on the faintest flutter against her senses, as soft and ephemeral as a butterfly’s kiss.

Vaguely she hears shouting and the sharp bite of pain, but she pushes it from her mind, intent on finding the touch she felt a moment before. Distantly she hears Aleksander’s beloved voice, hoarse with panic, crying, screaming for her, but even this is swept away as she makes contact with the entity and reality disappears.

 


 

Zlatan has him in checkmate and all Aleksander can do is remain still and outwardly calm as his mind desperately searches for another way to save Alina, if not himself.

Last man standing. That’s what the otkazat’sya had goadingly said to them on the journey here – that he, Zlatan, would be the last one standing. The threat had been clear, but in a way it had been a relief to have the ultimatum out in the open – to know where they stood.

Caring isn’t an advantage. That’s what his mother used to say to him. To love is to be vulnerable and open yourself to pain. Oh, how right she is. In another world, one where the Sun Summoner was just some nameless girl he could have acted – could have done what’s necessary to save them both – but here, in this moment with Alina, his precious girl, at risk he is powerless in a way he’s never before felt.

He cannot risk Alina and so he cannot act. It’s a stalemate that has them heading for disaster and almost certain doom, and yet he cannot alter the course now. It’s too late. He’s failed her. He’s failed their people.

All he can do is pray to saints he has long stopped believing in that they will intervene for Alina. He has no hope for himself, but if he can save his precious girl he will consider it a fair exchange, and one he would make a hundred thousand times.

With Alina’s protection they are making excellent time across the Unsea. With each marker they pass hope that Ivan’s party will catch up to them decreases. He is caught between a desperate desire for more time and an urgent need to get to Novokribirsk as quickly as possible. This is the most power Alina has ever used, and he worries that she will tire - and what it will mean for her if she does.

From his bowed and bound position, he watches helplessly as a tear slips down Alina’s pale cheek. Her tears break his heart, and he longs to be able to comfort her, but the rules have been explicitly shown to both of them. Any communication is punished with whipping or a cut to his back. For his part it is a pain he will gladly bear if it means he can be of some comfort to his darling girl, but Alina with her soft heart isn’t willing to pay that price, and so he can only watch in pained silence.

Such is his desperation to watch over Alina that at first he misses what else is happening around him. It’s the panicked shouts from the Squaller which alerts him to the issue - around the skiff the protective light is flickering, the dome around them expanding and contracting at random intervals. Desperately, his eyes seek Alina’s, but hers are shut - closed both to the danger around them and to the danger much closer to her, the threat of the dagger pressed against her neck with finely gauged force. Horrified, he can only watch as her captor shakes her roughly by the shoulder, the wicked sharp knife biting into the vulnerable flesh, causing blood to drip from the wound.

He screams then, cries and shouts, oblivious to the whips that lash his back in retaliation, desperate to wake Alina to the peril she faces, but it’s to no avail.

The Sun Summoner remains stock still, a rivulet of blood streaming down her neck staining the white of her shirt crimson with blood.

The light flickers once, twice more and then vanishes. In the sudden gloom Aleksander can just make out the outline of Alina slumping to the floor, and in that horrid moment he knows that she is dead, that he has failed her. A shriek high above distracts his devastated mind and in horror he looks up. There above them are thirty swirling shapes in the fog, their cries echoing around them, and he welcomes them, welcomes the end he sees promised in the flap of their wings. There’s no point in living if Alina is not with him.

Closing his eyes he bows his head, accepting his fate. He feels the brush of leathery wings against him and hears the pained scream as the trapper behind him is lifted into the air. It will not be long now before he joins his precious girl in whatever comes next. He thinks of Alina, her warmth and affection, and marvels at the feeling of her light washing over him.

The two traitor Inferni’s are next to be targeted and he feels the spark of their gifts flash against his senses before suddenly snuffing out. Then it’s the Squaller’s turn, there’s a pained, desperate shriek, a rush of wind followed by a sickening thud as she hits the deck with lethal speed. Still, he keeps his eyes closed - he might be resigned to his fate, but he has no wish to see it coming for him, or to risk catching a glimpse of his fallen Alina.

At first, he thinks he’s imagining it, the press of arms around him, but slowly his exhausted brain hears the gentle, soothing words of a familiar voice. But it cannot be. It has to be the deranged imaginings of his dying mind. The arms tighten to near bruising force, and he feels a kiss brushed against his cheek. His eyes blink open, only to be dazzled by the starlight shrouding him in a protective bubble, so bright and fierce he can scarcely make out anything beyond the illuminated confines of the dome surrounding them. Beside him his saviour grins, brighter even than the sun. Lost in her gaze, he draws her to him, his mouth finding hers for a desperate, passionate kiss.

Notes:

Phew, boy am I glad that this is finally done. Most of this chapter has been written for months, so I'm glad to finally be able to publish it - especially as this has been one of my favourite bits to write.

So, a question for my wonderful readers - there's two ways this story could go now. One is the quick way where we'll have this wrapped up in two chapters. The other is a slightly longer route (four to five chapters) and will mean that loose ends like the Crown of Night and Day and the Soldat Sol are explained and tied up.

Your choice - what do you think?

My other question is, does anyone have any favourite chapters/bits? I know which mine are :), but as a writer I wonder if they're the same as my reader's :).

Chapter 28: To the Rescue

Summary:

Aka a night to remember (for all the wrong reasons)
Summary: In which Ivan has yet another bad day, mounts a rescue and is surrounded by idiots.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Ivan’s having a bad day. Or, more accurately, another bad day in what’s turning out to be a truly atrocious year. These days have become only too familiar for Ivan in the months since his unplanned – and very much resented - stint as a postman back in Kribirsk, and this bad day, like all the others, is because of The Girl. The one who leaves chaos in her wake.  The one who is guaranteed to always be at the centre of any trouble. The Girl who is disruption theory personified.

 


 

The news arrives – as bad news usually does – in the middle of his night off.

It’s rare for both him and Fedyor to be off duty at the same time, and with the General and the Sun Summoner off enjoying the hospitality if the Imperial Palace for the night, they’d planned to make the most of it. So far, he and his partner had enjoyed a lovely meal in one of the little cafés so popular in Os Alta, followed by a long romantic walk under the starlight, and then capped off by a luxurious bath together. Now back in their room, things are just starting to get interesting when the mood is thoroughly ruined by the unwelcome and poorly timed entry of a frantic Oprinichki, who had either forgotten – or decided not to bother – knocking on the door before he barged through it.   

It's difficult to say afterwards who is more scarred by the incident: Ivan, who according to Fedyor has more issues with public nudity than a nun; or the Oprinichki, after his partner decides the best way of defusing what is already an awkward situation is to make a joke about the guard being there for a threesome.

Needless to say, Ivan is not impressed. Nor is the tomato red Oprinichki, who it turns out had not thoughtlessly charged into their bedroom in order to be propositioned, or because he fancied being the victim of Fedyor’s peculiar sense of humour, but because he had a vitally important message to relay to them both.

“It’s that girl, again,” he mutters to his partner as they hastily pull on the clothes they had only just discarded, “I knew she wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble for one night!”

“Come now,” Fedyor tries to cajole him, “we don’t know that Alina is the reason for our midnight summons. She might be an entirely innocent party and something else has happened to get Kirigan in a snit.”

“Bah,” Ivan replies grumpily, “and there will be a squadron of the Tsarina’s pugs flying over the palace tomorrow.”

Fedyor stops pulling on his boots to frown at his partner, “I think you mean pigs.”

Ivan shrugs and stares balefully at the other Heartrender, “pigs, pugs, what different does it make? Either are far more likely than that girl not being in some way to blame.” It’s definitely her fault. He knows it, can feel it in his bones: and not even Fedyor’s well-reasoned and logically sound arguments would convince him otherwise.

“Well,” Fedyor comments, as they leave their room to trot through the silence corridors of the Little Palace.  “Quite a bit, I’d think. For a start, you’d need a much bigger hat if it was pigs.”

 


 

Ivan’s night continues to deteriorate at a truly spectacular rate, for upon arriving at the General’s rooms he finds the man in question in the middle of destroying the precious new filing system Ivan has only just perfected, and the Heartrender’s sanity along with it. Things only continue to spiral from there as it turns out that the Girl is indeed responsible for their ruined evening: she’s been kidnapped from the social event of the year - which is an accomplishment in and of itself given the level of security and that there was no shortage of bigwigs or politically useful people there for the kidnappers to choose from.  

As to who had made off with their Saint, the General doesn’t know. Nor does he know when the kidnapping took place, or indeed where these marauders are intending to take her, or what they wanted the Sun Summoner for. All in all, it’s a logistics officer’s nightmare – Ravka is a big country, filled with forests, hills and caves in which canny travellers can hide. Searching for The Girl in these conditions would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only it’s probably not a needle they were looking for and it’s likely not in a bloody haystack.

It’s enough to give a man a migraine, and Ivan’s really starting to wish he and Fedyor had taken Genya’s suggestion of staying in a hotel tonight; then this headache would be someone else’s problem.

 


 

The following conversation with Kirigan is mostly a bewildering blur to Ivan: he agrees that they need to go after the kidnappers and rescue Alina - they can’t very well let these people, whoever they are, get away with kidnapping a Grisha, let alone the Sun summoner. It would set a bad precedent, to start with; not to mention the havoc the girl might unleash while unsupervised.

No, it’s not the principle he disagrees with, but the plan - if you can call this hastily cobbled together shambles that’s mostly sticking plasters and prayers a plan. Most of all though, he disagrees with the timing.

Setting off alone in the dark on one of the coldest nights of the year is the height of folly, in his humble opinion. His General might be a formidable strategist and an insanely powerful Grisha (with emphasis on the insane), but as far as Ivan knows he doesn’t have the gift of night vision, which is what he would need in order to track the kidnapping bastards through the pitch black Ravkan countryside. Given this, what the man hopes to accomplish by rushing off unprepared and lacking in vital supplies, the Heartrender has no idea.

Sentiment truly is the thief of rational thought. Or it is in the General’s case, at any rate, he muses sourly.

It would be much more sensible to wait for first light before setting off. This would allow them time to properly plan, organise a suitably large and intimidating rescue party, and acquire the necessary provisions for the trip.

Explaining this common-sense approach to the keyed-up General goes as well as Ivan expects it to: which is to say, not well at all. For every sensible point Ivan makes, Kirigan has an impassioned response. The man is vehemently against any delay, and Ivan is left with the thought that while he can’t understand the specific kind of craziness which has seemingly infected his beloved General, he can admire his total commitment to it.  

They do have some success, however, in tempering their fearless leader’s headlong dash into madness, as Ivan manages to coral the uncooperative General into something less conspicuous - and better suited - to long travel in inclement conditions than the white dress uniform he is currently sporting. Meanwhile, Fedyor, once again demonstrating the innate resourcefulness and the intelligence which drew Ivan to him all those years ago, manages to locate a set of saddle bags and sets about shoving useful items (such as food, toiletries and a towel) into the them with surprising efficiency.  

That’s as far as they get, though, before Kirigan leaves them in a swirl of sartorial elegance and panache that makes both Heartrenders swoon a little.

All that’s left for them to do is to carry out the General’s commands. The hastily cobbled together instructions are superficially simple: Ivan is to mobilise a crack team of combat experienced Grisha for a rescue, and sort out the provisioning for their mission; meanwhile, Fedyor is to liaise with the less useless Lantsov, Major Mertzov and General Molkovich about the involvement of the First Army. While Ivan would prefer to keep this in-house, he can – if he squints – see the sense in using the resources (and, hopefully, the budget) of the First Army, and applauds the General’s canny strategy.  

It quickly becomes clear that, as with anything involving The Girl, things are never that simple or straightforward.

 


 

Genya is the first spoke in the wheel. He and Fedyor are in the middle of strategizing with Major Mertzov, General Molkovich and a surprisingly capable Prince Nikolai, when Genya crashes into the room, pale faced and wide eyed.

“What’s this about Alina being abducted?” She demands, poking an imperious finger into Ivan’s chest, either unaware of the First Army Officers, or dismissing them as irrelevant, in her mission to find out what’s happened to her friend.  

This is one of those occasions where Ivan wishes he’d engaged brain before mouth, as what comes out only inflames the red-head further. “Where did you hear that?” He grunts, crossing his arms in displeasure at both the interruption and the unwelcome intelligence that the disappearance of the Sun Summoner appears to be public knowledge.

Genya mirrors him, crossing her own arms and levelling an expression at him that would have made a lesser man cower in fear. “The maids in the Imperial Palace,” she states as if it should have been obvious. “It’s literally all they – and I imagine all the guests – can talk about.”

The Prince looks pained, or possibly constipated, at Genya’s observation, but it’s Major Mertzov who sums up what everyone in the rooms is thinking: “shit!!” he exclaims, smacking his forehead with the palm of his gloved hand. “The news will be across Ravka within a few days, and with our enemies within the week. The Sun Summoner being taken from the Imperial Palace, the most secure residence in Ravka, will make us look weak and ripe from the picking.”

“Fjerda and Shu Han will see this as the golden opportunity to attack,” General Molkovich agrees, looking troubled for the first time since he entered the Little Palace.

“Then we’d better find her, hadn’t we, gentlemen,” Genya hisses with such understated malevolence that Ivan feels bizarrely proud of the normally subservient Tailor.

On this point, at least, the First and Second Army are in complete agreement: the Sun Summoner needs to be found, and pronto, if they want to avoid their enemies springing a new offensive on them in an attempt to capitalise on Ravka’s misfortune and apparent weakness.

How they are going to do this, however, is not something they are on the same page about. The General, unsurprisingly, wants to take complete control of the operation – including of the Second Army, which will only happen over Ivan’s dead and rotting body. Major Mertzov, who evidently has more sense than his General, clearly knows this won’t happen, and merely looks resigned to the ensuing argument.

It’s the Lantsov spawn who surprises Ivan the most. Still dressed in his ballroom finery, the pampered prince strikes a discordant note in the Heartrender’s organised world, and Ivan assumes he will side with the power grabbing General, like his rotund father undoubtedly would.

He doesn’t.

In a few short sentences, the prince makes it clear that the Second Army will remain under the direction of the Black General – and his absence, his Second-in-Command, Ivan. It’s a set down that neither the Grisha present, nor General Molkovich, will forget anytime soon.

The princeling’s intervention works though, and the General subsides, settling instead for casting the occasional disparaging look in Ivan and Genya’s direction when he thinks no one is looking.

With that sorted, they can finally turn their attention to the elephant in the room: how to find and then rescue the Sun Summoner. In a country as large as Ravka, this is no small ask at the best of times, let alone in the middle of winter, where heavy snow falls are a near daily occurrence, the days are unhelpfully short and the temperature never rises above -2.

To have any hope of catching up with the kidnappers they will need to move swiftly and decisively: two things the First Army is not renowned for.  

There is also the question of where to start the search. By now the snow that’s been falling steadily for the last two hours will have obscured many of the tracks made by the kidnappers. Without signs to follow how will they know which direction to take.

It’s Genya who points out the obvious – while there are many routes the kidnappers could take, there are a much smaller number of destinations they could be heading for. From there the planning is much quicker – their forces will divide into three main groups: one section (lead by Major Mertzov) will head towards the most likely border crossing point with Fjerda; General Molkovich meanwhile would take his troops and head for Caryeva and the mostly likely route to Shu Han territory. This just leaves Kribirsk for Ivan and the prettier princeling.   

With that decided, Molkovich and Mertzov finally set off for the Imperial Barracks to start their own preparations, leaving Ivan, Fedyor, Genya and the less useless Lantsov to brainstorm their next steps.  

They’re just solidifying their plans, when to add the cherry on the top of the shit sundae this day has become, the Apparat arrives in a flurry of robes, ranting about Sankta Alina and some super-secret club called the Soldat Sol, which somehow means it’s his sacred duty to join them on their “quest”.

The man is clearly a raving lunatic. But to Ivan’s dismay, it soon becomes clear that he’s a committed lunatic.      

Totally committed – and probably committable, come to that. The man is completely barmy. Barking mad. Off his nut. Fallen out of the crazy tree. There’s no other explanation for the garbled nonsense coming out of his mouth about children of the gods, Merzost appointed duties and protecting the Queen of Day and the King of Night.

Botkin, ever a master of making an entrance chooses this moment to make his; neatly cutting of Ivan’s verbal evisceration of the hapless priest just as he’s getting into his flow and starting to enjoy himself.

Five minutes later, and it’s been agreed by everyone bar him that Botkin and the Apparat will both be joining the rescue party. It’s yet another bewildering turn of events and the only thing that helps him keep his temper is Genya pressing a cup of his special blend into his trembling hands.

The tea is a prescient precaution on the Tailor’s part, as shortly after he’s taken his first fortifying sip the She-Demon of the Little Palace appears, kitted out for travel and wielding not one but two lethal looking walking sticks.

 

“No, just no!” He growls, eyeing the old lady with blatant aggravation. “You’re not coming. I don’t care if you’re the high priestess of the crazies – you’re too old, you’ll slow us down.”

Baghra, annoyingly unreadable as usual, just blinks at him; then, quick as flash one of her walking sticks lashes out and his shin feels the brunt of her ire. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy!” she growls back, her black eyes full of restrained malice and swirling shadows. “I’m not senile, nor am I an invalid. You should worry about keeping up with me.” She twirls both sticks, noting with pleasure how everyone takes several cautious steps back from her.

Even Lantsov - who has never met her before - is showing the old woman the caution and deference normally shown to enraged wild animals.

Ivan’s scowl ratchets up the scale to ‘truly intimidating’ as he wrestles with his omni-present desire to strangle his obstreperous former teacher. “I am the Second in Command of the Second Army,” he announces through gritted teeth. “General Kirigan tasked me with leading this mission, and as its leader I am telling you that you will stay here. At the Little Palace,” he quickly adds, just to make sure the wily old woman has no way to slip around his command by following after them. Little though he likes Baghra, he quakes at the thought of being somehow complicit or responsible for her death should she try to sneak out on her own into the harsh Ravkan winter.  

Unfortunately, neither the forbidding expression on the Heartrender’s face, nor his icy words, appear to have any impact whatsoever on this latest intruder.  

Instead of being intimidated into respecting his authority, the old bat grins, sharp and wicked. “Only a moron with cabbage for brains would think I’m just going to wait here while my idiot boy and my future-daughter-in-law get themselves into trouble,” she retorts, stepping forward, her smirk widening  as her audience, except for Ivan who’s trapped in her seething gaze, skuttles away.  “I’ve invested far too much time and energy over the last fifteen years to let it all be ruined by pox ridden kidnappers.” She takes another step forward until she is nearly head to chest with the much taller Heartrender.  

Ivan’s first inclination at being confronted by Baghra in full steam is to stutter, bow and back off to a safe distance. He’s fought in more battles than he can remember, seen death close enough to steal its scythe, faced off against unimaginable odds and survived, but it’s this little old lady that makes his knees tremble.

He’s Second in Command of the Second Army, gods damn-it, he should not be scared (terrified) of old ladies, no matter how belligerent or violent they are.

He steels his shaken nerves, looks the she-demon in the eye, and shakes his head. “No.”

Baghra’s black eyes darken further, her brows pulling together in displeasure. “Are you a vegetable brained idiot?” she glares at him. “Because morons with broccoli for brains have no place organising a stationary cupboard, let alone a high risk rescue mission.”

Ivan glowers back, the desire to put the meddlesome old lady into a Heartsleep almost overwhelming in its intensity. He’s starting to see where the Girl gets her more irritating qualities.  

Taking his silence for capitulation, Baghra gives him a shark like grin. “Good, then we’re agreed: you’re not an idiot and I’m joining you. Now that that’s sorted, let’s get down to business: where are we going, and how are we going to get there.”

It’s never easy to argue with Baghra, not least because she’s a master at never letting anyone have the last word. As she has once again demonstrated.

Ivan – despite what crazy old women might think – is a clever man and a reasonably good strategist. He can see a lost battle when it smacks him in the face. With a grunt, he turns his attention back to the map spread out over the war table, determined to ignore the diminutive menace.  

“Right,” he says to the group gathered around the map, “where were we?”  

 


 

This was meant to be an elite task force under his control, yet somehow - and he has no idea how – it’s become a command committee made up of Fedyor, Botkin, Genya, the Apparat, and Baghra, of which he’s only nominally the head.

The next issue to raise its ugly head is that of practicality. They need to move fast, which means they need horses and to travel light. There are thirty suitable and rested horses available in the stables of the Little Palace at this moment in time. That’s just enough for the team he has assembled. The prince has no such advantage. He has a horse, but the men under his command are infantry, who will only slow the Grisha down.

The best plan is for the Second Army team to set off as soon as possible with the aim of hot footing it to Kribirsk while Lantsov follows behind with his men to rendezvous with them at the army camp.

The Prince is visibly reluctant, but he is also a semi-competent military commander and knows when to set aside private desires. With a jerky nod he agrees to the plan.

It’s clear to Ivan that the princeling hopes to play the knight to their Sun Summoner’s damsel in distress. He snorts. Alina is many things, but a gothic maiden to be rescued isn’t one of them. If he knows the girl at all, she’s likely already giving her kidnappers hell for taking her.

That the otkazat'sya cares for their missing Sun Summoner is clear even to Ivan. What is not so clear is whether Lantsov fancies himself in love with her. He’s seen the pair walking together sometimes in the gardens between the two palaces, but thought it nothing more than coincidence. Now, though, he’s starting to wonder whether he should have paid more attention.   

In another world, such a match would likely be a good thing for the Grisha. To have one of their own in the Royal family would be a coup, and could be the vehicle for change that their people desperately need. However, this is not that world. In this world, the Sun Summoner is involved with the Black General. The prince’s interest can only end in tears; probably his own.

Glancing around the room, Ivan notes the industrious activity with which everyone is involved. On one side, Genya, Fedyor and the Prince are debating something about routes, while on the other Botkin and the Apparat are deep in a whispered conversation that absolutely does not alarm Ivan in any way shape or form. It’s Baghra though who captures his attention. Standing away from the others, the old woman is watching the brunet with a curious expression; half intense dislike and half something which might, in someone else, be described as compassion.

 


 

If he’d thought planning the operation was bad, actually setting off is worse.

Everyone in the rescue party is on time, which is nothing short of a miracle given the short notice for this mission, but there the good news ends. The supplies are late, the horses not even remotely ready, and already the tension in the group is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

The Grisha are worried. More than that, they’re scared. The Sun Summoner is the living representation of hope for many of them. Hope for a better future. Hope for acceptance. Hope for safety and the chance of a life outside the Little Palace. Without her, all their hopes and dreams are lost.

The knowledge sits heavily on his shoulders, the pressure weighing on him with every breath he takes. This is on him: the success or failure of this mission rests with him. One mistake, one miscalculation, and they could lose all they have gained with Sun Summoner’s discovery.

 


 

The journey to Kribirsk is hard, even for seasoned officers. With the fresh snow fall, there’s no chance of trying to follow the kidnappers, so they revert to plan B and head for the Vy in the hope that it will be quicker and offer a more direct route. In this the weather is against them. The ground is frozen solid with icy sheets making it perilous to travel at speed. Just to add to their joy, the snow is so deep in places that they need to dig their way through using shovels, picks and Inferni fire.

It's exhausting and demoralising. More than that though is the stress that mounts every hour they are delayed. To make matters even worse, they still have no idea whether they are heading in the right direction. For all they know, the kidnappers could have gone north, or east. They might not even be planning to leave Ravka. The gods know that there are enough crazies already within Ravka who either worship the Sun Summoner as a god, or else think she is evil incarnate and must be destroyed.  

What they need is a sign.

 


 

It’s pure luck that they find the stupid tracker while he’s blundering about the edge of the forest, and Ivan’s day is not improved to discover that the reason the idiot otkazat'sya is alone is because his normally clever boss has taken indefinite leave of senses and allowed himself to be captured.

How this helps the rescue party is beyond Ivan. Even Fedyor – who is an eternal optimist and can normally spin any situation to find romance – is at a loss on this one.

“Was this part of the General’s plan?” his partner can’t help but ask, looking as bewildered as Ivan feels.

The Tracker pulls a face and shrugs in a decidedly unhelpful way. “Dunno,” he says, scratching his ear. “He’d sent me to find you by that point, and I was far enough away that it was kinda hard to see what happened but it kinda looked like he just sort of walked into an ambush.” The boy shrugs again, “Shame, really, Alina was doing really well, as well. Most of the soldiers were looking really scared.”

Wonderful. Just… wonderful, Ivan thinks sourly. Fricking fantastic. This is literally all they need. They’d set out on a mission to save the Sun Summoner, not add to Zlatan’s collection of collectable Grisha. The only good news is that they now know the identity of the kidnappers and have a reasonable idea of where they are going.

He growls. The only reason he and Fedyor had allowed the General to leave that night was on the understanding that he was to be clever, careful and not get caught. The man was meant to be locating and then observing the Sun Summoner so he could stop her getting herself into even more hot water – he wasn’t bloody well meant to jump in and join her. Honestly!  

There’s nothing they can do after such news but continue as fast as they can onto Kribirsk. In this part of the forest there is no chance they will be able to catch up with Zlatan’s party before they reach wherever it is they have moored their skiff. The only option left it to get to the one place where they will be able to requisition their own transport, in the hope – probably a forlorn one – that they will be able to catch up with them before they enter the Fold.

 


 

Their arrival in Kribirsk just after day break is met with little fanfare and surprisingly little interest from either the First or Second Army officers stationed there. They’re more interested in the Fold, which seems to be acting oddly.

It’s a familiar strangeness to Ivan, who remembers the last time is behaved unusually only too vividly. Bloody, buggering, fuck! They’re too late, he realises, as the horror of the situation sinks in. There is only one thing he knows that affects the Fold in this way – the Black General – which means the traitor Zlatan has made it to the Fold. The only bright side is that for the Fold to be acting this way then the General must still be alive.

Alive they can work with. Alive means there is there is still the possibility of rescue. Alive means there is still hope.

What is also clear to Ivan though, is that the General’s survival hangs on the edge of a precipice. The strange behaviour of the Unsea will not have escaped Zlatan, nor anyone else aboard who is used to the Fold, and it won’t take much for them to realise the cause of it is Kirigan. That he is still alive at all is likely because of The Girl. Trouble with a capital T she may be, but he knows how much she loves their General, and Zlatan is most likely using that as a way to corral her into providing protection.

Protection which might be keeping them safe but is unlikely to stop crew from panicking. And panic, in Ivan’s experience, usually has dire consequences. They must catch up to them before they reach Novokribirsk, there is no other option, and they must hurry, because the odds are worsening with every second they stand around like lemmings staring at the bloody Fold.

It takes a frustrating half an hour before he can locate the First Army Officer allegedly in charge of the camp so that he can commandeer a skiff. His mission isn’t helped by the fact that virtually all the senior ranking officers are back at the Imperial Palace having decided to bugger off to enjoy the winter ball.

Kribirsk, as the largest army encampment and staging point for the war, usually boasts at least one First Army General, Six Commanders (one for each of the divisions stationed in the camp), and more Colonels than you could shake a stick at. Normally, Ivan can’t move in Kribirsk for falling over smelly minor otkazat'sya aristocrats playing at being soldiers and now when he actually needs one, can he find them? No, he bloody well can’t.

As if the stress of their missing saint and the back-breaking march they’ve endured in order to get to Kribirsk isn’t bad enough, now he has to deal with a ridiculous game of find the otkazat'sya as well.

Finally, the Tracker comes through in a rare demonstration of initiative and points him in the direction of the Major who has been, notionally at least, left in charge of Kribirsk during the winter festival season. Major Danel Ptotemkin is a large man with more moustache than sense and an over-inflated ego. Ivan dislikes him on sight, and his opinion is not improved by their subsequent conversation.

What Ivan needs is a skiff, more time than he has, and to not be stuck in an argument with a pugnacious otkazat'sya with a grudge against Grisha. He gets precisely none of these.  

It quickly becomes clear that despite Ivan technically outranking him, the Major has no intention of relinquishing one of the Skiffs, no matter the reason. Even Ivan telling him that the Sun Summoner has been kidnapped is brushed off as nothing more than “grisha tricks”.

It’s the sound that stops the argument mid flow. It starts as a low, threatening rumble, like distant thunder. It’s then that Ivan feels it; anger and grief so raw and terrible that it tears at him. The emotions washing over him are at once foreign and yet achingly familiar. He knows this anger, knows this grief. Underneath it though is something new – a protective fury and thirst for vengeance that sends chills racing down his spine. The Fold is beyond angry. Beyond anything Ivan has ever felt before. It’s the fury of a mother defending her child, the fury of the wronged, the fury of Nemesis herself.

Ozone crackles through the air, sharp and static against his skin, and he knows with gut-wrenching certainty that they’ve failed.

Gold shoots through the murky depths of the Fold like lightning and he can’t help the hope that rushes through him that maybe, just maybe, some good will come from this clusterfuck and the Fold will be destroyed.

Then the screams start. Blood curdling echoes of the damned and dying, their cries reflected and amplified by the unnatural nature of the Fold.

Ivan has heard of this phenomenon before, but he’s never witnessed it in person, never heard the spine chilling sounds of what can only be a volcra attack while standing at the dry dock.

Before they can do more than just stand there, trapped in mute horror, it stops and only ominous silence is left.

All around him life is frozen, even the habitually noisy gulls have fallen quiet, and it feels like the universe is holding its breath, although for what Ivan has no idea.

Too late.

They are too late.

Desolation the likes of which he has never felt before rushes through him. He has failed his beloved General, who in all probability is now dead. He has failed in the mission entrusted to him. He has failed his people by not protecting the Sun Summoner, and he has failed Alina, the girl who turned his life upside down.

The only benefit is that Zlatan is likely also dead; but it’s a hollow consolation and seems a poor trade when set against what they have lost: their leader and their hope.

The dark thoughts continue to swirl as grief clouds his mind. How will they manage now without Kirigan and his careful protection. Who will lead the Second Army and make sure Grisha continue to be safe. It seems the height of foolishness now, but there isn’t a contingency for this – for the General’s death. A man as careful as Kirigan has contingencies for everything, and yet there isn’t one for this; He should have insisted on it, should have pushed the General more, but he ‘d chosen to leave him be in the belief that as an immortal they would never be without him, even if it was him under a different guise or with a new identity. In the cold light of today though such a belief seems idiotic, moronic even. Immortality doesn’t mean you can’t be killed, that had been his assumption. An assumption that is going to be destruct tested today.

The loss is greater than just their death of their leader though. How will they manage without the Sun Summoner and the hope she represented of a united Ravka. The Fold looms large before his wide, startled eyes, the towering fog swirling angrily against the invisible walls that keep it contained.

Panic crowds in at him, clawing up his throat and stealing his breath. Who will be their leader now?

For all that Ivan knows he is an excellent officer and an exceptional Second-in-Command he is also very well aware that he is not a leader. He lacks the charisma, the decisive decision making and the vision that his General so excelled in. To add to his faults, he has no patience for stupidity, doesn’t like people, and would sooner cut out the Tsar’s tongue than have a conversation with the buffoon.

A hand on his shoulder startles him for a second before he recognises the steady touch as his partner’s. The overwhelming panic recedes under Fedyor’s careful ministrations, his heart rate slowing until it is once again normal. “Deep breaths, love,” Fedyor prompts him, and Ivan realises he hasn’t exhaled for longer than is advisable. He breathes in, the ozone hanging in the air stinging his nose. He takes another, and then another.   

Clarity returns. First things first, they need to find the skiff and bring it back. There might yet be survivors, although it seems unlikely. Either way, he will not leave his General and his girl to be eaten by volcra. Their bodies, at least, much be reclaimed and given decent burial. There is also the question of Zlatan, and of ensuring that he can cause no more mischief.

Whispers break out around him as the crowd starts to recover from the shock, the murmurs turning heated and unsettled as rumours start making the rounds about the Sun Summoner and General Zlatan. It angers him, the casual way both First and Second Army officers – he is seriously displeased to note – are gossiping, each inaccurate theory tossed about like fact incensing him further.

It reaches boiling point when he hears one of the otkazat'sya call her the Lantsov’s whore.

Before he can intervene though, the Fold changes again; its thick, smoke like walls writhing and, Ivan notices with rapidly mounting alarm, pulsing in and out as if it’s trying to expand.

The silence that descends is eerie, unnatural, as all those present hold their collective breath, terrified. It is the stillness that follows a tsunami. The nothingness that follows death and destruction. A numbness born from terror. A pause that promises a reckoning.

The Fold lets out an enormous sound, like a belch, and a severely damaged skiff bursts from its murky depths as if shoved by an invisible hand. 

Through the binoculars Fedyor has appropriated from somewhere, Ivan frantically scans the skiff. The damage is immense: the mast is cracked and close to breaking, what’s left of the shredded sails are on fire, and all along the rails and wooden sides large chunks are missing. It’s a miracle the thing is moving at all, but moving it still is – and then he spots it, a lone figure standing on the deck in the midst of the ruin and fire, glowing like the sun, a dark blob in her arms.

Notes:

Hey lovelies, I'm baaaaack. Sorry for the long wait. My muse is a fickle friend and is currently more interested in other projects, but don't worry - this fic isn't abandoned and it WILL be finished. Hopefully this year.

I'm half way through the next chapter, which will hopefully be up sometime in the next couple of weeks.

Don't forget to leave a comment - reviews feed the author and make her work faster ;).

Chapter 29: Recovery

Summary:

in which Aleksander wakes up, has a bad case of Déjà vu and finds that the world has changed while he’s been out of it.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Aleksander awakes it’s to the familiar grey canvas of a Ravkan command tent and someone whistling out of tune somewhere behind him.

He has a headache, or rather everything aches, but his head has barged its way to the top of queue of body parts vying for his attention. To make matters worse, his back is itching like crazy, but when he tries to move to alleviate the sensation of a thousand ants tap dancing across his skin he finds that he can’t. He’s pinned in place on the uncomfortably thin mattress by thick leather straps around his arms, legs and torso.

“What?” He groans as he tries - without success - to move. Behind him the gods awful whistling stops and then there’s the sound of heavy footfalls before another unwelcome familiar sight hoves into view.

The tracker has not improved in the week they’ve been separated, and absence has clearly not made him fonder of Aleksander, if the griping is anything to go by.

“Fuck, I knew you’d wake up when it was my turn,” the tracker grumbles to himself. “Just sit here and watch him, Mal,” he parrots in a high voice as he checks over the temporarily restrained Darkling. “He’s not woken for three days, Mal. The chances of him waking in the couple of hours you’ll be there is really low. Low! My hairy arse!”

“Should have just said no, but then she had to go and smile and like a numpty I just jumped right in. Idiot!!”

Ahh, it had been Alina then who convinced the otkazat'sya to play minder. “She does have that affect,” Aleks can’t help but croak out hoarsely in a rare show of sympathy. The two men share a commiserating look. It’s been the story of Aleksander’s life since he met little Alina of being talked out of things he wants to do and into things he very much doesn’t. It’s reassuring to know that it isn’t just him who’s susceptible to Alina’s powers of persuasion.

“Why am I restrained?” Aleks asks after Mal finally runs out of imprecations to his stupidity.

The tracker shrugs, “don’t ask me. One of the healers insisted. Something about you not staying where you’re put and how you’re a terrible patient.” That would be Olena, then. Clearly she hasn’t forgiven him yet for his escape the last time he’d been in her clutches.

Thinking about the restraints and the reasons for them brings back the events leading up to waking in this bloody tent again; and with that memory comes the panic.

“Alina,” he demands hoarsely, his heart hammering so fast against his ribs he fears he’s going into cardiac arrest. His last fuzzy recollection is of paralysing grief as he fears Alina dead and then the sensation of her light encasing him as he lost the battle with consciousness. Surely he didn’t - couldn’t - have imagined it. Alina has to be alive. Has to be. No other option is acceptable. It’s a struggle to draw air into his battered lungs, each breath feeling like shards of glass and coming faster than the one before.

“She’s okay,” Mal says distractedly, thankfully oblivious to the General’s panicked state as he works on the tight buckles to the leather restraints holding the Grisha captive; “came out with barely a scratch on her. She’s just off preparing.”

The relief feels like a blow to his solar plexus, knocking both the wind and words out of him as he slumps into the pillows, strangely exhausted, yet buoyed and breathless with joy. Slowly his heart rate returns to normal and with it the tight band of tension around his heart eases it’s deathlike grip as the anxiety of before vanishes beneath the rush of relief.

Then he remembers the rest of the tracker’s response.

“What preparations?” Aleks demands, tone dark and silkily smooth, with just a hint of menace to get the boy to talk.

Mal blushes, and Aleksander is amused to see even the tips of his ears turn bright red.

“Erm, well, you see,” the boy stutters, clearly unnerved by his misstep. The he evidently hits on an idea - “you know what I’ll just go get the snarky one, he can answer your questions.” And with that he quickly sidles out the tent.

 


 

It’s not his loyal Heartrender who makes an appearance next, however, but Olena. Her expression is pinched with evident displeasure at the sight of her General once again attempting to get out of a bed she fully intended him to stay in. She knew it was a mistake to leave that boy with him without the supervision of a member of her team to enforce the treatment plan. The idiot otkazat'sya must have released the restraints that were meant to keep their General from doing something monumentally stupid, like trying to move while still injured.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Healer bellows as she marches over to wrestle her captive back into the bed… and the restraints that will hopefully keep him there. She has her orders after all. Orders from the Sun Summoner herself; and after seeing the damage an upset Alina had caused to her kidnappers the Healer has no intention of failing in her duties and drawing that particular ire to herself.

“I’m getting up,” Aleksander tries to explain while fending off the suddenly octopus like hands of the Healer in charge of his care. “I need to find Alina.”

“No, you don’t,” Olena snaps, using her iron grip and the lingering weakness of her patient to compel him back beneath the sheets. “You need to stay here and recover. What part of you nearly died is difficult for you to understand?”

That gives him a moment’s pause. His memories of the skiff are hazy at best but he thinks he would remember acquiring a near fatal wound.

“Don’t be absurd,” he gasps out as one of her hands presses against a tender spot that almost makes him black out from the pain of it. “Zlatan’s motley group of misfits weren’t that good. I’ve had worse in the training yards from Botkin.” That might be a slight exaggeration, but if there is one thing Aleksander’s learnt over the years its never tell a Healer the full extent of your injuries if you hope to get away from them quickly.  

The glower she directs at him for that piece of nonsense is impressively firesome and Aleks feels a twinge of something he might call alarm if not for the fact that the Darkling does not feel such base emotions.

His adversary draws in a deep breath. “86 separate lacerations, severe dehydration and exhaustion, deep bruising across 70% of the back and thighs, signs of attempted manual strangulation,” Olena recites as she prods at bits of him he’d really rather she didn’t. The Healer is being careful, but he can’t help the pained hiss that escapes him when her fingers press against the side of his chest. Olena’s eyes darken and he feels her healing power wash over him.

Her expression is grim when she looks back up at him. “But that’s not the worst of it,” she continues, “You’ve got four cracked and two broken ribs, one of which splintered and punctured your lung perilously close to your heart. It was touch and go for a couple of hours after we got to you. I’ve sped up your healing, but your body has taken a literal beating. Two days and if you’ve been good and not stressed those ribs then you can get out of bed and start moving around. It’ll be the best part of a week before you’re back to full strength.” She finishes with a quelling glare.

At his reluctant nod, Olena smiles, happy with her victory. “Good. Then we have an agreement. The moment you try and get out of that bed without permission, though, not only will those restraints be back on but I’ll get a Heartrender to put you into Heartsleep.”

What can he do but signal his surrender to the termagant in charge of his freedom; especially seeing as his traitorous body feels strangely tired and battered from their exchange. Now he’s tried moving he can feel how injured his body still is. His ribs are aching fiercely, his head pounding and the less said about the stabbing pain that rockets through him whenever he tries to lift his arms the better. He’s been assured that they’re safe, that everything is well in hand and that Alina has come through this latest misadventure unscathed.

That he misses her and is bored out of his wits is surely a small price to pay for the gift of them both surviving.    

 


 

Ivan’s appearance just over an hour and a short nap later is a balm to Aleksander’s frayed nerves. He’s never coped well with being injured or confined to bed. He hates boredom, which in turn makes him an awful patient. He also doesn’t like mysteries - never has – nor unanswered questions. At least in this last vexation Ivan may be of some help.

“Moi Soverenyi,” his Second says, saluting crisply – and, is that a tear in his eye?

Up until now it had been purely hypothetical that his irascible Second is even capable of producing tears, let alone actually having the emotional range that would enable him to cry. He’s oddly touched while also increasingly unnerved. Ivan showing emotion is like the Tsar demonstrating restraint; concerningly out of character.

Deciding to do the tactful, manly thing, and not mention Ivan’s brief behavioural aberration while he recovers himself, he instead says; “Report, Ivan. What have I missed.”

Ivan shudders briefly as he wrestles his inconveniently timed emotions back under control, then straightens, expression reverting to its habitual surliness. “You have missed three days and fifteen hours: during which there have been six Council meetings, two appointments with the senior officers of the First Army, one almost riot and twenty-six enquires into your health,” here he pauses, uncertainty flashing across his face, then delivers the last piece of news.  

“Your mother is also outside and is desirous of an audience now that you have in her words ‘finally bothered to wake up.’”  

 


 

There are many things Aleksander had expected upon realising that he would be going into the Fold sooner rather than later: death, destruction, pain and the grief of failure, to name but four of them. In all honesty, waking up alive and in one piece (even if his ribs protest that description), hadn’t been the outcome he’d foreseen. It hadn’t even rated in the top twenty of most likely ways this particular adventure would end.

Having survived the unsurvivable though,  Aleks is now confronted with the awkward realisation that at no point during this madcap misadventure has he thought about, or even considered, what would come after. All his focus and energy had been devoted to the dual purpose of finding his missing love and then ensuring her continued survival.

It’s an oversight; a potentially cataclysmic one at that because his mother is here and is waiting to speak with him. Even tired, in pain, and probably out of his mind on painkillers, he recognises the order implied in that statement. This is not an optional event.

For a long moment he just lies there, stupefied. His mother is here. In Kribirsk. His mother. Baghra – the woman who has refused consistently refused to go further than Os Alta for nearly a century – has travelled half way across Ravka. It’s mindboggling. Unfathomable. Disorientating. Terrifying.

The good news is that if it is his mother here boredom while he recuperates will be the least of his concerns.

Then another question announces itself to his conscious mind like a rock to the face: how does Ivan know that she’s his mother…

He’s successfully concealed their often fraught relationship for centuries now: centuries. As far as he knows, there are only three people who know this particular secret: Alina, Mei-Xing and Botkin.

So how does Ivan know?

Mei-Xing and Alina know because Baghra had let it slip herself years ago while she’d been busy interrogating him in their living room.

Botkin worked it out, true; but then he’s Botkin. Frankly, by this point, Aleks has long ago given up on being surprised by that man and just accepts that the man is a marvel.

But how did Ivan know? In the many years since he built the Little Palace no one else has ever discovered their relationship.

Perhaps, his Second is confused and there is some random woman outside who is merely claiming to be his nearest – and supposedly – dearest relation. Given how unlikely it is that his cantankerous old witch of a mother has traversed hundreds of miles to come to his rescue that is as good an explanation as any other.

This is an issue that clearly needs further exploration though. “My mother?” he croaks inquiringly, hoping desperately for any answer than the one he fears: that is indeed his actual mother outside.  

Ivan’s posture if it’s possible pulls even tauter, his expression becoming glacial. “Madam Kirigan accompanied us from the Little Palace,” he says, sounding decidedly put upon. “Along with Master Yul-Erdene and… the Apparat.” This last name is added with a distinctly Ivan-esq sneer that leaves no doubt in Aleksander’s mind as to what his Second thinks of the man.

The dual addition of the She-Demon of the Little Palace and the High-Chief of the Crazies had not made for an easy, or enjoyable, dash across the Ravkan snow-covered landscape; as Ivan makes painfully clear to his beloved leader.

‘Well, fuck,’ Aleksander thinks. So much for the forlorn hope that it was some random nutter waiting to ambush him. With the imminent threat of his mother hanging over him, he’s almost inclined to think fondly of his time as Zlatan’s punching bag.

There’s no time like the present though, and he knows from long exposure to his mother that waiting usually only makes the subsequent scolding that much worse as it gives her longer to stockpile her insults and barbs. As she’d already had at least three days of preparation, she’d had enough of a head start already, and it would be foolish of him to give her even longer to nurse her wrath.  

“Very well, show her in, Ivan,” he sighs, hoping in a rare display of optimism that the same philosophy of ripping off a plaster would apply here with his mother.

His Second nods crisply and vanishes through the flaps of the tent, returning some five minutes later with Baghra in-tow.

“Madam Kirigan,” Ivan salutes, before turning tail and almost running out of the tent to give mother and son some privacy.

 


 

Feigning calmness that he certainly isn’t feeling, Aleks pours two cups of water – the only beverage his ogre of a healer will allow – passing one to his mother, who takes it with a sour grimace at the realisation that it isn’t gin.

His attempt at distraction doesn’t fool his mother for a moment,

“Do calm down, boy. I didn’t come half way across Ravka in the middle of winter to berate you,” she says as she casts a critical eye over the bandages wrapped around his chest.

“You didn’t?” Aleksander can’t help but exclaim in surprise.

Baghra shakes her head irritably, “of course not; I know you’re recovering, but try to not be such a dim-witted idiot.”

“Then why did you come?”

“To do my bit in ensuring you both survived this latest catastrophe,” she replies, casting a gimlet stare over him. “And to keep my promise to your father,” she adds after a moment, in a quiet voice lacking her usual venom. “I told him I would always look after you. You might be approaching seven-hundred, but you will always be my son.”

Uncomfortable at this rare display of emotion from his normally taciturn mother, Aleksander decides to address the easier elephant in the room. “I think you might have let the cat out the bag by storming to the rescue, Mother,” he comments dryly, trying desperately to tamp down the irritation he feels at one of his greatest secrets now being common knowledge.

“Nonsense boy,” his mother replies tartly, all sign of vulnerability gone as if it had never been there. “They already knew.”

“What?” He splutters, coughing up the water he has just gulped down. Impossible!

Baghra sighs impatiently. “Don’t be an idiot, Sasha, you’re not mentally deficient. Of course they knew, we’re the only two shadow summoners in the world, of course there’s a good chance we’re related, and when you put together the physical resemblance it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together to get four.”

“I do not look like you,” her son protests loudly. His horrified expression makes Baghra chortle. “We have the same nose boy and the same eyes, not to mention the same powers. Only the blind or the moronic would fail to spot the similarities after spending time with the both of us.”

“You mean the whole palace knows?” Aleks croaks, cheeks pink with embarrassment.

His mother cocks her head slightly and stares at him knowingly. “Well, maybe not the whole of the Little Palace,” she concedes, “but certainly all your senior officers and the Oprinichki do.”

“Oh,” such a small, insubstantial word, and yet it’s all he can think to say. Well, he supposes, that’s that then. One of his greatest secrets, something he has apparently worried needlessly about for years and everyone already knows. Wonderful!

Apart from making him feel slightly sick, his mother’s blasé attitude does, however, raise another question. How on earth had his mother known that they were in trouble?

Baghra had made it a point of principle never to stir from her cottage – no matter who asked, and he has trouble believing his poor Second had willingly braved the lion’s den to ask his irascible mother for her assistance in retrieving their missing Sun Summoner.  Which is what he asks her.

His mother’s grin is sharp and distinctly shark like as she considers his question. “You’re not the only one to have spies among the staff at the Imperial Palace,” she tells him, “as soon as the Imperial Hippo and his Ostrich wife knew so did the servants. It didn’t take long for one to slip away to tell me… or for me to guess what stupid course of action my only child would embark upon.” Here her gaze becomes glacial as she eyes him in blatant disapproval.

He’s long suspected that his mother has her own spy network throughout both the Imperial and Little Palace – she’s simply too well informed and difficult to surprise -  but he’s never been able to confirm it, until now that is.

“After that it was simply a case of convincing your surly man out there that I would be joining the rescue party.” Now that is a sight he would have given much to be a fly on the wall for, Aleks thinks longingly. Ivan versus his Mother. No wonder his poor Second is so out of sorts. Exposure to Baghra was medically advisable only in small, pre-prepared doses – the opposite of what Ivan had just been subjected to.

All joking aside, though, this is an unusual and frankly completely unexpected gesture on his Mother’s part; especially her willingness to come here, to the place of what in her eyes is his greatest sin and most abhorrent mistake.  

Baghra had sworn the day she saw his creation for the first time that she would never again set foot in this cursed place. It’s a promise that’s she’s held true to for centuries.

Her willingness to leave the safety of her home and come here shows him how far they have come, how much closer they are now than before when they’d been growing ever most distant from each other. Alina’s presence in their lives has been the saving light for them both, reforging a bond he had long ago thought broken beyond all hope of repair.

“Thank you, Mother,” Aleks says sincerely, for once forgoing the acidic banter and veiled barbs that are their usual method of conversing.

“As if I’d leave you and my future daughter in law to weather this storm alone,” she harrumphs, aiming for her usual acerbic tone but missing the mark; the pink of her cheeks giving away her pleasure at her son’s gratitude and the rare moment of understanding that settles between them.

For several long minutes there is quiet in the tent as he continues to digest this astonishing development, but then another thought smacks into him like a hammer to the head.

Fuck. What about Alina’s mother. In the panic driven frenzy of that night he’d completely forgotten that Mei-Xing should be informed that her daughter had been abducted. It had completely escaped his attention, and he hadn’t even thought to ask Ivan or Fedyor to see to it that a message was dispatched. As far as he knew, Alina still maintained her habit of writing to her mother twice a week. It’s well over that now since the night of the Imperial Ball. How worried the poor woman must be.  

“What about Mei-Xing,” Aleksander can’t help but blurt out, guilt curdling in his stomach at his oversight. “Does she know?”

His mother raises a distinctly unimpressed eyebrow at his stupidity, clearly questioning her son’s mental capacity. “Yes.” She answers, managing to look simultaneously both smug and displeased. “I sent a letter with one of your fan club.”

For a moment Aleksander is stunned by the relief that rushes through him but then confusion sinks in as he tries to puzzle who his mother could mean. He has few friends in the Imperial Palace and most of the Grisha he trusts are here in Kribirsk, then it hits him.

“Do you mean my highly trained, ruthlessly efficient Oprinichki?” He enquires, annoyance creeping into his voice in what he thinks is a perfectly reasonable way. His mother clearly disagrees as a moment later he’s nursing his now stinging hand, glowering at the offensive weapon which Ivan should definitely have confiscated before allowing his she-demon of a mother in to see him.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Sasha,” Baghra barks, fixing her recalcitrant child with a gimlet stare. “I’ve not come traipsing all this way to pull your sorry behind out of the fire for you to be rude.”

Still nursing his bruised limb, Aleks cannot help the grumpy response he mutters under his breath. His reward is another thwack this time to his uninjured hand. “Ow,” he cries, more out of surprise than actual pain.

His mother’s glare ratchets up several notches. “Don’t you dare blame Alina for your idiocy. She was overpowered and kidnapped - you, my allegedly clever and godlike son, just walked straight into an ambush.”

Baghra settles herself primly back into her seat, somehow managing to make the rickety old chair seem like a throne and she a queen holding court. “Now, are you going to listen quietly?” She demands, eyes narrowed.

Sullenly he nods his head, cursing his mother’s curious talent for making him feel like a dunder-headed youth.

Thin lips quirk in what in anyone else would be a smile but in his mother merely looks like victory. “Good. Then I’ll begin.”

It turns out that his mother, unlike himself, had been thinking clearly that night and had written to Alina’s mother as soon as she’d been made aware of the unfolding catastrophe. With enviable prescience, his mother had recognised the innate danger in leaving a school full of vulnerable part trained Grisha alone for an unspecified amount of time while the vast majority of the senior ranks – and responsible adults - hot footed it across Ravka in search of their missing saint and wayward General, and so had decided to call upon the help of the only other adult she had any respect for: Alina’s mother.

Her letter, according to Baghra, was concise and to the point. She’d told her old friend that Alina had been kidnapped, that her idiot son had gone chasing off after her like a demented knight in shining armour, and the remaining officers who would normally be in charge would soon be haring off in pursuit. Someone competent, level headed and impervious to the antics of unsupervised children needed to be there to stop both the accidental distraction of the Little Palace and the likely interference of the Tsar and his court of inbred morons.

Mei-Xing was well respected by Garin, which would smooth the way with the other staff, and, perhaps more importantly, had a way with children. Baghra had already seen to it that an update was even now on its way to the no-doubt frantic mother with the good news that both their children had not only survived this latest insanity but had done so with all limbs and sanity intact, and she made a mental note to send another missive tomorrow; now that her Sasha was awake things were bound to get interesting.

“Now. The Healer said you’d been demanding an update on our Alina,” she says, patting his hand in a blatantly condescending way that makes him bristle even as he nods reluctantly.

“She’s doing well, our girl,” his mother continues, a proud smile stretching her thin lips. “Very well. Already commandeered the First Army battalions stationed here and is a good way into organising the coup of the millennia.” She chortles. “Has that princeling eating out of her hand as well, our girl does. She says jump, and everyone is six feet in their air before they remember to ask how high.”

“Now,” she finishes with a dark glare at her only child. “I have a message for you from our little saint. She says, and I quote, ‘don’t even think of moving off that bed Aleksander Mikael Morozova until Olena has cleared you for active duty. You are to rest, recover and only stir yourself when you can be useful again.’”

Baghra pauses there, evidently waiting for him to agree with the orders he’s received. Grudgingly he nods. The order rankles, but as it’s his precious girl who’s giving them he will trust in her decision and abide by the restrictions, even though she’s clearly in cahoots with his jailer.

With a grunt he leans back into the mountain of pillows and makes a show of getting himself comfortable. His mother’s grin is wicked and distinctly amused, but he lets her have her win, still shocked and surprisingly moved that she’d braved the world outside the Little Palace to come and rescue them. Besides he is still quite tired after the strain of the last week, and his control is poor as a result; which shows when his shadows decide without conscious direction to wrap around him like swirling black blanket.

“Good,” she says standing up and walking over to another bed he hadn’t noticed before, “and just to make sure that you do, I’ll be staying in this tent to keep an eye on you.”

He groans again, this time not from physical pain. Him and his mother in close quarters and with no escape is a recipe for distaste. There’s a good reason he and his mother haven’t cohabited for half a millennium.

Someone put him out of his misery and shoot him now.

Notes:

Aaaand I'm back. Hello lovely readers. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; especially with Baghra being back centre stage. I really love writing her character, it's a real hoot.

Sorry for the much longer than anticipated wait for this chapter. It's been half done for five months now, but I just couldn't get it to flow right and then I realised (far too late) that's because it really wanted to be two chapters. So the good news is that the next chapter is only three paragraphs off being ready to be published (woooo!), and I've even included a little sneak peak below for you to enjoy speculating on...

Next up: The Fold.
“Haven’t you wondered how it is we got out of the Fold?” Alina asks quietly, disrupting his worrying and sending his thoughts screeching to a halt. “We were well beyond the fifth marker and all the Squallers were dead.”

Chapter 30: The Fold

Summary:

The truth is rarely pure and never simple, but sometimes is can set you free. In which Aleksander has a crash course in the Small Science and realises that everything he thought he knew is actually wrong.

Notes:

Wow! Only three chapters to go. I'm super excited about this chapter as it marks one of the big reveals and explanations this story has been working towards since chapter three.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Alina finally pops in for a visit just as his evening meal is being served. It’s bland hospital food of boiled chicken and potato, pre-cut into bite sized pieces so as to not tax him. It’s another bruise to his ego – made worse because of the amusement it gives his mother - but one he has no choice but to accept gracefully as his wounds have not yet healed enough to return the motor coordination he would otherwise need.

Her presence is a balm to his increasingly frayed nerves and for the for the first time since he awoke in his grey tented prison he feels almost relaxed. The only minor frustration is how she skirts around any serious topic they even so much as begin to venture into. He enquires into the meetings Ivan mentioned in passing, Alina smiles at him and starts a humorous story about one of the First Army officers. He asks about how preparations are going for their returns to Os Alta and she talks about Ivan’s tea. He speculates on what madness the Tsar has undoubtedly been up to in his absence and she starts talking about the weather. Finally, he raises the topic of Zlatan and what happened on the skiff. For a moment Alina’s eyes dim, the golden flecks transforming into a dull caramel of pain, but then as quick as flash the moment is gone and the smiling woman of before is back.

She checks her watch and grimaces, “it’s time for me to be off. Olena said half an hour at a time was all I was allowed and I have another meeting to get to shortly anyway. I’ll try and stop by tomorrow.”

And with that, his precious girl smiles at him and presses a lingering kiss to the side of his mouth as she stands up, her eyes finding his mother’s where she is perched like gargoyle on a bed just out of his field of vision. “Alinocka?” He cannot help but press, anxiety starting to crawl up his spine at her deliberate avoidance.

“It’s okay, Aleks,” Alina says to him with a practiced, easy grin. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. We’ll talk properly when you’re better.”

The words are meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a hollow comfort to Aleksander who detests secrets and not knowing things. He wants to argue, to make her tell him the unspoken words he can almost hear, to get to the bottom of what happened on the skiff and why no one wishes to tell him.  He can tell though that Alina will be unmovable on this – can see it in the stubborn set to her jaw and determined glint in her bewitching eyes – and knows that to press further will not yield the results he so desperately wants. Alina, for whatever reason, has decided that it is best he not know until he is better. So be it. He will trust her. He won’t push.

Some of his thoughts must have been playing out across his face, for Alina who has been watching carefully now relaxes, gifting him the genuine smile he loves so much.

She bends down to brush a kiss against his forehead, making the skin burn and sing where her lips touch his skin. When she stands up it’s with a wicked smile, bright with mirth and amusement.  

“Do try to be good to your mother and the poor healing team. I’m not sure Olena could cope with another escape attempt,” she teases as she leaves, waving to him once more before disappearing through the flap and into the darkness beyond it.

 


 

The days pass slowly in fits and starts. By the end of the first day boredom has well and truly made itself at home. When he’s not sleeping he’s feeling increasingly fractious as his energy returns and the pain from his injuries fade. He wants to get up and do things. He wants to walk around and reassure himself that all is truly well as Alina says it is. He wants to glower darkly at the otkazat'sya officers she’s meeting to ensure that they are treating her with the respect she deserves.

Never the most patient of people, Aleks has never coped well with bed rest, but the gods must surely hate him to have teamed up these two menaces to torment him. Olena and Baghra are in their element and have seemingly set aside their usual dislike of each other in order to join forces in an unholy alliance. If he so much as sneezes one of them materialises to check on him.

He wants out, and damnit he wants it now!!

Ivan, bless his regimental soul, tries to help by bringing him reports to read and sign off on. For the most part these are neither onerous nor interesting; supply requisitions, typically, or the occasional report by the outposts about possible enemy activity. Or more specifically the lack of it.

Shu incursions are at an all-time low, and since their dramatic exit from the Fold no one has apparently dared to try and cross the Unsea. Even the normal guerrilla attacks preferred by Fjerda are few and far between, with only one group of Drüskelle spotted by their scouts.

The quiet sits uneasily with him. This time of year there should be frequent minor spats going on as their enemies test Ravka’s defences in preparation for a renewed offensive come spring.

He knows it unsettles his Second as much as it does him; it’s unusual, and in their experience unusual in war usually spells Trouble with a capital T. His mother though, bless her ever cantankerous socks, seems to have a different take on the frequent occasions she decides to listen in to what ought to be a top secret meeting. “Don’t be daft, boy,” she cackled at one point on the second day, “despite all the evidence to contrary otkazat'sya aren’t that stupid, you know. After that display their commanders would have to be several sandwiches short of a picnic, or else a wish to expeditiously meet their maker, to get within a hundred leagues of the Sun Summoner.”

And doesn’t that raise more questions than it answers. That Alina had done something that day in the Fold is easy to deduce; even without his somewhat fuzzy recollections assisting him. What he can’t work out is what that is. The Fold is still there, he can feel it brushing against his senses like a particularly persistent and annoying cat, but the feeling has changed.

Somehow.

It feels different, less hostile maybe? Less… something, anyway. Or maybe that ought to be more. His fingers rub tiredly at his temples as the headache pounds his already exhausted brain; his thoughts whirling in dizzying circles. Either way it’s a mystery he’s unlikely to solve until such a time as his chief jailer sees fit to release him and he can do more than prod at the entity on the edge of his senses like a sore tooth.

At least there are other distractions to his day.  

Fedyor is a regular visitor as well, although Aleks is uncertain whether it is he who is the draw for the Heartrender. The young man appears to be strangely fascinated by his mother, who has so far kept to her promise and not left him alone for more than the time he is allowed to relieve himself. The pair play poker – which Baghra usually wins – while trying to distract the other by telling increasingly dirty jokes. It’s an experience Aleks could very well do without given that this is his centuries old mother he is having to listen to as she regales her audience with bawdy and ribald humour that would not be out of place in a drinking hole or house of ill-repute.

Olena stops by twice a day to poke at him and grunt at the results, and Botkin likes to drop by for breakfast to moan about the general inadequacy of First Army recruits, their abysmal training, and all the ways he plans for the Second Army to improve this. The fact that the Tsar is about as likely to give Grisha any say or control over his precious Imperial Army as he is to spontaneously develop a conscience and abdicate to join a far flung monastery in Shu Han to devote himself to the poor, appears not to matter to the martial arts instructor. Botkin is in his element, designing training plans, reorganising rations so that the meals will be more nutritious and generally turning the entire inner workings of the First Army upside down; and Aleksander finds he lacks both the desire and energy to try and stop him. Let the man build castles in the air, he thinks fondly, Botkin’s plans are a good outlet for the man’s energy and an even better distraction for a bored General on enforced bed rest.   

It’s Alina’s visits though that he relishes and looks forward to the most. Their conversations are still resolutely light and filled with little of substance, but the contact soothes the itch he feels to be up and doing things in a way that nothing else can. Such visits are frustratingly short though – or that’s how it feels to him, at least. His Alina is so busy with whatever it is she’s working on that he only sees her twice a day for two short half hour periods; and sometimes not even that before Genya comes to collect her for some meeting or decision that requires her immediate attention. 

 


 

It takes four days of this hellish imprisonment before Olena announces that he’s sufficiently recovered and will be allowed to leave him prison cell to resume normal activities on the morrow. It’s the news he’s been waiting for since he first awoke and it brings a rush of excitement racing through him.

He practically bolts out of the bed once the Healer leaves, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to change out of his bedclothes and into the kefta and uniform Ivan has thoughtfully set out for him. Sliding into the kefta feels like freedom and he cannot help the smile that breaks free of his usual control as he buttons it up. Then he’s off, through the tent flap and out into the bustle of Kribirsk.

 


 

The camp is the same as he remembers. Hectic, smelly and full of bodies hurtling in every direction. It’s only once he’s out that it occurs to him that he has no idea where Alina, or any of his senior staff for that matter, are. For a few moments he stands there, feeling strangely disorientated. He’s used to being the centre of the Second Army. The linchpin around which is revolves. The central engine that makes it work. What he’s not used to is this peculiar dislocation – as if the focus has shifted and everyone has moved with it bar him.

He still has two Heartrenders posted outside his tent, as usual, but they aren’t his usual guards. Ivan is fanatical about his protection and is generally stationed outside – complete with his desk and beloved filing system – but for the first time he can remember his Second is absent. In his place are Gregori and Maria; two well trained but hardly senior Heartrenders.

Calmly, he approaches the two who are doing a good job at avoiding his gaze. “Gregori, Maria,” he greets them both with a nod. They bow back to him, appropriately low and respectful, but their eyes are fixed nervously somewhere over his left shoulder.  

“Has there been a change in guard rotation while I’ve been recovering?” He asks when it becomes clear his Grisha have no intention of speaking.

“No, Moi Soverenyi…” Grigori stutters, darting an anxious glance at his colleague who sighs in a very put upon way. His gaze shifts to Maria who frowns but then tells him what he wants to know. “The Senior Council are meeting this morning, General; we were asked by Commander Starkov to fill in during those meetings. We were not informed that you would be re…” here she trails off, suddenly uncertain about what to say.

He nods, suppressing a smile at young woman’s near slip. Released, indeed. It’s an appropriate word for what had felt like a prison sentence. Normally, such a comment would be met with a stern gaze, but this morning he is too pleased at his regained freedom to take umbrage with the Heartrender’s mistake.

“Where are the Council meeting?” He inquires instead.

The pair look at each other with matching frowns. “We could not say, Moi Soverenyi,” Gregori offers. “I think it’s one of the larger First Army Command tents, but as to which,” he shrugs, looking nervous. That is a bother and an inconvenience, he thinks. He could ask his mother, but as Baghra has been babysitting him for the last four days he suspects this will be a pointless endeavour.  Besides, after being cooped up with mother for such an extended period he needs a break if he has any hope of not throttling her.

He rubs his cold hands together in an attempt to warm them as he turns away from his guards. Well, as it’s clear he’s not needed here for the moment now would seem like a good time to go an investigate the Fold before his diary once again becomes the chaotic whirlwind he’s used too.

 


 

His precious girl finds him staring at the Fold, some distance from Kribirsk, completely perplexed. His creation has changed, his senses were right about that. It’s still has murky black eighty foot walls, but it seems… calmer somehow, less agitated. It also isn’t giving him a migraine being this close to it, which is a welcome surprise.

“I should have guessed this would be the first place you would come,” a familiar voice announces resignedly behind him. Swinging around he’s confronted by the sight of Alina dressed regally in her black and gold kefta, her eyes fixed on the monstrosity towering over them.

“Alinochka,” he calls, scooping her up in an embrace that feels oddly reminiscent of another moment months ago now. Such is his excitement and pleasure at seeing her that he cannot help but spin her around, setting her down only to kiss her deeply.

When he steps back, her cheeks are pink and she’s grinning widely at him, her hands in his.

“If this is the greeting I can expect for surprising you, Aleks, I’ll have to do it more often,” she says softly, her eyes warm with affection.

Gently he brushes a lock of hair, which has escaped her elaborate up do, behind her ear, his fingers caressing her cheek as he does so. “I look forward to it, sweetheart,” he tells her, his heart full to bursting at her nearness and the first privacy they’ve had since this debacle began.

“My Alina,” he murmurs, eyes burning with intensity. “My love.” His hands move of their volition to cup her jaw. This time it’s Alina who kisses him, her hands twining through his hair, as she holds him to her. Pressing their lips together over and over until he is dizzy from it.

He might have passed the whole day in such a pleasurable fashion, but sometime later there is a loud bang from the direction of the camp. The sudden racket surprises them, forcing them apart as long honed battled instincts erupt to the fore and he swings around, shadows bursting from him to wrap protectively around them both, even as sunlight rushes to do the same.

For a long moment they stand together, battle ready and tense, surrounded by a dome of gold shot through with shadow, until they have assured themselves of their continued safety. It’s a testament to how harrowing a time they have had recently that an unexpected noise could trigger such a reaction. Calmer now, Aleksander takes a deep breath to settle his shaken nerves. It’s then that realises the beauty that he and Alina have accidentally created. Even fading into nothingness, the swirling forces around them make for an arresting sight and one he knows he will treasure until the end of his days.

Next to him Alina sighs tiredly, her eyes pinched in a way that speaks to him of long days and longer nights. Putting the mystery of his creation to one side, he instead focusses his attention Alina, drawing her over to one of the large boulders that litter the side of the Unsea and settling her against his side.

“You’re exhausted,” he observes carefully. Studying her closely and noting all the signs he missed while he was recovering. “Will you not let me help?” He asks gently. “I may not know what you’ve be up to this past week, my heart, but I know how lonely and tiring it is to be the one everyone looks to; the one who has to have all the answers and plans.” Softly, he brushes a kiss against her hair. “You do not need to carry everything alone,” the not now is unspoken but he knows she will have heard it anyway and understood the offer he is making.

Alina groans and burrows her head into the crook of his shoulder and for a long moment stays there, still and quiet, until he’s almost convinced that she’s gone to sleep against him. Just as he’s preparing to lift her into a more comfortable position, though, she moves, pulling back so she can look at him.

“I had no idea that being you was so bloody exhausting,” she says with a nervous laugh, brushing more of her escaped hair out of her face. “I don’t really know where to start. How to explain.” She looks away, expression troubled, and then she begins her tale.   

He already knows some of what Alina went through with Zlatan, but now he hears it from her perspective. He listens as she tells him about the offer… the future his counterpart wanted her to accept and how angry it made her.  

She tells him about the terror she felt when he was captured and how she was certain she would lose him. She tells him about the trick she pulled on the skiff, removing the protection of her light to allow a volcra attack to give them a fighting chance of making it out alive. Something is off about her account, though, and it niggles at Aleksander as it feels almost like Alina is holding something back; which is at odds with how candid her explanation is.

“It worked,” he says to her with a small, proud smile. It had been a dangerous gamble, but it had worked and they had lived. So why was Alina looking so sad. “How many died?” He asks after a moment of careful study. Unlike him, his Alinochka still has her compassion. For them to have made it back alive the vast majority of those keeping them captive must have died, or else they would surely have killed their hostages rather than risk them returning to Kribirsk. While her actions were completely justified, they are likely weighing on her mind.

Alina meets his concerned gaze. “Everyone.” She says flatly, expression blank, the hands twisting in her lap the only outward sign of the distress he’s sure she’s feeling.

Oh, his poor darling. His heart clenches in sympathy for her. Aleks cannot remember the first time he was forced into a situation like this – it’s too long ago now and too many other atrocities have happened since – but he can remember the guilt that used to come after a battle.  

Gently he tugs her hands apart, holding them between his larger ones. “You had no choice, dear heart,” he tells her. “Don’t hold on to the guilt of doing what you had to because they forced your hand.”

Alina stills, her eyes puzzled as they search his. “I don’t mourn for them, Aleks,” she says with an edge to her voice. “They made their choice. They would have killed you – and everyone in the Second Army – because they believed themselves in the right. Do I feel sorry for their loved ones who will likely never know their fate; yes, of course I do. But do I regret what I did. No. My sorrow isn’t for them. It’s for Zoya.”

Oh. Well. That rather changes things. Startled, Aleksander draws back slightly. While he’s pleased that Alina isn’t breaking her heart over the sixty lives lost on the skiff, he will confess that he’s taken aback. What’s particularly surprising is her visible sadness for a woman who made her life a misery those first difficult weeks at the Little Palace – a woman who’s resentment and anger had nearly killed her.

“What?” the word accidentally slips out, his incredulity plain. Just to continue with the surprises, though, Alina laughs, her eyes sparkling with mirth at his obvious confusion; but then she explains.

Astonished, he listens as Alina tells him about Zoya’s part in the miserable affair. He’d not been surprised when he’d seen her Zlatan’s camp – had actually thought at the time that it would be just like the proud woman to go and work for the enemy upon being exiled.

He hears how the former Squaller had learned from her mistakes and, with Botkin’s assistance, sort atonement: ingratiating herself with Zlatan as a spy and reporting information back through his own spy network as to the man’s movements. He hears of the care the other woman showed her during her days as Zlatan’s captive. Finally, he learns the manner of her death; not killed by the volcra as he had assumed, but by his chief torturer as he went to kill Alina.

“She took the knife meant for me,” Alina says quietly, starting to tremble as the horror of that moment washes over her again. “No hesitation, no pause, she just shoved me out of the way. I incinerated her murderer, but by the time I got to her it was too late. She was gone.” She fiddles with the cuff of her kefta, twisting it one way and then another, staring at it as if it held the answers she’s looking for.

“Zoya gave her life for me, Aleks. We weren’t friends, but I…” Alina trails off, lifting her eyes so she can gaze at him searchingly, as if trying to will him to understand what she cannot find the words to explain.  

“Is this what you did not wish to tell me while I was recovering?” Aleks asks cautiously only too aware that the subject of Zoya has been a difficult one for them both, “Did you think this might harm my recovery in some way, for I can assure that it would not have.”

Alina though shakes her head, her expressive eyes full of something complicated he cannot understand. “No,” she says at last, “it wasn’t that.” She breaks their connection to look at the Fold.

“What do you see when you look out there?” She asks apropos of nothing, waving a hand in the direction of his mistake.

He glances at the Fold. “An abomination,” he responds, flatly. “My greatest mistake. The sin that continues to stain my soul.”

Alina nods sadly at his answer. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk about Zoya,” she explains. “Because it means we’re going to have to talk about that.” Her gaze returns to the swirling mass of shadow and death before them.  

Instead of reducing the swirling confusion Aleksander feels, this admission merely increases it, as he tries to puzzle out Alina’s cryptic answer. He frowns, studying the towering walls with growing anxiety. They’d never really talk about his past had they? He muses. Alina had told she knew who he really was and that she loved him anyway and he’d been so desperate not to open that particular pandora’s box that he’d taken what she’d said at face value; so desperately grateful for the slightest chance of absolution she’d offered that he’d been only too willing to follow Alina’s lead and let that discussion slide. Perhaps he should have-

“Haven’t you wondered how it is we got out of the Fold?” Alina asks quietly, disrupting his worrying and sending his thoughts screeching to a halt. “We were well beyond the fifth marker and all the Squallers were dead.”

For a long moment Aleksander freezes, his normally active mind unusually silent in shock. Because, no, he hasn’t wondered. He’d assumed that it was the rescue party who had fished them out of the Fold, but the way Alina phrased the question now makes him doubt that is what happened.

The young woman next to him takes a deep breath and he feels it in his bones that he will not like what she’s about to say.

“It was the Fold that saved us.”

No. He’s right. He doesn’t like this explanation; and he definitely doesn’t like the implications that come with it.”

“What do you mean, Alina?” He asks, his tone sharper than intended because of the anxiety and stress that are threatening to choke him.

Guilt immediately assails him for his cantankerous response and he shoots her a look of apology. He needn’t have worried though for Alina just looks back at him calmly, apparently blithely unconcerned with his less than exemplary display of manners.

“I mean,” she says firmly, “that the Fold saved us. I felt it months ago when I first went into it. So much grief and anger. The despair was…” she pauses, searching for a word to convey the enormity of what she’d felt, “overwhelming. The pain and desolation.” Here she breaks eye contact, a shiver running through her that has nothing to do with the freezing air that neither of them feels.

Her eyes lift to meet his and he’s startled by the intensity shining within them. “The Fold is alive, Aleks,” she states with complete and total surety. “It’s alive and it’s been screaming for five hundred years trying to get the world to pay attention.”

No. No. Saints no!! He cannot believe what Alina is saying, cannot wrap his mind around such a discordant thought. She must be wrong, mistaken somehow, and yet this is Alina; the one person in the universe he believes in and trusts absolutely. For her to be saying this then it must be...

“It’s alive and it’s aware, not as we are, but in a limited way. I… it felt my pain and grief aboard the skiff at seeing Zlatan’s goons beat you and it connected with me. We came up with the plan together. I would drop the bubble of light and it would direct the volcra to attack Zlatan and his men while I protected us. Afterwards…” when there was no one left, he realises with a hollow feeling, “it pushed our skiff back out beyond its borders so that could get back to Kribirsk.”

The thought of the Fold being sentient terrifies and appals him in almost equal measure. As if his creation wasn’t enough of a horror before it’s somehow managed to be worse than even his worst nightmares.

Revulsion rockets through him, overpowering and devastating, and with it comes the flood of guilt. Guilt at what he’s done and guilt at what he once planned to do with it. Never has he felt more of a monster than in this moment.

His thoughts are a swirling miasma of remorse, self-hatred and despair. But one thought raises above them all; the inescapable conclusion that all thoughts and feelings lead back to. The Fold must be destroyed. That it had somehow communicated with his precious girl is reviling enough, but that it had conspired with her, that it had acted to kill, is horrifying beyond words.  

It’s corrupting influence must be ended before it has a chance to stain Alina; to make her like it, like he had once been, like he would still be if not for her. Merzost is evil and there is always a price to be paid for meddling with it. It’s one of the foundation lessons taught to every Grisha in the Little Palace. Invoking Merzost is what had led to the creation of that abomination out there. He had dared to summon the dark power and the result had torn his country apart and claimed hundreds of thousands of lives.

“When do you think you’ll be strong enough to destroy the Fold, Alina?” He asks her, eyeing his hated creation venomously.  He wants it gone so strongly it turns his stomach to acid. He knows it won’t wipe the slate clean, but with it gone he will have saved Alina and done his duty to the world; and he might finally be able to move past the living reminder of his greatest sin and look forward to a new life, one with Alina and the family he hopes they will create together.

“I’m not going to.”

Four words. That’s all it takes, just four words, for his precious girl to turn his world upside down, inside out and give a shake just for good measure.

“What?” Afterwards, Aleksander could never say with any certainty whether he screeched or shouted at that moment. What by all the saints did Alina mean by that. She couldn’t be serious. She’s the Sun Summoner, the only one who can save them from the corruption of his creation and reunite their country. How can she say no. He must have misheard her. There is no other explanation.

“I’m not going to destroy the Fold, Aleks,” she says calmly, apparently not at all concerned with the panic and devastation her words are causing. Is he… he must be too late. That perversion of nature has already got it’s claws in his love, changing her, as it did to him so long ago.

It can’t be too late, he thinks with panic. “Alina, please. You’re the only hope of reuniting our country,” he pleads with her in the hope of reminding her of the very high stakes in this decision, of her sense of duty and the desire to help people that he knows drives her.

“No, love,” she says firmly, shaking her head, eyes glowing a warm gold. “It wouldn’t be right and it’s not what I’m here for.”

“What?!?” he cannot help but splutter. Not what she’s here for. This is the reason for the Sun Summoner. The reason he’s been waiting for one for half a millennium. The Sun Summoner is the only one who can undo what he did; who can reunite their country and give their people hope of a better future.

Alina’s gaze returns to the towering monstrosity, regarding it with a fondness that makes him feel sick. “It isn’t what you think it is,” she continues, waving a hand at the swirling black fog. “What everyone thinks it is and it’s got an important job to do before it’s no longer needed.”

Aleksander almost chokes on that thought. “Needed?” He almost howls. “That abomination isn’t needed, it’s the reason our country is divided. It’s a death trap slowly choking the life blood from Ravka. Alina, please, you must see reason,” he finishes by begging her, but she just shakes her head.

Aleksander watches Alina slide off their makeshift seat, her black kefta swishing out behind her in the breeze in a way that makes his breath catch with desire even as his stomach is a knot of anxiety and tension. Turning to face him she holds out a hand in mute request and what can he do but answer it.

The sensation of her warm skin against his own calms the thundering pace of his heart and reassures him that whatever is going on they are together and that is what matters.

“You didn’t create the Fold, Aleks,” Alina says with the sort of conviction that fells armies. “You might have been the instrument but Merzost was the composer. Think,” she urges him when she spots the disbelief written across his face. “What were you thinking, what did you wish for, when you tried to summon Merzost?”

For a moment Aleksander considers running away from the dual torments of remembrance and the hope of salvation. He has no desire to answer this question, even after all this time he can barely bring himself to speak of that dreadful day, but if there is one thing he believes in it’s her and she has asked this of him. “I wanted vengeance,” he says finally, but even this isn’t quite the truth: oh, vengeance was part of it, but there had also been a desperate desire to make them stop, to make the otkazat'syas see that their persecution of his people was wrong. He’d wanted justice.

“You wanted justice,” Alina says, in an uncanny echo of his thoughts. “For the genocide to stop and our people to be safe.” She takes his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm as she gazes into his eyes, sincerity radiating from her. “You’ve carried this burden for so long, my love, when it was never yours to shoulder. The Fold wasn’t a mistake, and it’s certainly not an aberration. Merzost heard you that day, and it acted through you to answer the call of its people. The Fold was created as a lesson - one that hasn’t been heeded.”

“But…” he begins only to stop as the words stick in his throat. He wants to shout that this isn’t possible, that this defies everything he has come to understand about the Small Science, everything he has ever concluded about the Fold, everything he has ever been taught about Merzost.

He can still vividly recall his mother’s lessons to him as a child about the dangers of it; how it is the dark side of creation. A powerful, unwieldly force that takes from those foolish enough to summon it, that perverts their desire or aim, often leaving them little better than a living husk. He remembers her whispered stories of his grandfather, the legendary Bone Smith, who is said to have dabbled in Merzost and been turned mad from the experience.

And with these comes the memory of that day; of the volcanic fury and desperation he’d drowned beneath at finding Luda’s ravaged body, at seeing the massacre of his people, at the knowledge of what that same army was setting out to do.

He’d wanted to create an army of his own to match that of the Tsar’s. He’d wanted vengeance and justice and to protect the enclave that housed his sick mother and what had been left of their people. In that moment where his sanity had teetered on the precipice he’d reached out for the elemental force he’d been taught to fear; desperation driving his actions.

“What do you mean Merzost answered my call? It’s not a living thing, Alina. Merzost is a dark art, a…” but Alina interrupts him, shaking her head forcefully as she interjects: “No, it’s not, Aleks. It’s not that all.”

The story that pours from Alina is truly astonishing as she tells him of the Court of Night and Day. A tale of legendary creatures who share their powers over shadows and light, of the corruption and greed which destroyed them and of where their gifts came from.

“Merzost created us, Aleks,” Alina continues, eyes gleaming like miniature suns. “Our people. It’s not a dark tool, the opposite of our powers as we’re taught, but an entity far greater than us. We came from Merzost, we’re its children, and when it felt your pain and saw the extermination of its creations it acted through you.”

But that’s impossible… inconceivable. It means overturning everything he’s ever known about their powers and origins, and yet Alina is convinced; certain and confident in everything she’s saying. Once again, she proves how well she knows him as without a word passing between them she sets out to address his doubts.

“What happened after the Fold came into being?” Alina asks with the sort of calm self-assurance that makes him suspect she is leading him down a trap to prove a point.

The answer is quite a lot, really. It was half a millennia ago, after all, much has happened since then. He hums as he orders his thoughts, trying to recall the order of things.

The immediate reaction to the Fold’s creation had been panic across Ravka. The Tsar had hastily recalled those of his forces that hadn’t been turned into murderous, flying beasts, and put a hefty bounty on his head. While inconvenient for him personally, this did have benefits for the remaining Grisha, as the Tsar called off his genocide in favour of pouring all his resources into finding the Black Heretic.

From there things had slowly but incrementally improved – especially once it was discovered that only Grisha were able to travel across the Unsea dividing the two halves of their country. That discovery had come about nearly a decade after it had been called into being and it had marked a vital sea change in their history. Grisha were still hated and feared, but now that they had become useful in some capacity the desire to kill them on sight had lessened. Slowly, over the next four centuries, he’d worked both on the front lines and behind the scenes to shore up their people’s position, to turn hatred into apathy and tolerance. To carve a space for them in Ravka that they could call home; a space where they would be safe and looked after.

“Oooh,” he breathes as understanding hits him in the face with a crow bar and a frustrated expression. ‘Oh, indeed. He’s been a blind idiot, hasn’t he,’ he thinks as he watches the delighted smile that bursts across Alina’s face as she realises that at last he gets it; gets what she’s been trying to tell him.

Well, that changes things, doesn’t it.

 


 

Zoya’s funeral is later that day. Perhaps echoing Alina’s emotions, the crisp air and bright sunlight of the morning have given way to overcast skies that threaten more snow and freezing fog that seeps into the bones of any soul unlucky enough to be out in it.

It’s a sombre affair, and one that raises complicated emotions in Alek’s heart. This was the woman who he had mentored and guided. The woman who had betrayed him and the founding principles he had sought to instil in each of his Grisha out of jealousy; viciously attacking Alina, the one he loves, and nearly killing her. But she also redeemed herself - ultimately, when it mattered most Zoya had come through, protecting Alina even at the cost of her own life - and for that he can only be thankful.

And he’s not the only one with conflicted feelings either. Most of the senior Grisha present are unsure how to react. Zoya wasn’t known for her ability to make friends, and it shows in the unrest and disquieted glances. It’s nothing like the final farewell shown for Marie, where the mourners had been united by their shared grief and their anger at her murder.

Marie, though an average student, had been well liked, with a wide circle of friends. Zoya, in contrast, was known for her standoffishness, her exacting standards and a prickly nature that did little to endear her to her colleagues and peers. She’d been an exemplary solider and a formidably talented Squaller, but as a person she’d often been found wanting.  

The ceremony itself is blessedly short and within ten minutes the pyre is lit and all that’s left is the final prayer.

Zoya alone of those who lost their lives on the skiff is accorded the respect of a proper Grisha burial. The others who died are to be interred in a mass grace. A fitting end for traitors. There had been some talk as to whether the bodies should be returned to Novokribirsk so that they could be claimed by their families, but the logistics made that impossible. Alina is still recovering from her stunt and The Fold is apparently impassable without the Sun Summoner, at least according to Alinochka; and he has no reason to doubt her assurance.

It may have been mid-winter, but nature isn’t kind to the dead, and it would only be a matter of days before the corpses posed a health hazard to the camp, bringing disease and sickness as they decompose. No, with no certainty as to when Alina would be well enough to make another crossing, burying the traitors is the best option available.

It doesn’t make the job any more palatable though and there are those who think the traitors’ remains should be thrown into the Fold to be defiled by the volcra.

Alina herself is radiant in her black and gold kefta. She’s changed since that day on the skiff – or maybe evolved is more appropriate, like a butterfly who has finally shed its protective cocoon to show the world its stunning colours. She’s brimming now with a natural and hard won authority, a confidence and resolution he has only caught glimpses of before.

She leads the proceedings, using sun light to thaw the frozen ground. Under her power the earth turns easily beneath the spades and the grave is dug and refilled within short order; removing from sight and thought those who had nearly destroyed everything he had worked so long for.

Zlatan’s torn and shredded body alone is kept to one side, later that day it will be encased in a special coffin David and the other Fabrikators have been working hard to create. There is a large part of Aleksander that resents the special treatment accorded to this enemy. Zlatan, in his eyes, deserves to lie in this common grave, forever to be unknown and separated from his beloved West Ravka. Whatever his personal feeling, though, he can see the strategic sense in Alina’s decision. The Tsar will want proof that the rebellion has been dealt with – and there is little evidence more impactful or potent than being able to see the dead body of your enemy with your own eyes. There will also be the question of dealing with West Ravka at some point, and likewise his forces there will almost certainly demand proof before laying down arms.

Zlatan is popular there; popular and loved. It’s a potent combination and could well spell trouble when the time comes for reunification if not handled correctly. It will be important to establish not only an effective power base but to eradicate any lingering desire to carry on their former General’s plan for seceding. Their late leader’s body will be an effective deterrent for the latter if not the former; but there they will have the combined might his and Alina’s powers to contend with.

Once the dreary business of the day is finished, there is a light meal with music and dancing in the largest of the Command tents for the senior officers of both First and Second Army. It’s a good way to end what has undoubtedly been a difficult day for everyone. Outside, Aleksander can hear the distant sounds of what must be a raucous party coming from the direction of where the junior ranks are enjoying their own celebration. It’s a fitting, well timed and much needed release for everyone – even with the poor quality of the food and the questionable company – and he delights in seeing the happy smiles and joyful antics of his Grisha as they mingle with men and women who before this would not have given them the time of day.

It's a coming together, a healing of a rift that’s been present so long he has ceased questioning it. This unity is Alina’s doing he knows with a certainty that leaves him breathless with pride.

When his mother told him that Alina had been whipping the otkazat'syas into shape, she hadn’t been joking. The less useless Lantsov is in awe of her, and so are the senior staff of both First and Second armies. In those few days he’d been unconscious she’d had to fight to establish her position and she’d done it with such aplomb that even the normally Grisha hating First Army officers had fallen into line and followed her orders.

Somehow – and he has no idea how – she’d not just got the two armies to cooperate but to unite; becoming something greater than their individual parts. The men and women dancing, drinking and singing before him were no longer divided into First or Second Army – they were one. One Army, one unit. The ‘People’s Army’ Alina tells him when she joins him in his old habit of crowd watching, slipping an arm through his and leaning her head of his shoulder.

Their peaceful moment is not to last, though, as the one his mother has dubbed the ‘pretty princeling’ spots them and comes over to request a dance. For a moment he considers making a snide comment about how Nikolai isn’t his type, but one glance at the grinning woman next to him makes him reconsider. Alina is his, heart and soul, he knows this. Let the prince have this dance, he will have the greater prize: Alina by his side for eternity.

“You’ve grown, boy,” his mother comments from where she materialises next to him. The suddenness of her speech makes him jump, the substandard wine pilfered from First Army stores sloshing over the rim of his glass and onto his hand. With a curse he mops up the spillage before turning to his own personal torment and saluting her with his now significantly emptier glass. “Thank you, mother,” he comments, dryly. “Although I think you might need to get your eyesight checked. I’ve been an adult now for over five centuries.”

Baghra raises a disapproving eyebrow at the sass and hefts her omnipresent walking stick with ominous intent. “Bah, that’s not what I meant and you know it, facetious child,” the stick glints warningly in the low light as she digs it into the ground. Her expression, though, is thoughtful rather than annoyed.

“You’ve grown as a person, Sasha,” she tells him in a tone no one would consider maternal. “The you before would never have willingly, freely and happily let our girl out there dance with the prettier princeling. You’d have been too eaten up with jealously and fear of losing her. Even a few months ago you would have suffocated Alina in an attempt to hold on to her. You’ve changed; and for the better.”

“Who’s to say I don’t still feel all those things?” Aleks quips in an attempt at distracting his bloodhound like parent, unsettled by both her observation and the fact that she’s actually saying it.

His mother’s glare ratchets up a notch, but for once the wretched stick remains stationary. “Don’t be absurd, boy, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Unusually contrite, Aleksander looks down, studying his mother’s weapon of choice as if it has all the answers in the universe. “I’m happy,” he says simply, uncertain how to explain or convey the complex morass of emotions bubbling away in his chest that makes him feel like his heart is ready to burst with the force of them.

Baghra’s expression softens, her black eyes swirling with shadows. She pats his cheek in a tender, strangely maternal gesture. “I know.”

“Your father would be proud of you. And he would be proud of your choice.” With that, Baghra vanishes back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she appeared, leaving behind her a gaping, astonished son.

 


 

With the celebrations going on until the early hours of the morning, it’s no surprise to Aleksander that the camp is slow and sluggish come day break. In the dawn mists, officers stumble to and fro readying themselves for the day. Fires are list, kettles set to boil and around him continues the hum of army life that has become so ingrained to him.

Ivan finds him first, standing once more on the dry dock, staring at the Fold with new eyes. Not his fault. Not his creation. The thoughts run through his mind on repeat. A lesson that must be learnt, Alinochka had called it. Not a monstrosity but a lesson; one the people of Ravka had failed to heed.

“Moi Soverenyi,” the Heartrender salutes him with typical crispness.

“Ivan.”

Ivan’s expression shifts, perplexed. He has finally tracked down the General in the place he goes to brood and yet, for the first time in Ivan’s considerable experience, he is not brooding. Thoughtful, yes. Contemplative, definitely. But brooding, no. His heart is calm, strong and settled in a way it has never been, as if a great weight has been lifted from his beloved leader.

The change prompts him to ask a question he would usually never dare to voice. “Are you well, Moi Soverenyi?”

Aleksander looks at his Second with a charming, lopsided grin, “Never better,” he says, clasping Ivan on the shoulder. “Am I wanted?”

 “Aye, General. There is a meeting in the Command tent.” Ivan delivers his message with his usual textbook efficiency, noting as he does so the way the lines of tension that have carved themselves into his leader’s brow seem to have eased overnight and the relaxed set to his jaw. Whatever has changed is evidently a good thing, he realises. General Kirigan is not just content, he’s happy. Properly, truly happy. It’s almost enough to make him smile.

“Very good, Ivan,” the General replies, “lead the way.”

 


 

The meeting in question is taking place in the Second Army Command tent. The black fabric walls are a stark contrast the uniform grey-green of normal army tents. It’s isn’t the largest of the options available, but it certainly the most imposing. The reason for this being the venue of choice, however, quickly becomes clear when he spots Alina and the senior officers from both armies clustered around the large map table that dominates the centre of the space. First Army Commander are only equipped with local maps and those covering West Ravka.

There is, no doubt, some clever piece of otkazat'sya logic to this, but Aleks has never understood what that might be. It seems short sighted and foolish, but then that pretty much sums up those in charge of the First Army.

There is the usual round of salutes and bows upon his entrance, which he returns as a mark of respect to their new allies, and notes with interest that every battalion and section is represented in this tent. The set up is quite unlike how the First Army is usually run, more reminiscent of the senior officer meetings he has with his Grisha, and yet different at the same time.

Alina is stood along one side of the map table, studying it carefully. Flanking her on her right side are Genya and Fedyor while on the left stand Lantsov, the Apparat, and the overly-chatty Major David Mertzov of the Ninth Imperial Infantry. The rest of the space is filled with an assortment of high ranking Grisha and First Army.

With a sharp salute, Ivan takes his place opposite Fedyor in one of the two open spots left, leaving the one facing Alina vacant. It has long been the rule in Command meetings that the closer you are to the table the more important you are. The position left for him is equal to Alina’s, and it has clearly been saved for him – a painstakingly obvious message for all those present as to the joint powers running the show.

“General Kirigan,” Alina greets him with a warm smile and a respectful tilt of her head, as one General would when acknowledging another.

It’s another carefully choreographed display, one planned out on the banks of the Unsea. He knows of the  schemes in motion, knows what she intends to do this day, and he cannot help but relish knowing what will unfold.

“General Starkov,” he replies, copying her gesture and smile.

As planned, it’s Alina who calls the meeting to order and opens the agenda; even though, strictly speaking, it should be the Prince who does so as the highest ranking person present. It’s a demonstration of power and authority, reinforcing her position.

“Welcome, everyone,” she starts, in a tone that effortlessly carries across the space. There is complete silence, her audience rapt with attention.  “Now that our council is complete,” here her golden eyes cut to his, burning with intensity, “ we can finalise our plans.”

So it begins. The Beginning of the end.

Notes:

I can't believe we've reached chapter 30. Finally, we're on the home straight and the finish line is in sight. I have to confess that this was one of my favourite chapters to write. What did everyone think of big reveal with the Fold?

As ever, I'd love to hear what you lovely readers think, so please drop a review - they make my day :).

Only two chapters left and then the epilogue.

Next up: To Crown a Queen
Summary: Plans are in motion; plans which will see the old world overturned and remade a new. Plans which start with a stag and will end in the ruination of the Lantsov dynasty.

Chapter 31: To Crown a Queen

Summary:

Plans are in motion; plans which will see the old world overturned and remade a new. Plans which start with a stag and will end in the ruination of the Lantsov dynasty.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The coup begins in earnest on a frost bitten Tuesday morning three days later.

It starts in the same way as most coup d'état do: with a grievance and a plan.

Alina’s grievance is simple: the Lantsov is line is rotten to the core (something almost everyone in Ravka is in agreement on) and leading the country to devastation and destruction (also something most people agree on). She wants them gone and, surprisingly, so does the majority of the First Army - who, it appears, are fed up with being used as poorly provisioned cannon fodder in his majesty’s endless quest for military glory.   

Her plan is less simple: depose the Tsar, unite their country, make their borders safe, and give Grisha equal rights to the otkazat'sya. She wants their people not just protected, but loved. She wants them to be a part of Ravka; not just a grudgingly accepted bolt on, tolerated because of their perceived usefulness. She wants the two peoples to be united under one Ravka.

It’s an ambitious goal and one fraught with danger. Although Nikolai seems on board with their rebellion -  and is certainly an enthusiastic participant in the planning meetings -  they cannot expect the other three members of his family to be so amenable. The Tsar had told him once, many years ago now, that he would see Ravka burn to the ground before he relinquished one iota of his power. It was one of the rare times Aleksander had taken the corpulent idiot at his word; it would be completely in keeping with both the man’s stupidity and the narcissism so prevalent in his bloodline to wreck the world if it meant him retaining his position for even one more hour. It simply wouldn’t occur to him that he could – and should – do otherwise. Which made him dangerous. There is little Aleksander would put past the royal moron when it came to keeping the throne of Ravka.

At the end of the day, though, the Tsar is only one man. The real danger to Alina and her plan is from those who support him.

No matter how terrible the Tsar is as a ruler, there will be some of his Generals and lords who will fight to keep him alive and on the throne, who will never accept the reforms Alina plans to make. His darling intends to change the social order of their country, starting with the Lantsov’s before making her way through the aristocracy and judiciary to create a fairer, safer and more prosperous country for all of her citizens; not just those who have the luck to born into wealth and power that they then abuse with impunity to avoid being punished for their crimes.

This is where the Apparat will be essential. The priest has been carefully laying the groundwork for the last three months securing Alina’s place in the affections of the local populous and reinforcing her position as a living Saint.

It won’t be enough to protect her from a stray bullet should officers loyal to the crown seek to fight back, but it will hopefully make the transition of power that much easier with the residents of Ravka.  

The key will be to have all the players in place before the Tsar and his loyalists know what’s coming and have time to prepare for it.   

Alina wants to change the world.

And Aleksander is going to help her do it.

 


 

The first part of the plan is to find his grandfather’s mythical stag. Personally, he suspects this little detour will be nothing but a badly timed wild goose chase, especially now that Alina no longer needs such a powerful amplifier for destroying the Fold.

His Grandfather had been nine parts mad by the end of his life and no one – Oretsev aside - has seen hide nor hair of the blasted thing in centuries of looking. It’s not that he doesn’t believe the tracker exactly, more that after over half a millennia of existence he has developed a very healthy amount of cynicism with regard to fantastic tales. If he had a penny every time he had a report about it or some other legendary creature that turned out to be nothing more than fancy brought on by fear, starvation or a twist of the mind he would be richer than the Tsar.

There is also, he admits to himself, a fair amount of guilt that curdles his stomach at the thought of purposely hunting for the very thing he had once planned to use to subdue and control the Sun Summoner. Such a thought it repugnant to him now, but the guilt lives on. If the stag does not exist then somehow it feels like the sin of his previous plans is lessened as the option never existed. If it does though… it will mean facing a reckoning that his mother would no doubt say has been a long time in coming. Alina knows what he had once planned, knows the whole of it and says she forgives him, but there is a large part of him that is afraid that will change if they find what she is searching for and is confronted by the reality of what might have been had they not met when she was a child.

It's a disquieting, nebulous sort of worry that eats at him, disturbing his nights and plaguing his days as preparations for their departure continue apace.

Still, Alina is so certain about this, so sure that not only that the stag exists but that it holds the answer to their powers - to who they really are - that he cannot deny her even when he fears it will be folly. And hadn’t that been a fun meeting to be part of. Aleksander had made many decisions over the years with little or sketchy intelligence, but this is the first time he’s made them on the basis of dreams.

It’s a hard sell, particularly with the otkazat'sya and the less converted. Alina though is indefatigable and relentless in her defence. She listens to all the points, to all the naysaying, to all the advice, before calmly restating her original plan: the stag is essential, so she will head towards the wilds of Tsibeya with a small party while the majority of her army will make their way towards Os Alta where they will wait for Alina to return before confronting the Tsar.

In this she has a surprising ally in both Oretsev – although that might be more hormone related than clear, strategic thinking – and the Apparat, who appears to be in cahoots with his mother to see who can give him a vicarious heart attack the fastest.

He’s never really trusted the Apparat – after all, how far can you really trust a man with ‘rat’ in his title – but, if Alina is to be believed, he has been one of her most steadfast allies. Helping her with her Vasily problem, running interference in the Tsar and Tsarina’s plans, and generally keeping her safe from the machinations of the Imperial Palace.

The man is a zealot, of that Aleksander has no illusions. He’s devout to the point of near mania and completely committed to the cause. It’s something that would alarm him more if the man wasn’t such a obvious idiot. What does worry him, however, is the rapid growth of a new religious movement calling themselves the Soldat Sol and the man’s role within it.

As far as he’s aware, the Soldat Sol are a legend - a myth told to frighten children before bed. He recalled reading about them many years ago. A sun cult that worshipped some strange gods, who lived in hiding waiting for their time to come again. If this is the same group then they could be in greater trouble than he realises. He will not allow Alina to be used as a pawn in some cultist’s game.

Cults, in his considerable experience, are often a double edged sword that can be more dangerous to the object of their devotion than useful. Already in the few days he’s been awake he’s had to mediate no less than eight altercations between members of this group and Alina’s normal guard.

Apparently, the four Heartrenders assigned to her and living in a camp surrounded by other Grisha is insufficient protection. Oh, no. The Soldat Sol want a contingent of their own to take over her security, and it’s not Alina alone that they seem to be fixated on as he too has suddenly developed human shadows.

Needless to say, Aleksander had been neither impressed nor pleased when this latest issue had been brought to his attention by his increasingly agitated Second; who, in addition to having run out of his special blend once again, was also the one tasked with dealing with this latest otkazat'sya madness.

Ivan was livid; although whether it because of the casual disregard for his orders by these Soldat Sol or because of the implied insult that a whole camp of highly trained Grisha were somehow insufficient to protect their much loved leaders, Aleksander couldn’t say and didn’t dare ask. He’d seen battle hardened soldiers actually running in the opposite direction the previous day when they spotted his Second approaching, and even the usually irreverent Fedyor is showing an unusual degree of circumspection around his partner.

Still, Aleksander could have ignored this latest otkazat'sya lunacy if not for his beloved apparently joining their ranks. Alina has never been someone who suffers fools gladly or easily, so it surprises him when he discovers that not only has she been speaking regularly with the leader of the lunatics – the Apparat – on a regular basis, but that she’s also gone so far as to actually attend meetings of the Soldat Sol. Meetings where the Heartrenders assigned to her protection have been made to wait outside.

It's enough to make his blood run cold with dread. They’ve only just survived one near death encounter with a zealot, is it really too much to ask that Alina gives him a few weeks to catch his breath and celebrate their continued survival before throwing herself once more out of the frying pan and into the fire?

Apparently so, is the answer.

Things come to a head as they usually do, at the worst possible time.

It’s a logistical nightmare trying to move this number of men, munitions and provisions in the middle of winter – as Ivan makes certain to remind him at least four times a day – and the last thing he needs with the date of their departure looming ever closer is another distraction while he attempts to sort out the minutia that will make their expedition possible. Which, of course, is exactly what happens.

The distraction comes in the form of an irate Ivan barrelling into his tent before his third cup of coffee the day before he, Alina and their entourage are planning to leave on Alina’s wild-stag chase.

The plan had been for the travel party to just be him, Alina and a small selection of Grisha, including Ivan, Fedyor, Botkin and Genya. To this his mother had already throne a spanner in the works by inviting herself, but then he’d half expected that to happen and so was not unduly put out. The idea was a smaller group could travel faster than a larger one, and would be more likely to go unnoticed.  

The problem is the Soldat Sol, having learnt of the plans from a loose lipped Grisha, had decided to a throw a tantrum over being excluded from what they saw as their saint’s mission. This issue had been reported to Genya, who had done the sensible thing of bringing it to the notice of his Second; and Ivan had immediately decided that the correct tactical decision – for him, anyway – was to make this mess his General’s to sort out.

Needless to say, Aleksander had not been best pleased at the reason for the interruption – especially when shortly after calming his Second down, Alina had arrived with the Apparat in tow.

“Who or what are the Soldat Sol?” he asks, impatience creeping into this tone as he tries to untangle this mess and work out why he should upend his carefully laid travel plans to include them. He feels wrung out after the morning he’s had and the discovery that Alina knows more about this than he does is merely the icing on the cake.

The Apparat watches him with the expression of a man who knows exactly what the majority of people think of his beliefs and has long since ceased to care. Calmly, the man produces a small red book and bids him to read the chapter that is marked. It’s a familiar story, one Aleksander knows well from stints in the children’s wing at the Little Palace, about the making of Ravka.

It doesn’t take long to read the childish fable. Once finished he glances up at his rapt audience in bemusement. What has a child’s tale got to do with the Soldat Sol. The Apparat smiles at him, eyes alight with a fervour that immediately sets Aleksander’s nerves on edge as he explains the significance of the book both to history and to the present.   

“The Soldat Sol are the Sun Queen’s guard. Tasked with protecting the royal line through the centuries until their gifts were reborn.” He says in his strange, soft voice.

“You think Alina is this mythical Sun Queen?” Aleks can’t help but ask incredulously, torn between disbelief and derisive amusement at such fancy. He tosses the children’s book carelessly on the table in disgust. The man must think he is a complete idiot to buy such a load of nonsense.  

The Apparat, instead of becoming defensive as Aleksander expects, stays calm in the face of his outright scepticism and borderline rudeness. “We know it. The Lore has been passed down through my family for generations, General, as it has with all the families who can trace their roots back to the original Soldat Sol.” He says with the serenity of one who knows he is right. “Though we are the Sun Queen’s guard, it is not just she we are sworn to protect. We have watched and guarded you, your grace, since we realised who you and your mother were some fifty years ago.”

Aleksander swallows hard, shock making his brain feel like it is suddenly made of treacle. They know. This madman and his bunch of nutters know the secret he and his mother have spent centuries concealing.

“What-“ he croaks hoarsely, the stops, uncertain what answer he is seeking.

The Apparat smiles. “That story,” he gestures at the abandoned book, “is our history. It is true that it has been simplified, and yes, bits have been changed through the various editions, but the core of the story is a historical account of our ancestors and the actions which formed the Ravka we know today. My ancestors were once honoured enough to be part of the Court of Night and Day. They were there the day the traitors took the thrones and killed the Sun Queen and Night King. Though they could not save their gods, they could carry out the Queen’s last order: to find their daughters and take them to safety. My ancestors were amongst the loyalists that did as the Queen asked. The group smuggled the twins out to safety, where they were then separated and hidden in different countries, each with their own secret guard sworn to watch over them. The plan worked. The children grew up safe in their anonymity and, when they were old enough, they too married and began families. Their children prospered and had children of their own, and so it went through the centuries, though none of them manifested the gifts of their parents. There was a time when we began to despair and thought the royal line might never re-emerge. By then, you see, the bloodlines had grown too large and fragmented for us to keep track of all the descendants, and we feared we had failed in our duty. But then, quite by chance, one of our brother’s met Ilya Morozova, and learned of his wife’s lineage and the strange power his eldest daughter had been born with. Our hope was renewed. For over a hundred years we kept watch over his daughter, protecting her from those who wished to harm her for her gift – especially after the murder of her father - but then she disappeared and we feared the worst. When news spread of a powerful male shadow summoner we knew that she had lived and had a child. We continued to search for both mother and her son for many years, though they moved often and we were always several steps behind. We finally found you again, your grace, fifty years ago, and have kept watch ever since.”

It's a shocking story and one Aleksander finds difficult to believe. Could it really be true? It’s a fantastic tale, worthy of a bard’s song. That the Apparat has correctly identified his grandfather is a point in his favour, but still? Gods and magic? What nonsense. He’s spent his life devoted to the small science, to demystifying his people’s powers and trying to educate people away from superstitious claptrap about magic, yet if what the Apparat says is true than he’s been wrong for centuries. It’s a difficult concept to swallow and leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

No, he decides, after a moment’s thought. He will not believe it. Not without proof. One man’s word – especially that of a cult leader – will not convince him to abandon half a millennia of belief just on his say so.

He glowers at the mountain of paperwork still sat on his desk awaiting his attention, vexation mounting. This is NOT how he had intended to spend his morning. Still, if he wishes to get back to it and finish in time to spend the evening meal with Alina then this situation needs to be resolved sooner over later.

“Forgive me,” he starts, tone cold, “It’s an interesting story, that I grant you, but I fail to see how it affects our travel plans. Alina and I have already chosen the guard that will accompany us to Tsibeya.”

The Apparat sighs, his cheeks puffing out in the first sign of irritation, much to Aleksander’s amusement.

Taking a deep breath, the priest explains: “We believe that your grandfather found the relics long since believed lost belonging to the true King and Queen, and that he concealed them within the creation that came to be known as Morozova’s Stag. In addition to performing our duty as the Sun Queen’s loyal soldiers, if the stag is found it is of the upmost importance that we are represented in the momentous occasion.”

“Oh, very well than,” Aleksander concedes grumpily. “A small contingent of your most trusted members may join us, and by small I mean small. No more than six.”

“Six?” The priest almost screeches. His dismay only too clear.

Alina nods in agreement, her smile softening the Apparat’s clearly ruffled feathers, as she adds her piece. “We need to travel light and fast. With the bulk of the army also due to move, there will be a shortage of horses. We have twenty in our stables, fourteen of them are already accounted for with the trackers and guards already chosen. That is the reason why General Kirigan and I cannot allow more of your brotherhood to join us.”

At this the Apparat bows low with a murmured, “as you wish, Sankta.” In a flurry of robes and perfume, the priest leaves as quickly as he arrived. It’s just a shame that he takes Aleksander’s piece of mind with him.  

Once alone with Alina, Aleksander feels the tension draining out of him.

You can’t tell me you believe this nonsense, Alina? Alexander asks, his disbelief only too clear. “It’s a fairytale told to children to explain the creation of our country; and don’t get me started on the stag. My grandfather was nine parts mad when he wrote those diaries. Mother will confirm it.”

Alina takes his hand, pressing it tenderly between her own. “I don’t think they were gods, my love, but I do think there was some truth to the story.” She nods at the book, “I think that once, over a thousand years ago there were two powerful summoners, just like us, and they were our ancestors. Something happened to them, something terrible which made them send their children into hiding under the protection of their friends. The story might have been twisted through the years, but the barebones are right. And whether it’s a mystical crown belonging to former gods or not, I do think your grandfather hid something of importance in his creation; something he wanted your mother and her descendants to find.”

 Her words are sensible but still he feels the same unease as before. His disquiet must be visible for Alina presses a warm kiss to his lips, her smile radiant as she tells him that whatever the truth of the Apparat’s beliefs, she knows they will come through this together, for they will not let each other fall. It’s a promise he holds on to as he draws her into his lap for another kiss.

The paperwork has waited this long, it can wait a while longer.

 


 

They depart at dawn the next morning.

His mother is a demon on a horse. Even more terror inspiring because of the whip, and Aleksander makes sure that he is as far away  as is practicable on their journey.

The journey north is never an easy one, but it’s made even more difficult and perilous by trying to do it in mid-winter. They take the quickest and easiest of the routes north and travel along the Vy for the most part, only leaving it after Balakirev as they head towards Ryvost and the far north-east of their country.  

The bulk of the First Army has been left behind at Kribirsk to prepare for war under the control of Major Mertzov and the less useless Lantsov. Their orders are to secure the army encampment before travelling to Os Alta, where they will then await the return of Alina’s expeditionary force. If they survive their adventure, that is.   

To venture into the wilds of Tsibeya in the depths of winter is almost suicidal. The snow drifts that far north are known to reach over seven feet tall, which makes travelling in a large group a logistical nightmare with the temperature seldom venturing far from -10. Add to that the very real risk of the being caught in one of the frequent blizzards and you have a nightmare in white that Aleksander is far from looking forwards to experiencing in person.  

 


 

Finding Morozova’s Stag is far easier in theory than in practice, and it takes them a week of slogging through deep snow as they battle up and down the Tsibeyan mountains before they find any evidence that the blasted creature might be real after all. Unsurprisingly, it is Oretsev’s team of miscreants who spot the faintest of tracks leading away from the valley path they have been following to go deep into the thick forest that shrouds the largest mountain in the Tsibeyan range.

This is not a route Aleks would take in any other circumstances. After centuries of Druskelle attacks, he has learnt to be wary of wooded areas that are the Fjerdan’s favourite locations to lie in wait, especially this close to Fjerda. To make matters worse, they are quite literally miles from nowhere in this remote corner of their country. Even if their allies somehow knew they needed help the likelihood that they could find them in this white wasteland is beyond remote. In fact, the odds are so low that it’s more likely the Apparat’s ridiculous story is true that he is this mythical King of Night than the probability they could be rescued in time if they run into trouble.

It's not a comforting thought, and one he can’t help but brood over during the miles and miles of quiet trekking.

The further they venture into the dense wood the more his anxiety increases, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling with tension and disquiet. In this he is not alone. Alina is nervous too, her eyes constantly shifting from shadow to shadow, as if she expects an ambush at any moment. The rest of the group fair little better. There are enough legends about this area to make even the most well trained soldier nervous and uncomfortable. Tales of Baba Yaga and her kin are common fireside stories, often told with exaggeratedly gruesome details to try and frighten new recruits in Kribirsk, but here they take on a darker edge as this is the region from which the tales originated. Here, in this isolated winter landscape, he can see why travellers came to believe it was haunted by despicable things. It's a desolate place. Eerie and unsettling. The rocky ground is difficult to traverse and the weather brutal and mercurial. It can be sunny one minute and the next a snow storm has engulfed you.  It doesn’t help that the company is exhausted and half frozen from slogging through snow. It makes people bad tempered and increasingly short with one another.

This far north it is colder than in Os Alta and even for a Ravkan winter the hours of daylight seem shorter, the dark drawing in faster and sooner than expected after only a few hours of weak, wintery light that barely begins to warm them before it is gone again. In such conditions, the mind plays tricks on the unsuspecting and it is only too easy for a branch to become a ghastly hand reaching out of the dark.

Normally, he would tell those under his command to buck up and not be so stupid, that they are children’s stories and nothing more. Despite what the Fjerdan’s believe, no witches or hags had been found in Ravka for centuries beyond count. However, on this occasion, seeing as he and Alina have marched them all the way to this frozen tundra in order to find a mythical white stag said to give the one who can capture it amazing powers, Aleks suspects he wouldn’t find much success with his usual approach.

The best he can do is to ignore the furtive whispers and undercurrent of suspicion that has sunk its teeth into his fellow travellers.  Acknowledging it will likely do more harm than good, especially as there’s his mother to consider.

Little though he likes to admit - or in truth even think about it, Baghra is old, and it’s starting to show. Though she’s summoned more since Alina entered their lives, the long years she spent only using her powers enough to keep her alive have taken their toll. There are new lines around her eyes and brow, her hair greyer and even that vital, barely restrained, energy he has for so long associated with his mother is somehow lesser, muted.

She looks old and tired; and little though the contrary woman will admit it, slogging through knee deep snow in freezing temperatures cannot be helping. It’s clear that this journey is taking a toll on her; he just has to hope that it’s not for nothing.

The only bright side is Alina. His darling girl has truly come into her own and it is a wonder for Aleks to watch her effortlessly command the disparate group who have escorted them here. Otkazat'sya or Grisha, it makes no difference. She moves seamlessly between them, gently thawing the long held distrust clung to by both sides and uniting them by showing their similarities. Never in all his plans over the centuries had Aleksander dreamed of seeing genuine friendships form between his Grisha and the otkazat'sya soldiers. The most he had hoped for was to carve out a place for them in Ravka where their people could be safe. Seeing this change though gives him hope like he has never known before. Hope for a future where Grisha are safe in Ravka. Hope for a future where Grisha and otkazat'syas treat each other as equals. Hope that the atrocities he has witnessed in the past may soon be finally put behind them.

It's a heady thing, hope. It buoys him even as the relentless cold bites at his cheeks and extremities, urging him to keep on moving, to hold true to their purpose..

 


 

It’s a further two days of monotonous drudgery before the trackers, who are fanned out leading the party through the dense undergrowth, suddenly signal for everyone to stop.

For a long, breathless moment there is only the preternatural silence of the frozen woodland, but then he sees the sharp hand signals sign out the message they’ve all been waiting for: they’ve found it.

The stag is real.

For Aleksander the news is both a dream and a nightmare and his breath comes in sharp pants as the twin sensations of excitement and panic rocket through him.  

Beside him, Alina is vision. Though her expression is cool and calm, her eyes shine with a joy he struggles to understand. This is not the excitement of being right in the face of so many doubts, this is something else, something more profound.

They dismount and leave the horses several minutes’ walk away from where the Trackers say the creature is so as not to risk scaring it.

Quietly, he and Alina follow in Oretsev’s wake as they wind their way through the trees tracing a path only he can see. Even though it is barely midday, the dense foliage make the forest so dark that Aleksander can’t help but blink furiously when they suddenly break through the treeline and into a well lit glade.

Across the clearing his eyes meet those of the stag. His grandfather’s creation is a mighty beast; pure white, tall and majestic. The rest of the herd scatters when they first enter the clearing, but not this beauty.

Soulful brown eyes watch Alina carefully as she slowly makes her way across the glade. Aleks desperately wants to call her back, to keep her safely by his side, but he squashes the temptation ruthlessly. This is not some pet, docile and used to humans, but a wild animal that can – and will – defend itself and its herd with lethal force; but at the same time he vowed to trust Alina. It is her dreams which have led them here. Her faith which has allowed them to find his grandfather’s creation: something he has spent centuries fruitlessly trying to find. He trusts her to know what she’s doing.

As if to prove his every fear, the stag chooses that moment to toss its mighty head, the long deadly looking prongs of it’s antlers glinting unnaturally in the dappled sunlight. For a long moment, Aleksander holds his breath, his hands at the ready to summon the cut if the enormous creature looks like it will make good on its threat.  

Alina is fearless though, apparently only too happy to ignore the giant antlers that could easily skewer her much smaller body, as she comes to a stop within arm’s reach of the creature. “Hello, old friend,” she murmurs, raising a hand to gently stroke the white muzzle. “Forgive me for being late.”

There is an uneasy silence from the assembled watchers as they wait with baited breath and tensed muscles to see how this plays out. From the corner of his eye he can see Ivan glowering fiercely and six arrows notched and ready to fly at a moment’s notice.  

Instead of attacking though, the white stag bows it’s head, pressing his large nose into her waiting hand and nudging her with enough force it makes Alina sway.

Aleksander exhales, feeling strangely lightheaded as a potent mixture of relief and disbelief sweeps through him. He can’t quite believe what his eyes are telling him. He’d dedicated decades to searching for his grandfather’s creation, certain it held the answers he so desperately sought to protect their people and destroy the Fold. Decades. And here it is. He’s finally set eyes on it. Yet instead of the satisfaction and glee he’d expected to feel when he dreamed of it years ago, all he feels is a bone deep pride in Alina. This isn’t his moment – its hers, Alina’s. and he’s beyond privileged to be one of the few to witness it; to see her claim that which has always been hers.

 


 

Time moves swiftly after that. There is a round of applause from the astonished and delighted onlookers. Everyone who joined them on this expedition is a volunteer: they chose to follow Alina because they believed in her and that faith has now been repaid.

Through the cacophony of noise the stag stands still and calm. Yet more proof, if any were needed, that this is no normal creature.

There is a faint rustle next to him and a flash of red passes him as Genya crosses to join her friend in an act of fearlessness.

“He’s a beauty,” she says, gazing wistfully at the stag. With a grin, Alina tugs her arm free of Genya’s grip so that she can offer her friend’s hand to the beast, who sniffs it delicately before returning to nose Alina’s hair just as Aleksander reaches the pair.

The creature looks up at him, eyes large and probing, and he can’t help but feel that he being judged. Judged and found wanting. It feels like an eternity, gazing into those dark brown pools, but eventually the stag snorts, his head bowing to Aleksander as he had to Alina, who takes the opportunity to grasp his nearest hand, intertwining their fingers and filling him with warmth.

From there it seems the flood gates have opened and it feels like every one of the group suddenly wants to greet the mythical being.

Orchestrating the introductions in a sensible way takes a good twenty minutes, but the results are worth it to see the awe in the expressions of the otkazat'sya.

It’s a distraction Aleksander willingly and actively allows as it means delaying the inevitable.  It’s David – unwillingly elected as the spokesperson of the Fabrikator team – who brings everyone back to earth with an unpleasant bump. “Moi Soverengi, Moya Soverengi,” he says with a bow to both Aleksander and Alina, “I… that is, on behalf of Mikael, Olaf and myself, I must ask when you wish us to make the amplifier. It will not be long until sunset…” he trails off uncertainly, but the message lands with all the devastating force he knew it would. The light from their travel torches will be too weak for the Fabrikator’s to do their work. If they leave it much longer then there will not be enough natural light to work with and they will need to wait until tomorrow.

It's clear from Alina’s reaction though that in the excitement of finding the creature she had forgotten it’s fate. His darling is unnaturally pale, her eyes large and pained as they watch the new friend she’s made.

“It must be done,” he points out gently, wrapping a comforting arm around Alina’s narrow shoulders.

“I can do it,” Oretsev offers, stepping forward with a wickedly sharp knife in his hand. “It’ll be quick, Fire-cracker, I promise,” he vows. Alina though is silent and frozen, her wide eyes fixed on the weapon.   and Aleksander feels Alina’s reflexive flinch at the sight of the blade.  

“Not that,” she almost stutters the words. Her eyes never leaving the cursed object, and Aleksander wishes that he had the power of necromancy so that he can kill Zlatan all over again. One death would never be enough of a punishment for the pain and harm he’d inflicted upon Alina.

David is already shaking his head though. “It needs to be you, Sankta,” he tells her. “You must deliver the final blow or else whatever is made from it will forever answer to two masters.”

“You could use the Cut,” Aleks offers her with a sad smile. “It would be fast and nearly painless.” It would be as quick and humane a death as they could give the creature. He understands her aversion to the discussion. Now that he’s here and has seen the magnificent creation with his own eyes he feels a strong desire to preserve it, to let it live.

“Why not just take the antlers?” Genya asks, raising a brow at them in a way which shouts how foolish she thinks they’re being. “It is the antlers you need, yes?”

David gazes adoringly at her and nods.

Genya’s eyes turn to the stag currently enjoying the attentions of the Apparat and various other gawkers. She sighs. “It would be a shame to needlessly destroy such a creature if there is another way.”

In short order it’s agreed. Using the cut, Alina will take the antlers alone and leave the stag alive.

The deed is done in a matter of minutes. Just as he had been earlier, the stag is unnaturally calm and quiescent for Alina, simply kneeling obligingly when she asks and holds still as she carefully removes the prongs.

Once shorn of his antlers the stag stands up shaking his massive head. Aleksander watches mesmerised as the stag transforms before his eyes; no longer a ghostly, eldritch white but the normal speckled grey-brown of its species.  With a shudder, the stag looks up, his eyes no longer holding that otherworldly intelligence but skittish and fearful. Alina sighs, and with that brief sound the spell is broken and the stag scarpers away, rushing into the dense forest, no doubt in search of his herd.

 


 

The Fabrikators whisk the antlers away almost before Alina has finished gathering them from the forest floor, eager to begin their task. The three work feverishly in a hastily erected tent while the rest of the group slowly set up camp around them; keen to take advantage of the flatness of the glade and easy access to water for a well-deserved rest before they have the joy of trudging back down the mountain they’ve spent the last two days climbing up.

The sun has just start setting when at last there is a shout of victory from the Fabrikator’s tent and all three men appear through the flap, one holding a crafter’s lantern while the remaining two each clutch something round and white in their hands.

With trembling hands, David holds up the object he is carrying for Aleksander and Alina to see. His creation is a masterpiece and he holds it reverently as he does a slow spin to reveal it to the crowd. Aleksander cannot help the rush of relief he feels when he sees it: not the hated collar of his nightmares but a beautifully engraved diadem – no, a crown - one fit for the goddess it is meant for.

The crown shines with the light of a thousand stars, illuminating the gloomy clearing with its splendour. It will look resplendent against the black of Alina’s hair, as if she has been crowned by the sky itself and for half a moment Aleksander wishes he could be worthy to be the one to place it upon his Alina’s head; crowning her as the Queen he knows in his soul she is.

The Queen this crown will proclaim her to be.

A crown that will undoubtedly complicate things. In all his imagining of this event over the centuries he’d never considered that the amplifier might take the form of a crown. In his worst nightmares over the past few months it’s always been a collar, protruding and grotesque, that had haunted him. Yet now that he sees it his only thought is ‘of course it’s a crown, it could be nothing else’. Nothing else fit.

However, it does complicate matters. It is, quite undeniably, a crown for a Queen. Even if you were to use a different name for it, it would not matter.  Anyone with eyes will understand what it is and what it means, with all that entails.

Such a move will set them directly against the Tsar, but then at this point civil war is all but inevitable anyway and there is no one he would trust more to see Ravka made anew than Alina; even if her taking the actual throne hadn’t been a part of their plan before.

Mesmerised, his eyes trace the exquisite detail of the craftsmanship. The interwoven silver-white strands form the main circlet, but woven between them and made from the same material are what look like forget-me-nots and irises that glow in the light of the setting sun. It’s an inspired choice by David and his team, for Aleksander can think of no better representation of Alina than those two flowers: hope and love, faith and power.  

The design feels like a culmination and a promise all in one.

Next to him he feels more than hears his mother take a shaky breath. “Remarkable,” she breathes so quietly that he almost cannot hear her. In the flame lit gloom her eyes gleam, a single tear tracking down her cheek unnoticed. This is her father’s legacy made real. Proof of his love for her and the answer to the riddle of his journals that have baffled them for years all in one.

It’s a sentiment he shares. This is no ordinary diadem. No uselessly gaudy but symbolic bauble for an earthly monarch. David’s creation is something else entirely, something almost otherworldly, and Aleksander cannot help but recall Alina’s words by the bank of the Unsea what felt like a lifetime ago. For the first time he lets go of all his doubts and believes. Maybe – just maybe – the Apparat is right and he and Alina are indeed the long lost descendants of gods. How else can he explain the inexplicable nature of the crown and the power he can feel emanating from it. This is no ordinary amplifier. This is something very different. Something that calls to his soul.

It's a thought that at once feels right and yet so wrong. It explains so much about why they are different, but at the same time he cannot help but feel that it paints another target on Alina’s back. Of the risk to himself he is indifferent. Centuries of persecution have left him inured to personal risk. There is always someone who either wants him dead or wishes to use his powers for their own agenda – sometimes simultaneously. It’s not a future he wishes for Alina.

She has enough pressure having been made into a living Saint without adding this complication into the mix. Their countrymen are seldom kind to Saints for long. Many of those revered now met their ends at the hands of those they were trying to help. History may remember them as martyrs, but for the Morozova’s, who have close personal experience of this, it is a reminder of the fickleness of fame and adoration. The public support her now, will they continue to once Alina’s reformation has started in earnest?

While he’s been wool gathering the Apparat - with the instincts of a successful politician - has been making the most of the spectators awe to launch into a speech about the fulfilment of the promise made long ago by the Sun Queen that their descendants would one day take back their thrones and reclaim this land for their people. It’s a speech met with loud cheers of delight from the Soldat Sol and quieter – slightly confused – approbation from everyone else.  

Hush descends as the Apparat steps forth to take the crown from David, and Aleksander notes distantly that his hands are shaking as he grips it and holds it aloft for the crowd.

There is no doubt who it is meant for, but Alina still needs prodding before she will move to the centre of the circle that has formed around the priest. It reassures Aleksander as perhaps nothing else could in that moment. No matter how momentous an occasion it is, nor how greatly things are about to change, the Alina about to be crowned is still herself: considerate, loving, conscientious and with a hatred of being the focus of attention. It makes him smile as he watches her grumble about ostentatious displays over a family heirloom and how no one had better start bowing to her.

“There is one for you too, Moi Soverengi,” David says quietly, gesturing for Olaf to show him the forgotten second object. Like its twin it has an ethereal beauty and shines with its own light, but this one is subtly different, more understated somehow, the bands woven closer together in a show of quiet strength and unity. “Once I started, I could see that it was meant to be two, not one,” the Fabricator continues, his excitement shining through as he offers it deferentially to his General.

His grandfather’s stag was always meant for Alina, that it might be meant for him as well staggers him.

For several moments he hesitates, fear paralysing him. He never expected this, never expected… He’s not worthy of this, not worthy to take the crown and all it symbolises. For months now his only thought has been to see Alina safe and protected, his only desire to serve and guard the extraordinary woman he loves. In a life where he has had few equals he has always seen Alina as superior to everyone, including him.

Once he would have taken it without a moment’s hesitation and considered it his due.

Once he would have used the stag to collar and subdue the Sun Summoner to his will, forcing them to his side.

Once he would have condemned the world to see his plans through.

He’s not that person anymore.

No longer is he twisted by the toxic combination of grief, ambition, and a thirst for revenge. He’s remade, renewed, redeemed.

He’d come here, to this frozen place, with no thought of himself. He’d followed Alina and her dreams because of his belief in her. His constant light. He doesn’t deserve this power, doesn’t deserve the trust these people are putting in him. Not after what he had once planned. Changed he may be, but that does not expunge the past.

His eyes shutter as remorse thunders through him cold and remorseless.

There is a pregnant pause, then: “Together, or not at all,” Alina reminds him, holding out her hand, her golden eyes full of understanding and burning with a thousand promises. ‘Trust me’, they seem to say, ‘if you trust nothing else, trust me.”

For a heartbeat Aleksander remains frozen with indecision as his mind wars with itself.

If there is one thing he believes in, though - just one thing, he believes in her.  

He takes her hand. 

They will not let each other fall.

Notes:

Oh my word, that chapter was a right pig to write. I hope all you lovely readers enjoyed it. As ever I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Sorry it's been so long between chapters, I've had the devil's own writer's block. The good news is that I'm back in a writing mood and hoping to get this story finished by Easter. I can't believe I started this nearly three years ago. 31 chapters and over 200,000 words later and we're so close to the finish line.

Next up: Time to Pay the Piper. In which old debts come due, Alina is a rockstar and Genya gets her revenge.