Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alina Starkov could still remember a time before Keramzin, before Mal, before the orphanage walls closed around her. A time of warmth and laughter, of a family she could not quite picture but still felt in her bones. Then the Shadow Fold had swallowed those memories, leaving her with scraps: a mother’s smile she couldn’t be sure was real, the echo of a lullaby she might have imagined.

She often thought of those fragments, almost every day, until the thoughts grew too heavy and she buried them under routine. Books to sort, children to soothe, fires to stoke. Keramzin demanded her hands stay busy.

That afternoon, she sat cross-legged in the orphanage’s tiny library, a shaft of pale light cutting through the dust. She slid another worn book onto the shelf. The spine cracked, and a cloud of dust rose, making her cough. The fit came suddenly, fierce and raw, shaking her whole body. She pressed her hand to her mouth, then froze.

Red.

It splattered her pale skin, then vanished into the fabric of her apron with a quick wipe. Her gaze darted to the doorway. No children. No witnesses.

The little ones didn’t know why she sometimes vanished from lessons, why she stayed in her room for days, feverish and weak. They didn’t know that the kind man who sometimes visited wasn’t Ana Kuya’s friend, but a doctor. He always said the same thing: cherish the time you have.

Alina Starkov was dying, though no one could tell her why. Perhaps the Fold had infected her as an infant, burrowing its poison into her bones. Or perhaps it was simply poverty — the thin blankets, the missed meals, the winters that sank their claws too deep. The why didn’t matter. Only the when.

Her thoughts broke at the sound of footsteps. Heavy, measured, unmistakable. Ana Kuya.

Alina shoved the last books onto the shelf and wiped her hands clean.

The woman entered, her stern face carved deeper with lines each passing year. Once, Alina had hated that face. Now, she saw only the weight of someone who had carried too many burdens for too long.

“Sit, child,” Ana said, nodding toward the heavy wooden table.

Alina obeyed. That was when she saw it — the envelope clutched in Ana’s hand. Her stomach dropped. She would know that handwriting anywhere. Mal.

Her voice came out sharp, too desperate. “Why has Mal written? Is he well?”

Ana’s eyes softened, though her expression remained guarded. “Of course. He is well — strong as ever. This letter concerns you.”

“Me?”

Ana hesitated, and for a heartbeat she looked old. Truly old. “There comes a time when little birds must leave the nest. And your time has come. Mal is stationed at Kribirsk, and he has agreed to help you settle there. A farmer passes through Keramzin tomorrow — he will take you to town. From there, a unit of soldiers will see you safely to camp.”

Alina stared. The words made no sense. “But I belong here. This is my life. The Duke—don’t you need the help? I don’t know anything else.”

Ana laid the letter on the table between them, her hand brushing Alina’s in a rare gesture of tenderness. “I do need your help. But the Duke and I agree — the pockets do not go deep enough to keep you here. Mal cares for you. He will look after you now. I have requested medicines to see you through the next six months.”

Alina’s throat closed. She wanted to argue, to plead, but Ana’s hand was firm, her words final.

A shaky breath escaped her. “I understand.”

Ana patted her head, the way she had when Alina was a child. Then the boots receded down the hall, leaving silence in their wake.

⸻

Alina stayed frozen at the table. Only when her nails bit into her palm did she realize she was clenching her fists.

The letter lay there, stark against the dark wood. Mal’s name curved across it, familiar and terrible. She didn’t touch it. Not yet. If she opened it, the decision would become real.

She slumped into the chair. All her life she had expected to die here, in the place that had raised her. Among the dust and the coal smoke, with children’s laughter echoing in the halls. A small, quiet death.

Now Ana Kuya had handed her something far crueler: hope.

Her chest burned. She pressed her hand hard against her ribs, willing the cough away. The doctor’s voice rang in her head: cherish the time you have. But how could she, when time itself was a blade against her throat?

At last she slipped the letter into her cloak. The paper felt hot, pulsing like a heartbeat against her chest.

“Mal will look after you,” Ana had said. But Mal didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know how close the shadows lingered over her, how little time she might have left.

Her gaze swept the shelves she had just dusted, every spine as familiar as a friend’s face. She wanted to touch each one, whispering a goodbye. Instead, she rose, legs shaky but resolute.

If she was to be cast out, she would at least step into the wider world with her head high.

⸻

That night, she packed lightly: her most essential belongings in a worn navy shoulder bag. Mal’s letter she tucked inside her cloak, close to her heart.

She could not bring herself to join the others for supper. Her stomach churned with anxiety, and she lay awake instead, staring at the cracked ceiling. A spark of hope crept into her chest despite herself: perhaps she would see the world Mal always wrote about, perhaps even taste happiness before her time ran out.

At last, sleep claimed her.

She dreamt of the field she and Mal had played in as children, only now the grasses bent beneath a shadowy figure. The man’s features blurred in the wind, but his voice carried clearly.

“Who… are you?”

She did not answer. The figure rippled, his shape unraveling. Then came a crack — loud and final — and darkness swallowed her.

⸻

Alina woke drenched in sweat, her heart hammering. Morning light seeped through the shutters. The day had come.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Leaving Keramzin felt like being cast out, like one of the sick animals not worth feeding. Perhaps that was exactly what she was.

Get up, get ready, breathe.

She whispered it like a prayer, pulling on her navy cotton dress, her boots, her brown cloak. In the cracked mirror she barely recognized herself: short, sickly, with little more than a handful of pennies to her name. Yet her eyes held something new — resolve.

She touched the spines of her few books, the worn wood of the shelf, the little mouse hole that always reappeared no matter how often it was patched. Silent goodbyes.

Then she stepped out into the cool morning air.

The world beyond Keramzin awaited.

Chapter Text

There was no goodbye party at the gate. The children would only just be opening their eyes, and the animals merely flicked their ears as Alina passed. She was content with this, strolling down the gravelly road that wound from the orphanage to Keramzin’s main path. The sun was rising, and a pleasant breeze teased at her hair. For the first time in a long while, she felt lighter, hopeful even, for the path ahead—however short it might prove.

It wasn’t that she had a death wish. She had simply learned to accept life for what it was: short, fickle, and seldom obedient to anyone’s plans. You could waste it mourning the path you hadn’t been given, or you could live in the moment, taking things as they came. Even death held no terror for her; in quiet moments, she imagined a heaven full of peace, and it did not seem such a terrible ending.

A horse and cart appeared over the rise, its wheels bumping in rhythm with the stones. Alina quickened her pace. The cart was piled with crates, and at the reins sat a middle-aged man with sharp brown eyes. He glanced at her, grunted, and faced forward again.

“Took you long enough! Hop in the back before I’m late to market.”

His words were rough but not unkind. Alina clambered between the crates with ease, her small frame finding a place easily. The cart rocked gently as it descended toward the village, and she found the motion oddly soothing.

She hadn’t been to the village often—mostly her own fault for preferring the safety of Keramzin’s walls. Once, long ago, she and May had wandered the fields and forests together, but that felt like a different life.

“So, Madam Kuya says you’re bound for Kribirsk.”

The sudden question startled her. “Yes, sir. To see Malyen Oretsev, from the orphanage.”

The farmer nodded. “Lengthy journey for a wraith of a girl. Spies haunt the forests, waiting for soldiers. Whole units vanish in a puff of smoke, or turn up dead. Hundreds gone before they even reach the Fold. All the talk at the inn, of course. You’ll probably be fine.”

Alina studied him, wondering at his motives. He had no reason to encourage her or to frighten her, so she decided he must simply enjoy hearing himself talk. That suited her well enough. She wasn’t easily rattled. Mal had taught her how to throw a punch, and Ana Kuya had taught her the art of silence. In this case, silence seemed best.

The farmer went on, “That’s why they’re pairing soldiers with Grisha these days. Safer for both. Not that the Grisha spare much thought for the rest of us, but it’s something. Keep your head down, mind you. Those Grisha women are mighty in their own right.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Alina said politely.

But she wouldn’t. She had no energy to spare worrying about Grisha women. She was going to Kribirsk. To Mal. That was all that mattered.

Still, the thought lingered. She remembered when the Grisha came to test the children, their strange presence filling Keramzin’s halls for a brief, unsettling afternoon. Sometimes they left with a child; sometimes they didn’t. Either way, Alina had always felt relief when they disappeared again. Something in them stirred unease in her—a warning in her bones she could never explain.

The road grew busier as they neared the village. Families streamed toward the market, carts of goods creaking behind them. Though no one here was truly wealthy, they were better off than the orphans had ever been. Children wore clothes that had seen only a few repairs, and women passed in bright dresses that reminded Alina of the Grisha’s kefta. She filed them away in her private catalogue of things she longed for but would never have. Dreaming cost nothing.

The cart jolted to a halt at the village square. The farmer turned, his sharp eyes raking over her. Alina wished she knew what he saw.

“This is where I leave you. Look after yourself. The soldiers’ll be at the inn. Don’t dawdle.”

She nodded, hopped down, and gave a quick wave before he flicked the reins and rolled away.

The square bustled around a weathered statue, beggars already gathering in its shadow. Stalls were being set up, the air alive with the clatter of crates and the calls of merchants. Alina spotted the inn’s faded sign and forced her feet toward it, unease knotting her stomach. Whatever waited inside, it was only until Kribirsk—only until Mal.

The inn smelled of woodsmoke and cabbage. Shadows clung to the corners. A drunk snored at his table, drool pooling beneath his cheek. Alina kept her eyes down. A barmaid glanced at her, then shook her head, scrubbing at the tables.

“You’re in the wrong place, girlie.”

“I’m not,” Alina said, voice steady despite her nerves. “I’m meeting the unit bound for Kribirsk.”

The woman’s gaze sharpened, flicking over her slight frame. At last she jerked her chin. “Back room.”

Alina’s hand fumbled with the clasp of her bag as she slipped through the archway. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She faltered at the sight before her.

Six figures filled the room— in grisha red and blue. They were laughing, sharp voices cutting through the air. They were supposed to be otkazat’sya.

The laughter died when a red-coated man with cropped hair turned and fixed her with cold blue eyes. She felt the weight of his stare like a hand at her throat, something tugging low in her belly though his fingers hadn’t moved.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice edged with steel.

Alina swallowed hard. For the first time since leaving Keramzin, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run all the way home.

Chapter Text

Her tongue caught against the roof of her mouth. Words scattered like startled birds. Alina’s hands hovered at her bag’s clasp before she forced them into tight fists, willing the fidgeting to stop.

The red-coated man’s eyebrows rose. She could feel the unspoken well? stretching between them. She took a few more steps into the room, her boots sounding too loud.

“I’m supposed to be meeting a unit from the First Army, sir. Headed to Kribirsk.”

His eyebrows climbed even higher, his forehead pleating. He glanced at a dark-haired Grisha whose back was to her, then back at Alina. She itched to run.

“You’re a soldier?”

“No, sir. I’m… I’m meeting my brother where he’s stationed.” Her hands darted into her bag. “I have a letter. From the colonel himself.”

She held the crumpled papers out. He snatched them from her, eyes flicking over the page. Alina took the moment to study the room. Two Grisha in blue kefta, three in red. The third red uniform wasn’t quite like the others. She tried to remember what she knew — healers wore red, and so did Heartrenders, but this one… this one was something else.

“There is no First Army unit traveling to Kribirsk.” He tapped the desk once, a sound of frustration. “They were redeployed to Poliznaya. You’ll join our unit instead.”

“Ivan! She could be a Shu spy!” a blue-coated woman snapped, her tone edged with malice.

Another Grisha chuckled, “Zoya, calm down. I’m sure the Shu feed their spies better.”

Alina’s cheeks burned but she held herself upright. I will not cry.

“Come,” the dark-haired Grisha said. “Sit beside me.”

Her feet obeyed before the rest of her could. She circled the bench to perch at its far end, a good foot between them. He grinned.

“I am Fedyor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Alina Starkov,” she murmured.

Fedyor leaned his elbows on the table, studying her with a mixture of curiosity and patience. “So, Alina Starkov,” he said lightly, “what’s so urgent in Kribirsk that the colonel himself sends you a letter?”

Alina twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I’m supposed to meet someone. A friend.”

“Mm,” Fedyor said, his tone not prying, just thoughtful. “A friend worth riding across dangerous land for. That tells me you’re loyal.” He tilted his head. “Dangerous quality, loyalty.”

She blinked at him. “Dangerous?”

“Of course. It makes you brave, and bravery… well, it gets people into trouble.” His grin softened into something gentler. “But it also keeps people alive. Don’t lose it.”

Alina found herself staring at him, struck by the unexpected kindness under his teasing. Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s true,” Fedyor agreed, unbothered. “But I can usually tell when someone’s worth knowing.” He reached for the mug in front of him, lifting it in a small salute. “You pass the test.”

She laughed—an awkward, breathless sound, but genuine. The tension that had wrapped itself around her chest since entering the inn began to loosen.

Fedyor set his mug down and leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Now, a warning: some of our company will be all frost and glares. Don’t take it personally. It’s just how they are. You have me to balance it out.”

Alina managed a small smile, but it faltered as a tickle caught in her throat. She coughed once, then again, pressing a fist against her lips to stifle the sound. Heat rushed to her face—not just from the fit, but from the way several heads turned at the noise.

“I’m fine,” she muttered quickly, straightening her back.

Fedyor’s expression shifted, the brightness in his grin dimming into concern. He studied her for a beat longer than was comfortable, as though cataloguing every detail of her too-pale cheeks, the way her shoulders drew tight.

“You don’t look fine,” he said gently, but without pressing. “Travel’s hard on the body. You’ll need rest.”

Alina lifted her chin, trying to sound stronger than she felt. “I’ve managed before.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Fedyor replied. His smile returned, softer now. “Still, let someone else shoulder the hard parts when you can. Even the strongest need that.”

The words sank into her, unexpected and oddly steadying. She gave the faintest nod, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bench.

“Good,” Fedyor said, as though they’d struck a bargain. Then, with a sly curve of his mouth: “Besides, if you collapse on the road, I’ll be the one carrying you. And I’m not sure my back would forgive me.”

Despite the flush in her cheeks and the raw edge of her throat, Alina laughed—a thin, wavering sound, but real. And for the first time since stepping into the room, the air felt a little easier to breathe.

They left soon after. Ivan declared the horses rested long enough and time waited for no one. He wasn’t angry, exactly — just protective. Everyone deferred to him easily, except the blue-coated girl, Zoya.

In the stables she stood off to one side, feeling like a spare part as the unit worked with wordless ease. Even Zoya’s standoffishness fit into their rhythm. It was something Alina had only ever tasted in small sips from Mal.

Fedyor guided his horse over, grin wide. “Ivan requests you ride with him. Something about ‘keeping trouble close.’ That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

“Not at all,” she said, forcing a smile.

Alina sat rigid in the saddle, her hands clamped around the pommel. Every shift of the horse beneath her made her painfully aware of the man at her back. Ivan’s presence was impossible to ignore—solid, immovable, the fabric of his kefta brushing against her shoulder whenever the horse jolted.

She had argued, briefly, that she could ride alone, but Ivan had dismissed the notion with a flat “No.” And so here she was, pressed against him, feeling small and clumsy and utterly out of place.

The silence between them stretched on, filled only by the creak of leather and the steady thud of hooves. She thought of Mal—how easy it had always been to ride double with him when they were children, laughing, jostling each other for space. This was nothing like that.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Alina said finally, her voice thin in the wide open air.

“No,” Ivan replied. His tone was simple fact, not apology.

Alina’s grip tightened. “Right.” She wished she hadn’t spoken at all.

The wind tugged at her hair, strands catching across her face. She tried to brush them aside, but the horse stumbled, and she pitched forward. Instantly, Ivan’s arm came around her, firm and unyielding, steadying her before she could fall.

Her breath caught. His hand lingered at her waist a moment too long before he withdrew, the weight of it leaving a ghost behind.

“Keep your balance,” he said curtly.

“I’ll try,” Alina murmured, cheeks hot, though she doubted he could see.

They fell back into silence, but it wasn’t quite the same. Ivan’s steadiness was a shield against the swaying of the horse, against the strange and dangerous world beyond the road. And though Alina felt awkward and out of place, she couldn’t deny the smallest measure of safety in his presence—even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

That night, camp settled in a small clearing. Fedyor laughed at some quiet comment from Ivan, and even the gruff Heartrender offered a sneaky grin back. They fit together like two parts of a whole. The sight hurt. No one would ever care for her like that. She picked at her meat, thinking she ought to refuse it, but the selfish part of her couldn’t when Fedyor pressed the plate into her hands.

As if sensing her despair, he came to sit beside her. She didn’t want him to see her jealousy, but he’d been nothing but kind. She met him with a painted-on smile and tried to hand back the food.

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Starkov. But you look like you need it more than me.”

She sighed. In the dark, with only the firelight, it felt like she could tell him anything. But she bit her tongue.

“I think I’d like to be friends with you,” he said lightly, “but as a Heartrender I can feel your dishonesty. Your heart quickens when I ask about your travels, and you avoid my questions. I worry I’ve fallen for your pretty face.”

Alina laughed despite herself. “Nothing I don’t tell you is of importance. I’m an orphan visiting my brother at the Fold. Do you need to know everything? Am I not entitled to some privacy?”

He tilted his head. “Relatives don’t usually visit the camp. Why doesn’t he return to you on leave?”

The urge to confess surged up. Would it be so bad? She would be dead soon; long-term consequences didn’t matter. The words spilled out. She told him of her sickly childhood, her daily weakness, Ana Kuya’s heartbreak at sending her away, her love for Mal. She spoke with an earnestness she couldn’t hide.

“And so I have no choice. Mal is going to help me… financially, for these final months. He can’t take leave yet, so I have permission to visit. He’ll take me to a nearby village where he has friends. And then… that’s it.”

Fedyor was silent a beat. “That is certainly bleak.”

“I could ask a Healer to see what they can do,” he offered. “Have you seen one?”

She shook her head. “The orphanage doesn’t warrant such visits. And I wasn’t exactly paid in coin. Please don’t concern yourself. I’m happy with my lot. It is as the Saints wished.”

“Even the Saints needed a helping hand sometimes,” he said softly.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure they did.” She drew her knees to her chest, chin resting atop them, staring into the blackness between the trees. “I am at peace. I hope one night I sleep and drift into the next life. I hope I see my mama again. But if not… that’s okay too.”

She turned, studying his handsome face. He looked back with equal curiosity. For a moment, time stretched. In another life, she thought, she would have very much liked to be friends with him.

A twig snapped behind her. She didn’t startle — Fedyor would have sensed danger long before she did. It was only Ivan rolling out a bedroll a respectable distance from the fire.

“You need to sleep,” he said simply.

He was right. She wanted to see Mal properly, to run through the fields again, to watch another sunset while he told her stories. She stood, ignoring the mild spin of her head, and made her way to her cloak-thin blanket.

She closed her eyes but sleep wouldn’t come. Her stomach knotted with unease. She thought of the Grisha’s unexpected tenderness, the warmth it sparked in her belly. Mal will make it better, she told herself, but the dark figure from her dreams came instead. She pushed him away. No good ever came from dwelling on dreams.

A shadow settled beside her. Ivan sat, eyes fixed on the fire as though it held all the world’s secrets.

“I can help you sleep,” he said quietly enough that she almost thought she imagined it.

Alina’s reply was just as soft. “As long as you make sure I wake back up.”

Her heartbeat slowed, her eyes grew heavy, his work so deft she barely felt the shift from wakefulness to slumber.

“I promise,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

His eyes met hers through the fog—dark, glassy, and impossibly beautiful. Her dream man.
He looked sad this time, haunted, and when she reached for him the mist thickened, stealing the sharpness of his features until all she could see was shadow and longing. Her body felt so heavy here. The air too still. This was her version of the Fold, one her mind had created long ago. She returned often: sometimes it tortured her with the imagined deaths of her parents, sometimes it soothed her with silence and shadow.

His hand brushed her cheek—ghostly yet searing, warmth blooming sharp and low in her belly. The touch tugged her forward, urging her to fold herself into his arms. He drew her closer until her head tucked beneath his chin. The rise and fall of his chest was steady, real. Comfort. She breathed him in and the strokes down her hair lulled her, steady as a lullaby, safe in a place she had never been safe.

Something shifted. Desperation crept into the air. His voice, shadow-thick and muffled like she was underwater, curled around her ear.

“Let me find you, solnyshko.”

Her lips parted, a soft hum. That sounded nice. To die in his arms—better than coughing her lungs out alone, better than a nameless grave. She even imagined him planning her funeral. Small. Intimate. Maybe Mal would be there. She tried to form the words, to tell him where she was, but her body felt borrowed, heavy, unresponsive. Instead, she curled closer into the lapel of his coat.

Again, the plea.

“Please, focus. Hold on a little longer.”

But she couldn’t. The glow in her chest was too warm, his embrace too soft. Real sleep crept in and claimed her. He faded like smoke in a gale.

⸻

The world woke her with rain.

It had begun an hour ago, relentless and cold, soaking through cloak and skin alike. The open road gave little shelter, the sky a heavy bruise of rolling black clouds. What had once been a gentle stream now swelled wide, pressing too close to the road.

Ivan’s arms tightened around her as the horse pushed forward, as if his sheer grip might shield her from the storm. But the cold had already wormed its way deep into her bones. Shivers wracked her frail body, her thighs rubbed raw against the saddle, and her soaked coat clung heavy against her chest. She coughed—a harsh, rattling sound—and felt the subtle pull of Ivan’s hold grow firmer, protective.

She closed her eyes. Counted the pinpricks of rain striking her cheeks. Traced the droplets as they ran down her lashes. Focused on the band of steel across her waist, on the inhale to ten, the exhale to ten. Anything to keep herself tethered.

Time stretched—minutes or hours, she could not tell—until a sharp curse vibrated against her ear and the horse lurched to the left.

“Carry on,” Ivan barked to the group.

Through blurred lashes she saw him steer them beneath the skeletal shelter of trees. The other Grisha barely slowed. Zoya took the lead with a glance sharp as flint but no objection.

Ivan dismounted in one fluid motion, surprisingly graceful for his size, and pressed the reins into her trembling hands. A moment later he reached up, strong hands closing around her waist, and pulled her down. Her legs nearly buckled; his grip steadied her just long enough.

“Can you stand?”

She nodded weakly, though the effort of staying upright made her head swim. Her cloak dragged at her shoulders, sodden and heavy as stone. Ivan noticed. With a swift tug, he loosed the clasp, and the wretched garment slumped to the mud. Alina shivered in her threadbare navy dress, the one she had lengthened and patched too many times to count. Strangely, without the weight of the cloak, she felt lighter. Almost free.

His frown cut deep. “You’ll catch your death. Did you think this would be enough for days of travel?”

Something inside her cracked—whether from exhaustion, the rain, or the endlessness of it all, she didn’t know. Emotion knotted tight in her chest until it burst.

“This—” she choked, her voice trembling with anger, “this is all I have. So forgive me if it doesn’t meet your standards. I’m not going to buy a new cloak when I’m going to die, Ivan!” Her breath hitched, hot tears spilling despite her will. “Why bother with anything? I could lie down here under this very tree and let it be done. I’m so tired.”

The sobs came hard, raw and loud, wracking her chest until she felt like a child again. Her face burned, blotchy and wet, but she couldn’t stop.

Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Where is Fedyor when I need him?”

And then, without hesitation, he pulled her into his chest. The hug was rough, unpracticed, but it broke something loose inside her. His kefta smelled of smoke and pine, heavy wool scratching her cheek, but it was warmth—and safety—and for a moment it was almost like her dream man again. Her sobs softened to hiccups.

“I think life has better plans for you, little one,” Ivan muttered.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue. Just a chuckle, deep and old, the sound of someone who had seen enough to trust his instincts.

Her cough returned suddenly, viciously, tearing through her chest until flecks of scarlet painted her fingertips. Her lips tinged blue. Ivan’s face darkened, his hands hovering uselessly. He was a Heartrender who could break bodies with a flick of thought, but this—years of sickness, malnourishment, decay—this he could not mend.

“I just… need a minute,” Alina rasped.

She fought for air until her breathing steadied, but her face was gaunt, exhausted, shadows carved deeper into her skin. Death was crawling closer, second by second.

Ivan’s jaw set hard. “We will find someone. A healer. Someone will fix this.”

“It’s not your fight, Ivan. I’ve accepted it.”

“Then maybe someone should make it their fight.” His voice burned with iron. He swung her back onto the horse before she could protest, settled behind her, and wrapped her sideways against his chest. His kefta fell around them both like a shield, heavy and waterproof, sealing her in his warmth. Only her damp forehead peeked out from beneath the fabric.

The rain hammered on, but inside that cocoon she felt almost safe.

“I had sisters,” Ivan said gruffly after a while, his lips near her hair. “They died. I think… I should like another sister, Alina.”

She was asleep before she could answer.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take Ivan long to catch up to his Grisha comrades — the very presence of Fedyor called to the yearning in his heart. He wasn’t a soft man, and he knew that. But where he had reason to love, he liked to believe he did it well. If Ivan had nothing else in life, he had loyalty — to his people, and to his husband.

And now to her, the precious little bundle sleeping softly in his kefta, the small girl placing blind faith in his aging Grisha heart.

He wanted to scold her for such trust — to remind her how cruel the world could be — but without that innocence, she never would have come to him. And for that, he could never be angry. He’d never wanted a child of his own; he had been content, selfishly, to keep Fedyor all to himself. But fate rarely asked for permission.

“You look far too content there, my dear,” Fedyor chuckled.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Ivan replied, but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips.

His musings were interrupted by a rattling breath from Alina. She shifted in his arms before settling again, eyes still closed in what he hoped was restful sleep.

“We need to find her a healer,” Fedyor whispered. “Not Ivanna — someone with deeper training. No one at camp is skilled enough to handle this.”

“We can’t take her to the Little Palace,” Ivan said flatly. “The General won’t allow it.”

“He might. There’s still kindness in him, somewhere. We’ve asked for nothing in all our years of service, Ivan. Surely he’ll grant us this. We could make it a formal adoption. Or forge a birth certificate — say she’s your sestra.”

Ivan chuckled. “We met her yesterday. We can’t take in every stray we get attached to. She already has a brother.”

“But Grisha bond — you feel it, don’t you? You can’t deny you’re drawn to our little star. It’s a sign from the Saints. We’re meant to protect her. We don’t know anything about this 'friend' she speaks of.”

Another shallow breath escaped from the girl in his arms. Her heart paused — dangerously — and Ivan sighed, gently nudging her heartbeat back into rhythm with practiced ease. It was second nature for him now, but he couldn’t hold her like this forever. He watched her closely — her eyes fluttered beneath their lids, but she didn’t wake.

This time, instead of dense fog, Alina saw a tree.

It had a wide, gnarled base and towering branches that stretched into the blackened sky. The bark was almost grey, like greenery trying to break through soot. Scattered around its roots were half-rotten apples, sinking into dead grass and mud.

Alina paused. “It’s not an apple tree.”

“No. But it is your dream.”

“I wouldn’t dream of apples without an apple tree. That’s absurd.”

The voice returned: “Does it matter?”

“No, but it defies reason,” she huffed. “Why do I feel awake?”

“I don’t know. This feels… different. There’s science in the air.”

Her dream-man appeared beside her. His form remained blurred, but the presence was unmistakably solid. She could make out Grisha clothing. She’d always suspected he was one — he had the mannerisms. She just wished she could see the color of his kefta, to know his order. But asking felt too personal, even in a dream.

He clasped her hand. Firm. Real.

“Come,” he said.

They walked closer to the not-apple tree, settling on a patch of crisp grey grass. The tree loomed behind them — oddly alive amid a dead landscape. He sat so close she could rest her head against his arm.

“You are not alone,” he said softly.

“No,” she agreed. “I think I’ve made some friends.”

“Good. They’re Grisha? I can sense them.”

She nodded slowly. “How?”

“Grisha sense one another. It’s how we test the children.”

“Oh…” Alina remembered her own test — the fear, the sharp cut of stone, the broken promise between her and Mal.

The man turned to her, but his shape blurred again, his features lost. A shame. With a frame like his, she imagined he was terrifyingly beautiful.

“You’ll tell me their names?” he asked, a pleading edge in his voice.

“No. I don’t know who you are.”

“Are they Second Army?”

She didn’t answer, picking at the brittle grass instead.

“We’ve never spoken like this before,” she murmured. “What does it mean?”

His voice was calm but heavy with meaning. “It means things are changing.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. You’ll never have anything to fear from me.”

“Are you real?” she whispered.

His reply was a breath: “Yes. Are you real?”

When Alina woke, it was to a soft bed and moonlight cutting across a worn wooden floor.

At first, all she heard was silence — then muffled laughter, someone singing off-key, hooves stamping outside, footsteps above. She sat up slowly, eyes landing on a basin of water and a tray of tea, stew, and bread. Her mind felt stuffed with cotton. Sleep clung to her, refusing to leave.

Then she saw Fedyor, perched at the end of her bed.

She startled, and he rubbed her leg gently — reassuring. He looked even friendlier without his red kefta, dressed only in a white tunic and dark pants. He smiled, but she didn’t smile back. Her dream clung to her like fog. The man. He was real. Or something like it.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Fedyor said gently. “But Ivanna said it’s been too long. You should eat. Walk a little.”

Alina pulled her legs in. “I don’t remember getting here.”

Fedyor chuckled, but worry lingered in his eyes. “No. You got very cold. Ivan was… very worried.”

“Where is he?” Her eyes scanned the room.

“Ivan doesn’t trust the otkazat’sya with the horses. Sorry.”

Alina smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t either.”

Fedyor stood, frowning, and handed her the bowl of stew. She took a spoonful, more to satisfy him than out of hunger.

“Ivanna looked at you while you slept,” he said. “Forgive us — it’s instinct not to leave someone suffering. She doesn’t think she can help. But there are Grisha back home more skilled in healing chronic conditions. I want to ask the General if we can take you to Os Alta.”

“I’m meeting my brother,” Alina replied.

Fedyor nodded. “Yes. And after that… Ivan and I would like you to come back with us. It’s up to the General, but we have strings we can pull.”

“What kind of strings?”

“Ivan is second-in-command.”

That didn’t surprise her. She could picture it — Ivan stoic and loyal, always one step behind power.

Alina placed the stew aside. Even the little she ate turned her stomach. Her limbs trembled. Her mind felt blurred and far away, like she was watching herself from a distance. She knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t make it to Os Alta.

“Let’s go outside. I want to see Ivan.”

Fedyor’s brows shot up. “Now?”

She nodded, throwing herself from the bed. The room swam, equilibrium faltering. But she didn’t care. She found her boots and pulled them on, ignoring his quiet protest. When the dizziness stopped — suddenly, unnaturally — she gave a small smile. She could get used to having Grisha friends.

Without pausing, she slipped out of the room and down the back staircase, avoiding the noisy revelers. Her fingers brushed the old stone walls to steady herself. She didn’t know why she *needed* to see Ivan so badly — only that her chest felt hollow, and he was the answer.

The courtyard was quiet behind the inn. Moss-tufted stone walls enclosed packed earth and worn cobblestones. Her feet slipped, and Fedyor caught her by the arm.

In the third stall of the stables, Ivan stood brushing his horse’s mane. The air was full of hay, leather, and damp soil. His motions were calm, rhythmic. Peaceful.

“Hi,” Alina said softly.

Ivan turned. His face remained stern, but his eyes sparkled with an unspoken smile.

“You ran all the way down here just to say hello? That nap must have done you some good.”

She nodded quickly. “I feel better. Want help?”

“No.”

Her disappointment must have shown, because he sighed.

“You can sit in the corner and polish the tack. Fedyor, fetch water and feed. Then she’s going back to bed. Ivanna said there’s damage to her heart valves — irregular rhythm. No more midnight sprints... right, Fedyor?”

“I didn’t get explain that far before she made her escape,” Fedyor muttered.

Alina settled into the corner, content to polish a leather saddle she’d never touched before. Now, with Ivan nearby, her mind finally felt still. Fedyor chatted about the endless rain; Ivan answered in short, dry comments. And for a while, that was enough.

A sheen of sweat formed on her brow. Silently, Ivan took the saddle from her hands.

Once the horses were settled, the three of them returned to the inn.

For the first time in a long while, Alina felt a burst of something warm and forgotten.

Safety.

Belonging.

Like the Heartrenders were fixing something inside her she hadn’t even known was broken.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

Alina knew she was dreaming before her feet even touched the ground.

But this time, the world was different. The fog that once swallowed the horizon had lifted, revealing silver light trickling through high branches. The tree was still there — but it had changed.

It was no longer dying.

Leaves shimmered like wet ink, black-green and whispering with wind that didn’t touch her skin. The trunk pulsed faintly with light, veins of gold running up through bark that no longer looked like ash, but something ancient — and alive.

At the base, the apples were gone. In their place, green shoots broke through the soil.

Alina approached slowly, barefoot on cool grass that crunched like frost beneath her toes. The tree gave off warmth now, a heartbeat deep in the roots.

“Hello,” said a voice behind her.

She turned. He was there again — tall, his kefta shiftings colors with the shadows. But the blur was thinner now, like mist rolling back from a figure at sunrise. His presence was heavier this time, magnetic.

“I didn’t fall asleep for you,” she said, crossing her arms.

“No,” he agreed. “But you came anyway.”

She hesitated, then nodded toward the tree. “It’s changing.”

“So are you.”

She looked back at the tree. “Why does it feel like it’s… growing because of me?”

“Because it is.”

Alina stepped closer to him. Her breath caught in her throat — not from fear, but from something harder to name. The air between them shimmered, thick with things unsaid.

“You’re becoming more real,” she said quietly.

He tilted his head. “I always was.”

“But you’re still hiding your face. Your name.”

A pause. Then: “You’re not ready.”

She took another step. “Try me.”

He studied her. She could almost make out his eyes — dark and endless — and for a second, his whole shape flickered, sharp and defined. Her pulse stuttered.

He looked away, and for the first time, he sounded... unsure. “Names are powerful things.”

“You said I had nothing to fear from you.”

“You don’t.”

“Then tell me.”

The silence that followed pressed against her ears like deep water. And then, finally, he spoke — not loud, but like it echoed from the marrow of the earth.

“My name is Alexander.”

Her breath left her in a rush. Something shifted beneath her feet — the grass grew greener, the tree brighter. The whole dream tilted like a wheel catching motion.

“Alexander,” she repeated, tasting it like a spell.

He closed his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to know me this soon.”

“Why?”

“Because once you do…” His voice dropped. “You won’t forget. Nobody knows me. Not like this.”

The tree behind her bloomed suddenly — dark flowers unfurling across its branches like secrets, petals the color of ink and blood. The sky pulsed overhead.

“What are you?” she whispered.

His eyes snapped open. This time, they didn’t blur. 

“Now that I cannot tell you.” 

Alina woke gasping.

The room was bathed in silver-blue moonlight, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if she was still dreaming. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her shift clinging to her back with cold sweat. Her heart pounded like a warning bell.

She stared at the wooden ceiling beams, wide-eyed and trembling.

“My name is Alexander.”

The sound still echoed in her head. Not imagined. Not invented. Real.

Her throat was tight. Her hands were shaking. The tree had bloomed, the world had shifted — and his eyes, gods, his eyes—

Someone knocked once. The door creaked open.

“Alina?” Fedyor’s voice, low and hesitant. “You alright?”

She sat up too quickly, and the room swam. “I—I’m fine.”

Ivan followed close behind, more cautious, scanning the room like he expected to find someone lurking in the shadows.

“No you’re not,” Ivan said, shutting the door behind him. “Your heart was racing, it was too fast.”

Alina pressed a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to…”

“We are in tune with you” Fedyor said gently, stepping closer. “It woke both of us.”

“I keep having a dream…of a man. I’ve been seeing him since I was a child but now it feels so real. I think he is real.” 

“Tell us what else you saw,” Ivan said. Not a command — but not a question, either.

“I can’t. I mean—” Her throat tightened. “There’s a tree. It sounds ridiculous. It changes every time. It’s like it’s alive now. And he’s there. This man. I can’t see his face but he... he feels real. I used to think I made him up. But it’s getting harder to believe that.”

“What name?” Ivan asked. He sounded casual, but there was a steel thread underneath.

Alina looked down. “Alexander.”

The silence that followed stretched long.

Ivan was the first to speak. “That’s not uncommon. Dreams give things names. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Fedyor looked less certain. “Still… you’re not imagining the intensity. Something about this dream is pulling at you.”

“I don’t want it to,” Alina whispered. “It feels like he’s waiting for me. Like he knows me.”

“That’s what dreams do,” Ivan said. “They trick you. You’re vulnerable, sick, scared. Your brain creates comfort or danger or both.”

She glanced up at him. “You think I’m making it all up?”

Ivan met her eyes. “I think your mind is protecting you from something you’re not ready to face. That’s not weakness. It’s survival.”

“And if he’s real?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Fedyor’s face was kind, but firm. “Then we’ll deal with it together. But right now, you’re here. Safe. With us. Not with him.”

Alina closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Her body was still buzzing with the remnants of the dream — his voice, the tree, the flowers opening like wounds. It wasn’t fading like her dreams usually did.

But Ivan and Fedyor were here. Solid. Warm. Present.

And maybe that was enough, for now.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she murmured.

Ivan grunted. “We’ll forgive you. Eventually.”

Fedyor smiled. “Tomorrow morning, we leave for Poliznaya and we’re making you eat something. No excuses. If you stumble again, Ivan might actually lose his mind.”

“I do not lose my mind.”

“You made her sit on a stool for an hour last time,” Fedyor pointed out. “You mother henned. It was very moving.”

“I didn’t,” Ivan snapped.

“Of course you didn’t.”

Alina finally cracked a smile.

Outside, the wind rustled through the trees.

Inside, the weight on her chest lifted—just enough.

The hallway outside Alina’s room was dim, lit only by a single candle set into the stone wall. Fedyor leaned against it, arms crossed, watching Ivan silently as he closed the door behind them.

“She’s asleep again?” Fedyor asked, voice low.

Ivan nodded. “Not deeply. But enough. We are leaving soon anyway.”

Fedyor let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Her heart cannot take that.”

“She said his name,” Ivan replied, voice flat. “Said he told her.”

Fedyor gave him a look. “You think its more than just a dream?”

“I think,” Ivan said slowly, “that either it’s a dream… or it’s something older than we want to admit. I can feel science.” 

Fedyor blinked. “You believe her?”

“I believe something is happening.” 

Fedyor laughed softly — not out of amusement, but tension. “She’s scared, Vanya. Really scared. I don’t think she’s been scared like this before.”

Ivan was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “She trusts us. That’s what matters.”

“Do you trust her?” Fedyor asked carefully.

Ivan glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

“Even if this… Alexander is real?”

A pause.

“You want to know what I think. I think this is a grisha tether. I think it’s been binding her since childhood. I think that tree in her dreams isn’t metaphorical. I felt something when we met her Fedyor, there is small science at work here. It would explain the sickness, this tether is draining her.”

“You’ve read too many Ravkan folktales.”

“And you haven’t read enough,” Ivan said.

They stood there in silence, the candlelight flickering between them.

Eventually, Fedyor stepped closer and rested his forehead lightly against Ivan’s shoulder. “I don’t like watching her suffer.”

“I know.”

“She’s a child.”

Ivan reached up, threading his fingers gently into Fedyor’s hair. “We’ll protect her.”

“How? If this thing is inside her head?”

“We make her laugh. We stay close.”

“And if the dreams get worse?”

Ivan looked past him, toward the door. “Then we stop pretending we don’t believe her.”

Chapter Text

The air was crisp when they left the inn.

Not sharp enough to be winter, but cold enough that breath clouded in the morning light and frost glittered along the thatch and fence posts like shattered glass. The sky was a dull pewter grey, promising rain by evening, and the forest beyond the village stretched out in endless rows of dark green and grey.

Alina pulled her new cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stepped into the courtyard. It was heavy, lined with thick black wool and a large green hood that covered her eyes.

The boots were stiff, the kind of sturdy leather meant to last a long time and through worse terrain. She hadn’t asked for them.

Ivan had simply placed the parcel on the edge of her bed that morning with a grunt and no explanation.

Now he stood by his horse, adjusting the saddle straps like it had offended him personally.

“Boots feel alright?” he asked without looking up.
Alina glanced down, then back at him. “Better than the ones I’ve had since I was ten.”

“Good. Try not to wear holes in these ones.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Fedyor approached then, leading two sleek black horses and smiling like the sun had risen just for him. “You ready, milaya?”

Alina blinked at the endearment — it came so easily from him. “Do I get a horse of my own?”

“No,” he said brightly. “You ride with me. Ivan says you’ll fall off within ten minutes if we let you steer.”

“I said five,” Ivan corrected, mounting his own horse with practiced ease. “Five minutes and she'd be on the ground or in a ditch.”

Alina raised a brow. “That’s generous, considering you’ve never actually seen me ride.”

“I’ve seen you walk,” Ivan said.

Fedyor smothered a laugh and offered his hand. “Come on then. We will be warmer together and you get so cold.”

With a small huff, Alina let him lift her up onto the horse in front of him. His grip was steady, strong, and the warmth of him at her back felt more like a shield than anything else..

It was a small convoy, just the three of them, Ivanna, Zoya and the other blue coats, but it felt like more than she’d had in years.

The horses began to move, hooves clattering softly on the damp cobblestones as they exited the courtyard and took the path northward, toward the forests that would eventually lead them to Poliznaya and to Mal.

The town faded behind them. So did the inn, the warmth, the memory of restless dreams and whispered names.

But she still felt it.

That tether.

Somewhere far off — too far to see, but not too far to sense — he was watching.

Alexander.

She pressed a hand to her chest, beneath the heavy cloak, and tried to steady her breathing.

Fedyor felt the shift in her posture and leaned closer. “You alright?”

“Yes,” she lied. “Just cold.”

He wrapped an arm around her middle, holding her tighter. “We’ll be there in a day, maybe less if the weather holds. We’ll find Mal and speak the general and get you to Os Alta.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I believe you.”

Ahead, Ivan rode at the front of the group, back straight, scanning the road with an expression like carved stone. Ever-watchful. Ever-ready.

Behind them, the woods whispered — wind through trees, the sound of wings high above, the creak of saddle leather and soft muttered conversation between Grisha.

The road narrowed as they passed between thick pines, the air damp with the promise of rain. The sound of hooves ahead made Ivan lift a hand, slowing their small party.

A patrol rounded the bend — First Army soldiers in faded green uniforms, rifles slung across their backs. Their captain reined in at the sight of them, his gaze lingering on Alina where she rode before Fedyor.

“Grisha,” he said. “Where are you bound?”

“Kribirsk,” Ivan replied curtly. He didn’t dismount, didn’t blink. His presence alone was enough to set the air on edge.

The captain’s eyes slid to Alina again. “That one’s no Grisha.”

Alina stiffened. She wanted to argue, though she wasn’t sure what she would say — she could not even claim otherwise.

“She’s with us,” Fedyor said pleasantly, though his hand tightened on the reins.

“With respect,” the captain pressed, “civilians ride with First Army patrols. We’ll see her safely north.”

“No,” Ivan said flatly.

The soldiers shifted uneasily, glancing between one another. The captain bristled. “It isn’t proper. She doesn’t belong with you.”

Alina opened her mouth, but Ivan cut her off, his voice sharp as a blade. “She belongs where I say she does. You’ll move aside.”

The tension tightened like a noose. Fingers hovered too close to triggers and small science. Alina’s pulse thudded painfully, her breath fogging in the cold air.

Then Fedyor laughed — bright, easy, like sunlight breaking through cloud. “Saints, Ivan. You terrify everyone you speak to.” He flashed a grin at the captain. “Don’t mind him. We’ve been tasked with her care, and the General himself will expect to see her with us. You don’t want to explain to him why you tried to separate us, do you?”

The name landed like a hammer. The soldiers shifted again — this time in retreat. None of them wanted to cross the Darkling’s men.

The captain hesitated, his jaw working, then finally gave a sharp nod. “As you say.” He spurred his horse forward, and the patrol passed by, boots striking the earth in perfect rhythm.

Only when they were gone did Alina exhale.

“You didn’t have to—” she began.

“Yes,” Ivan said. “We did.”

Fedyor’s hand was gentle at her side. “Don’t fret, milaya. First Army love their rules, but rules bend for Grisha business. And you, whether you know it or not, are Grisha business.”

Alina’s throat tightened. She wanted to ask what that meant, but the words lodged behind her teeth. The trees whispered overhead, and for a moment she thought she felt that tether again — like someone had been watching the exchange through her eyes.

The road wound on beneath a pewter sky. By late afternoon, the forest had thinned into stretches of open field, the grass pale gold and brittle under the weight of approaching rain. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke carried from faraway villages.

Alina sat in front of Fedyor, her cloak pulled tight, the steady rise and fall of the horse soothing beneath her. Ivan rode just ahead, silent as always, his dark hair damp with mist.

For a while, the only sounds were the creak of leather, the jingle of tack, and the steady rhythm of hooves. Then Fedyor broke the quiet.

“Do you remember the steppe patrol, Vanya? The one with the wolves?”

Ivan didn’t turn. “That was not a patrol. That was a disaster.”

Fedyor laughed, bright against the grey afternoon. “Six wolves, Alina. They followed us for miles, circling like we were their dinner.”

“You fed them,” Ivan said flatly.

“They were hungry!” Fedyor protested. “Would you deny Saints’ creatures a meal?”

“You gave them dried lamb from my pack.”

Alina bit back a smile as Fedyor leaned down to murmur near her ear. “He still hasn’t forgiven me, years later.”

“I heard that,” Ivan said.

“You were meant to,” Fedyor replied cheerfully.

Alina glanced between them, surprised by the warmth threading beneath Ivan’s gruffness. She had expected sharp edges, maybe even disdain. Instead, there was history there, long and steady, woven tight as rope.

“Was it always like this?” she asked suddenly.

“Like what?” Ivan asked.

“Second Army. You two. Grisha life.”

For a moment, silence. Then Fedyor spoke, his tone softer. “Not always. We were boys once. Taken young, trained hard. You learn fast, or you don’t survive. Ivan here was a terror in training. No one dared spar with him.”

Ivan’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. “You sparred with me.”

“And lost, every time.”

“You never stopped trying.”

“Because I knew one day you’d smile about it,” Fedyor said. “Worth every bruise.”

Alina’s chest ached — not from sickness, but something else. She pressed her hand to her cloak, listening as their voices carried her forward through the fading light, warm against the cold road.

Night settled heavy and damp. They made camp at the edge of the forest, where the trees grew close and the ground was soft with pine needles. Ivan coaxed a fire from damp kindling with patient precision, while Fedyor unpacked food — black bread, dried venison, hard cheese — and passed it around with exaggerated ceremony, as though it were a feast.

Alina sat close to the flames, her cloak pulled tight, hands outstretched to the heat. The firelight made Fedyor’s smile softer, his eyes crinkling as he told some story about a disastrous training drill that ended with an entire squad dropping into a half-frozen river. Ivan sat on the other side of the flames, expression unreadable, but his silence wasn’t cold.

Alina found herself listening, caught between their voices.

“How long have you two…” She hesitated, searching for the word. “Known each other?”

Fedyor beamed. “Since we were children at the Little Palace. He glared at me across the training yard, and I decided we were going to be friends. He didn’t get a choice.”

Ivan sliced a strip of venison with his knife. “I still don’t.”

“You love it,” Fedyor said, bumping his shoulder.

Ivan didn’t answer, but Alina saw the faintest curve of his mouth in the firelight.

She smiled. “You sound… happy, when you talk about it.”

“We are,” Fedyor said simply. “Not always. There were hard years. Losses. But we built something together. That’s the point of the Second Army, isn’t it? To make sure Grisha aren’t alone.”

Alina’s chest tightened. She stared at the flames, wishing she could swallow the sudden sting in her throat. “I was always alone,” she whispered, before she could stop herself.

Silence stretched. She regretted the words instantly, but then Fedyor’s hand was warm on hers, steady.

“Not anymore, milaya.”

Across the fire, Ivan met her eyes. His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re with us now.”

Something loosened inside her then, something she hadn’t even known was wound so tight. She looked between them — at Fedyor’s easy warmth, Ivan’s unwavering steadiness — and for the first time in years, she believed them.

The fire burned low, throwing long shadows across the clearing. The others had grown quiet, their voices soft, the comfort of shared stories settling into silence. Ivan leaned back against a log, arms crossed, eyes closed but never truly asleep. Fedyor was still smiling faintly, his hand brushing against Alina’s every now and then in quiet reassurance.

Alina should have felt safe. The crackle of the flames, the steady breathing of the horses just beyond the circle of light, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone anymore. She should have.

But when she lifted her gaze, she saw him.

Alexander.

He stood just beyond the firelight, half-shadow, half-man, the black folds of his kefta stirring though there was no wind. His eyes caught hers — endless, dark, pulling her in as though the world narrowed to a single tether between them.

Alina’s breath caught. She blinked, but he didn’t vanish. He was there, watching. Waiting.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet.

“Alina?” Fedyor murmured, half-asleep.

“Just—just need some air,” she whispered.

The firelight fell away as she stepped beyond the circle. The night wrapped around her, damp and cold. Alexander receded, always a few steps ahead, drawing her deeper into the trees.

“Why are you here?” she whispered. “You’re not real. You’re not—”

But his voice brushed against her mind, the way it always did in dreams.

“You still doubt me, solnishko? Even now, when I’ve come all this way for you?”

Her chest tightened. “You’re not here. You can’t be here.”

And yet he was. His hand lifted, reaching, almost touching hers. She felt the ghost of warmth, like sunlight through glass. The tether inside her thrummed, painful and sweet all at once.

Behind her, the fire cracked. A twig snapped.

“Alina?” Ivan’s voice — sharper now, alert.

She blinked. The trees were empty. The shadows only shadows. Alexander was gone.

Her hand hung uselessly in the air, trembling.

When she turned back, Ivan was standing at the edge of the camp, watching her with eyes like stone. He didn’t ask what she’d seen. He didn’t need to.

Fedyor appeared behind him, worry etched across his face. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Alina forced a breath past her lips, forced her hand down to her side. “I… thought I saw something. It was nothing.”

Ivan’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he stepped aside, letting her pass back into the circle of firelight. Fedyor guided her down gently, wrapping the cloak tighter around her shoulders, as if warmth alone could banish the chill that clung to her.

But Alina knew better.
It hadn’t been nothing.

Chapter Text

Alina woke to the sound of rain. A thin drizzle hissed against the embers of the campfire, turning the clearing grey and cold. Fedyor was already awake, cheerful as ever, humming softly as he packed their supplies. Ivan stood at the edge of the trees, still as a sentinel, scanning the dripping forest.

Alina pushed herself upright, her body aching from the hard ground. For a moment she thought the night before had been nothing but a dream — that glimpse of Alexander in the trees, the voice in her head.

But then a sharp pain lanced behind her eyes. She pressed a hand to her face — and when she pulled it away, her fingers were smeared with red.

Blood trickled hot from her nose, dripping onto the damp earth.

“Alina?” Fedyor was at her side in an instant, crouching, his expression dropping from easy warmth to sharp concern. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered. She tried to swipe it away, but more blood followed, soaking into the sleeve of her cloak.

Fedyor’s hand caught her wrist gently, steadying her. “That is not fine.” He tore a strip from his linen and pressed it to her nose with careful fingers.

Ivan was beside them now, silent, his eyes narrowing. He crouched low, studying her face. “When did it start?”

“Just now.” Alina tried to breathe evenly, but the pounding in her skull made her dizzy. “It’s nothing. Maybe the cold—”

“It’s not the cold,” Ivan said.

Fedyor shot him a look, but Ivan didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed on Alina, hard and searching, as if he could peel away her denial and see the truth beneath.

“It was the same in training,” he said quietly. “When power pushed too hard, when it clawed for release. It broke the body first.”

Alina’s stomach knotted. She wanted to deny it, wanted to push it away, but the memory of Alexander’s hand almost touching hers in the forest still burned on her skin. 

The bleeding slowed at last, but her head still throbbed. Fedyor brushed a damp curl from her cheek, worry etched deep into his features.

“You don’t have to pretend with us, milaya,” he said softly. “Something’s happening to you. And we’ll help you through it. Whatever it is.”

Alina swallowed hard, unable to answer. 

The cloth was still damp in her hand, streaked with brown where the blood had dried. She kept staring at it as they rode, unable to throw it away, as if letting it go would make the truth of it vanish.

A nosebleed. That was all. People got them all the time. Dry air, cold weather, strain. She could explain it a dozen ways if she had to. She would explain it a dozen ways if they asked again.

But she couldn’t lie to herself.

It hadn’t been the weather. It hadn’t been the cold. It had been him.

Alexander.

The way his eyes had caught hers across the firelight, the way she’d followed without even thinking. She hadn’t wanted to. She hadn’t chosen to. Something inside her had moved her feet, had reached for him when her mind was screaming no.

She could feel him now, thrumming faint and steady like a thread woven through her ribs, tugging her toward something she didn’t want to see. Every time she thought of Mal, of safety, of home, it pulled harder, as if mocking her.

Mal.

He was the opposite of all this. He was the boy who’d kept her secrets, who’d stolen apples for her, who’d pressed his shoulder to hers when they were small so she wouldn’t feel alone in a world that never wanted her. When she thought of him, she remembered running across fields with her lungs aching and her cheeks flushed from laughter. He had always been freedom to her. Freedom, and familiarity, and the promise that someone knew her — really knew her.

But even the thought of Mal couldn’t quiet the pull in her chest.

She hated herself for it. She hated that some part of her — some small, traitorous part — wasn’t recoiling from Alexander’s presence but reaching for it. Not with her mind. Not with her heart. Something deeper, buried, as if it had been waiting all along for him to appear.

Ivan’s words haunted her. When power pushed too hard, it broke the body first.

Power. She didn’t have any. She wasn’t Grisha. She never had been.

And yet—

And yet Fedyor’s hand had been so gentle when he pressed the cloth to her face, his voice so certain when he said we’ll help you through it. He believed she was something worth protecting. Ivan too, in his own hard, unyielding way.

So what was she supposed to do? Confess that she was coming apart at the seams, that every time she closed her eyes she saw Alexander in her dreams — not just in her dreams anymore — and felt him inside her bones?

What would they do if they knew?

What would he do, when he realized she was trying to resist?

Alina clenched the cloth tighter, swallowing against the bitter taste of fear. The rain misted against her face, cold and sharp, but inside she burned.

She wasn’t fine. She wasn’t safe. And every mile they rode north, she wasn’t sure whether she was moving closer to salvation… or straight into his hands.

Alina must have been staring too long at the damp cloth in her hands, because suddenly Fedyor leaned forward in the saddle, his chin almost brushing her shoulder.

“You’ve gone quiet, milaya,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “I can practically hear the thoughts rattling around in that head of yours. Saints forbid, you’ll out-brood Ivan if you’re not careful.”

“I do not brood,” Ivan called from ahead without turning around.

“You absolutely do,” Fedyor replied cheerfully. “You’ve made it into an art form. We could hang you in a gallery — Portrait of a Grisha in Eternal Disapproval.”

Alina felt a tiny laugh slip out before she could stop it. The sound startled her almost as much as the nosebleed had.

Ivan glanced over his shoulder, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Better. You looked like you were about to be sick.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

“Mm,” Ivan grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Fine people don’t stare at bloody rags like they’re deciphering prophecy.”

Fedyor squeezed her waist lightly, a comforting press rather than restraint. “He’s right, you know. And don’t bother arguing. We’ve both raised him for years, we know when Ivan’s right.”

“Ivan raised Ivan?” she teased, finding herself grateful for the chance to push back.

“Exactly,” Fedyor said with mock solemnity. “He came out of the womb already frowning at the inefficiency of it all.”

This time, even Ivan chuckled — a low, brief sound, but real. “Careful.”

“You’ll get used to him, you know,” Fedyor said, jerking his chin toward Ivan’s rigid figure.

Alina raised an eyebrow. “Used to what? The silence?”

“The scowling,” Fedyor replied with mock solemnity. “It’s his language. Every furrow of his brow says more than entire speeches.”

Alina allowed herself a small smile. “And you translate?”

“Always. I’ve been fluent for years.” He paused, then added with an air of casual pride, “We’re married. Comes with the territory.”

Alina blinked at him, momentarily forgetting the chill. “Married?” she echoed.

Fedyor’s grin softened into something warmer. “Yes. Though he’d never admit it, he’s the sentimental one. He keeps the ribbon from our vows tucked in his kefta. Won’t let me wash it, says the dye will fade.”

The horse ahead slowed, Ivan’s shoulders stiffening. He half-turned in the saddle, his dark eyes flicking back to them. “You talk too much,” he said flatly.

But this time, he didn’t turn away so quickly. His gaze caught Alina’s, then shifted to Fedyor. For the briefest moment, his voice lost its edge. “It’s not the ribbon I keep.”

Fedyor stilled, blinking up at him, the grin faltering into something softer. Ivan’s face hardened again as he turned his horse back around, but not before Alina caught the faintest flush across his cheekbones.

Fedyor let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “See?” he murmured, eyes shining. “He does have a language. You just have to listen carefully.”

Alina looked between them — the stiff line of Ivan’s back, the warmth radiating from Fedyor — and for the first time, the silence on the road felt less cold.

Alina let herself smile, really smile, as the horses plodded on. The forest pressed in around them, tall pines whispering in the cold wind, and the road ahead stretched endless and uncertain.

But here, between Ivan’s dry remarks and Fedyor’s steady warmth, the weight in her chest eased. Not gone, not forgotten. Just… lighter, for a moment.

Chapter Text

By the time the camp came into view, Alina’s legs were stiff from riding and her hands ached from clutching the reins she wasn’t really steering.

The forest thinned, the trees giving way to a wide stretch of open ground marked by ditches, watchtowers, and rows of tents. Smoke rose in thin grey streams from scattered cookfires, carrying the heavy smell of boiled cabbage and woodsmoke. Beyond, she could see the outlines of barracks and supply wagons, soldiers moving in purposeful lines — a living, breathing hive of order.

Kribirsk.

The heart of the First Army.

Beyond the rows of tents, beyond the chatter of soldiers and clatter of horses, the Fold rose out of the earth like a scar carved into the land.

It wasn’t just shadow. It was absence. A wall of black, stretching from one horizon to the other, swallowing light so completely it made the midday sun feel pale and weak. The line where it met the open steppe was too sharp, too unnatural, as if some giant hand had painted a stroke of ink across the world and left it to fester.

Alina stared, throat tight. She’d heard the stories, all of Ravka had, but no tale had prepared her for the sheer wrongness of it. The Fold didn’t look like a place you could pass through. It looked like a place that had eaten everything that dared come close. Even from here, she thought she could feel it—like a chill creeping under her skin, daring her forward.

Alina’s pulse quickened. She should have felt relieved — Mal was here, waiting. This was what she’d been asking for since she’d stumbled into the grisha’s arms. And yet, as the horses clattered down the muddy track toward the gates, unease twisted in her stomach.

The sentries stiffened as soon as they spotted the colourful array of keftas.

Ivan barely slowed his horse. His posture didn’t change, didn’t falter. “Second Army, on orders of General Kirigan,” he announced, his voice carrying with the kind of authority that left no room for argument.

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, flicking over Ivan’s red kefta, then to Fedyor’s, taking note of the rest of the group and finally to Alina — cloaked, hood shadowing her face. “And her?”

“She’s with us,” Ivan said flatly.

The man hesitated. Alina felt the air grow taut, like a bowstring drawn back.

Fedyor’s hand rested lightly at her waist, steadying. He smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Surely you don’t mean to make us stand here in the cold? We’ve come a long way, and our companion is ill, she has written permission to visit her brother, a first army tracker.”

“Fine. You can enter. But she stays with the First Army.” His chin jerked toward Alina. 

Alina’s chest tightened. She opened her mouth to protest — to say she was with them, that she wasn’t about to be handed over like luggage — but Ivan cut her off.

“No,” he said simply. Not loud, not angry. Just iron.

The sergeant’s jaw worked. “Regulations—”

“She stays with us,” Ivan repeated, and this time the air shifted, as though the weight of his will alone bent the space around them.

For a moment, Alina thought the man might actually push it — argue, order the rifles raised. The tension snapped tight as wire.

Then, finally, the sergeant stepped aside. “Fine. But if command asks, it’s on you.”

“Everything is,” Ivan said, and nudged his horse forward.

The way cleared. They rode on, hooves squelching in the mud. Alina tugged her hood lower, heart hammering.

She had wanted to come here. She had wanted Mal. But already she felt eyes on her, too many eyes, and none of them warm.

And in the back of her mind, like a whisper threading through the noise of the camp, a single name curled like smoke.

Alexander.

The camp was a labyrinth of canvas and mud, soldiers moving in tight clusters, rifles gleaming in the dull light. Alina kept her hood up as best she could, though it hardly mattered — heads still turned. Grisha drew stares wherever they went, and walking beside Ivan, she might as well have been marked too.

At the boundary between camps, Fedyor reined in his horse. “I’ll go ahead and check in with the others,” he said lightly, but his eyes lingered on Alina. “Ivan, don’t be long. She’s exhausted.”

“I know,” Ivan muttered, handing him the reins.

Fedyor smiled at Alina, bright and reassuring. “Don’t worry. We’ll have hot food waiting.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the rows of red, blue and purple tents that marked the Second Army’s space.

Ivan led her onward, toward a row of barracks where the First Army lived. Alina’s pulse hammered harder with each step. She’d imagined this reunion so many times — Mal waiting, Mal smiling, Mal pulling her into the safety of his arms. He was home.

And then there he was.

Mal, standing near a stack of crates, his jacket rumpled, his face thinner than she remembered but achingly familiar. For a heartbeat, everything else faded — the mud, the soldiers, the tension.

“Mal,” she breathed.

He turned. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Alina?”

Relief surged through her. She took a step forward — but then his gaze slid past her, to Ivan at her side. The joy in his face hardened into something else.

“What are you doing here? With them?” Mal’s voice was sharp, carrying more anger than she’d ever heard from him.

Alina froze. “I— I wasn’t—”

Ivan’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

Mal strode closer, his fists clenched. “Do you have any idea how it looks? Walking into camp with a Heartrender at your shoulder like he owns you?”

“Ivan doesn’t— he helped me,” Alina stammered. “Fedyor too. I was sick, Mal. The first army soldiers I was supposed to travel with weren’t there. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for them.”

“They’re Grisha,” he snapped. “Second Army. You know what people say about them. And you— Saints, Alina, what were you thinking?”

The words hit harder than a slap. She’d clung to the thought of him for so long, let it carry her through nights of cold and fear. And now, instead of comfort, all she felt was shame.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

For a moment, something in Mal’s face softened — but then his mouth set in a grim line. “Well, now you need to keep your distance from them. You don’t belong in their world.”

Alina’s stomach turned. She glanced at Ivan, who stood like a wall beside her, silent but solid, his presence steadying in a way Mal’s wasn’t. For the first time since she’d left the Keramzin, she wished she was home. She longed for the nights on the road where Fedyor’s laughter eased the weight on her chest, where Ivan’s watchful eyes made her feel… safe.

She had thought finding Mal would make everything better. Instead, it made her feel lonelier than ever.

Mal’s eyes were still sharp, his voice edged with anger, but Ivan didn’t rise to it. He glanced at Alina instead, studying her pale face, the way she gripped the edges of her cloak like she was holding herself together.

“You’ll find us in the Second Army camp,” Ivan said, his tone as flat and steady as always. “When you’ve had enough of this, come.”

Alina blinked, startled by the way he phrased it. When, not if.

He gave her one last look — something unreadable flickering in his eyes — then turned on his heel and strode back toward the rows of tents where Fedyor waited. He didn’t argue with Mal. He didn’t try to keep her. He just… trusted she’d find her own way.

Mal was scowling. “You’re seeing them later?”

“Ivan just meant—” she began, but Mal cut her off.

“They’ve got you wrapped up already, haven’t they? Saints, Alina, you don’t understand what they’re like. They’re not like us. They think they’re better than us.”

“They were kind to me,” she whispered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Mal’s expression hardened further, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he ran a hand over his face, then gave a short nod. “Fine. Forget it. I’ll show you the farm tomorrow. You’ll like it. Quiet, safe. Away from all this.”

She opened her mouth to answer — but he was already moving, flagging down another soldier to speak to, his words sharp and distracted.

In the end, she was led to a narrow First Army tent and left there, alone. The canvas walls rattled with every gust of wind, and the thin cot sagged beneath her weight.

She pulled her cloak tight, but the cold sank in anyway. The hours dragged, marked only by the distant sounds of drills and shouted orders, the occasional burst of laughter from passing soldiers. No one checked on her. No food came.

The longer she sat there, the weaker she felt. Her chest ached with every breath, her head heavy, the familiar sickness pressing close. She wanted to lie down, to sleep, but the chill gnawed at her bones until her teeth chattered.

She thought of Ivan, of the steady weight of his gaze when he’d said when you’ve had enough of this, come. She thought of Fedyor’s easy warmth, his laughter that always made her forget the fear for a moment.

And she thought of Mal — of how she had dreamed of this moment, clung to it like a lifeline. She had believed seeing him would mean safety, comfort, belonging.

Instead, she had never felt more unwanted.

Her fingers curled tight in the rough blanket. She had made the wrong choice.

She wanted to go back.

Back to them.

Chapter Text

By nightfall, the tent had grown colder, the thin blanket no match for the creeping damp that seeped through every seam. Alina sat hunched on the cot, shivering so hard her teeth rattled, sweat cooling and reheating against her skin in waves.

Her head felt heavy, her thoughts slow, as though her skull had been stuffed with cotton. When she touched her own forehead, her skin burned. Fever.

No one had come. Not Mal. Not a single soldier. She could hear them outside — laughter, boots on packed earth, the metallic ring of weapons — but no one looked in.

She couldn’t stay. If she did, she wasn’t sure she’d wake in the morning.

She forced herself to stand, her legs trembling beneath her. The precious gifted cloak slid from her shoulders, and she nearly let it fall before she realized she’d freeze without it. Fingers clumsy, she pulled the hood over her head and stumbled toward the flap of the tent.

The camp was dark, save for scattered lanterns and cookfires. Smoke and damp earth filled her lungs, making her cough weakly as she slipped between the rows of tents. Every step felt like it dragged her deeper into a dream — her vision wavered, edges blurring, the mud shifting treacherously beneath her boots.

Somewhere beyond, she knew, the Second Army camp waited. She could almost hear Fedyor’s voice, teasing and warm, or see Ivan’s steady gaze cutting through the dark. She had to reach them.

Her knees buckled, and she caught herself against a post, breathing hard. A soldier passed, not even sparing her a glance. She might as well have been invisible.

She stumbled onward, guided more by instinct than sight, drawn to the faint glow colourful silk banners rippling in the night wind. Her fever blurred everything into shapes and shadows, but she thought she could see them — Grisha kefta moving near the fires, laughter carrying soft across the camp.

Just a little farther.

Her body disagreed. The world tilted sideways, her stomach lurched, and her knees gave way completely. She collapsed into the mud, breath coming in shallow gasps, her heart pounding far too fast.

And as her vision dimmed, she thought she saw him — not Ivan, not Fedyor. Alexander. Standing just at the edge of her sight, watching her with those dark, endless eyes.

“No,” she whispered hoarsely, clawing at the mud, trying to push herself up. “Not you.”

But her strength gave out.

The last thing she felt was the sudden warmth of strong arms lifting her from the ground, voices shouting her name, and the heavy, terrifying pull in her heart thrumming louder than ever. 

Then darkness.

When Alina surfaced again, the world was muffled. She was wrapped in heavy blankets that smelled faintly of smoke and wool, the air warmer than it had been in days. A lantern flickered on a nearby table, throwing long shadows across the canvas walls.

Her head throbbed. Her throat burned. But she was alive.

She shifted slightly, and a sharp voice cut through the haze.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Alina flinched. Ivan was standing just inside the tent flap, his arms folded across his chest, red kefta dark as a shadow. His eyes burned in the dim light — not just cold, but furious.

She tried to sit up, only for the blankets to drag her back down. “I—”

“You wander into the First Army camp, let them dump you in some drafty tent like forgotten baggage, and then what?” His voice rose, clipped and precise, each word like a strike. “You stagger out half-dead in the middle of the night and collapse in the mud? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

Her lips trembled. “No one came. Mal… he didn’t—”

“Mal,” Ivan snapped, the name like a curse. He paced once, then back, his hands tightening into fists. “While you were freezing alone, did he even think to bring you food? Water? Did he think at all?”

Alina swallowed hard, heat prickling behind her eyes. “I thought— I thought being with him would feel different.”

Ivan stilled, watching her. His anger hadn’t faded, but something shifted in his gaze — something sharper, quieter. “And now?”

Her breath hitched. She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud, but the answer was clear in her chest.

Ivan came closer, kneeling beside the cot so that his shadow fell across her. His voice dropped to a low rasp. “Don’t make me dig you out of the mud again, Alina. If you’re going to stay breathing, you stay with us. Do you understand?”

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek before she could stop it.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, just watching her with that fierce, unreadable expression. Then, finally, he stood. “Good. Rest now. Fedyor will be back soon.”

And then he was gone, leaving the tent warmer than it had been a moment before.

Ivan left the infirmary tent with his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

The night air bit cold against his face, the camp alive with the muted hum of soldiers settling into sleep, but all he could see was her — pale and shivering, mud on her hands, her breath rattling like a dying bird’s.

Foolish girl.

He should have been harsher. He should have shouted until the truth seared into her bones: Mal would let her wither and die without a thought. He thought of nobody but his nightly tumbles according to gossip on the street. Saints, the boy hadn’t even noticed she was gone.

And yet when she’d looked at him with those wide, exhausted eyes, when her voice had broken on Mal’s name, something in his chest had twisted so hard he could barely breathe.

He hated it.

She wasn’t his to protect. She wasn’t his anything.

And still, when he’d lifted her out of the mud, when her head had lolled against his shoulder like she weighed nothing at all, fear had struck him sharper than any blade. Fear that he’d been too late. That she’d slip away before he could do a thing to stop it.

Ivan exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. The campfire ahead cast a low glow, where Fedyor sat waiting, probably still smiling, still ready to laugh away the dark. His heart was big enough for both of them.

Ivan’s was not.

But he’d made a choice the moment he told her, stay with us.

And whether she understood it yet or not, she was his responsibility now.

He would keep her breathing. He would keep her safe.

Even if it meant dragging her out of the mud a hundred times.

Fedyor was waiting for him by the fire, a pot of tea balanced over the flames. His smile faltered the instant he saw Ivan’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

Ivan sank onto the bench opposite, the heat from the fire licking at his hands, but not reaching the cold sitting heavy in his chest. “Alina nearly didn’t make it back at all.”

Fedyor’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“She tried to walk here on her own,” Ivan said flatly. “Through the camp. Feverish. Barely standing. When I found her, she was already on the ground.”

For once, Fedyor didn’t answer with a joke. His mouth tightened, and he reached for the pot, pouring into two tin cups with careful hands. “Saints. And her First Army friends?”

“They left her to rot.” Ivan’s tone was sharp as a blade. He didn’t take the tea. “He didn’t even notice she was gone.”

Fedyor let out a long breath, rubbing at his temple. “She’s stronger than she looks, but… she can’t survive this way. Not here, not between camps. And not if she’s—” He hesitated. “—whatever she is. The sickness isn’t ordinary. You know it. I know it.”

Ivan’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable.

“She needs better healers,” Fedyor said firmly. “Ones who understand more than fevers and bruises. We can’t keep patching her up and hoping she doesn’t collapse again.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of the camp.

At last, Ivan said, “The Little Palace.”

Fedyor’s eyes softened with relief. “Yes. Exactly. The General will know what to do. She’ll be safe there. Watched.” His smile was gentler now, though worry still lingered. “And maybe she’ll even understand what she is.”

Ivan stared into the fire, jaw tightening. “If the General agrees.”

“He will,” Fedyor said, like it was fact. “He always sees more than the rest of us. And if she belongs anywhere, it’s with us.”

Ivan didn’t argue, though something flickered across his face — not agreement, not yet. But not denial, either.

They sat in silence a while longer, firelight painting their kefta in red and black.

Both of them thinking of the girl asleep in their bed.

Both knowing the General had to be told.

Chapter Text

The General’s tent loomed like a shadow against the pale dawn sky. Black canvas, tall banners edged with silver, oprichniki posted on either side — silent and still, like statues.

Alina hesitated at the threshold, her breath fogging in the cold. Her cloak felt too heavy, the ground tilting beneath her feet. Ivan’s hand settled at her back, firm, steady.

“Inside,” he murmured.

Fedyor’s smile was warmer, encouraging. “Don’t be frightened, milaya. He doesn’t bite.”

Alina shot him a look, but it lacked heat. She pushed forward, ducking under the flap.

The air inside was warmer but thicker, heavy with smoke from the brazier at the center. Maps stretched across a long table, weighed down with daggers. A few officers stood at the edges, but it was the man at the table who drew her attention.

He wore black — nothing but black — with a silver-studded belt and boots polished to a mirror’s shine. His kefta was rich and simple, no embroidery to soften it, only the weight of authority. His hair fell dark around his face, and his eyes — Saints, his eyes — pinned her like a hawk pins prey.

Alina froze.

It was him.

Not blurred this time, not half-seen through dream fog. Whole. Real. Terrifyingly real.

Her heart lurched painfully against her ribs.

Ivan stepped forward, bowing his head. “Moi soverennyi.”

“Well?” the Darkling said, his voice low and edged with disinterest. “You wouldn’t disturb me without cause.”

Fedyor swallowed, glancing briefly at Ivan before speaking. “Moi soverenyi… we ask your leave to take on a ward.”

That earned them a flicker of attention. The Darkling’s dark eyes lifted, settling on the pair with something between curiosity and suspicion. “A ward?”

Ivan’s stance was stiff, his voice as flat as ever. “An orphan girl. Alina Starkov. She has no one. No home. She’s been left behind.”

The Darkling studied them, silent. Fedyor stepped in, words rushing out with his usual warmth. “She’s clever, and quiet, and far too thin. She deserves more than to be forgotten in some corner of the city. We want to take her to the Little Palace. Raise her among the Grisha. She’d be safe there.”

The Darkling tilted his head, as though they had just suggested something faintly absurd. “You wish to play at family, then?”

Ivan’s jaw tightened. “We wish to give her a chance. Nothing more. However we need the skill of the healers in the Little Palace. Of our friends, they owe us that.”

Fedyor added softly, “And perhaps a place to belong. Everyone deserves that.”

For a long moment the Darkling said nothing, only circled the table with measured steps. His expression was unreadable, but the silence itself seemed like a test. Finally, he sighed, the faintest trace of amusement curling in his tone. 

“Family can be a dangerous weakness in war, Ivan. Or it can be the only strength that matters.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space until Alina thought her knees might buckle. He studied her face as though searching for something hidden, something only he could see.

Then, softly: “Take care of her. If she is truly to be your blood, her safety will reflect on you.”

Alina dared a glance up at him. His eyes lingered on hers a moment longer — dark, fathomless, and too knowing — before he turned away.

“Dismissed.”

They left the tent in silence. The cold night air rushed around them, full of the scent of pine and smoke.

The two men exchanged a glance. For the first time in weeks, Fedyor felt something bloom in his chest that wasn’t grief or exhaustion—hope.

The brazier in the officers’ tent hissed as someone poured water onto the coals, sending up a bitter smoke. Maps and sealed orders lay stacked high, but Ivan ignored them. His arms were crossed, his jaw set in that unmovable way Alina was learning to recognize.

Across from him, a scribe hunched over parchment, scratching with a quill.

Fedyor sat beside Alina, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He offered her a reassuring smile, but his eyes darted often to Ivan — as if measuring the storm still brewing there.

Finally, the scribe sanded the page, blew gently, and pushed the papers forward.

“Done. She is now Alina Kaminsky, sister to Heartrender Ivan Kaminsky.”

Alina blinked at the words. Her throat felt tight. “That’s… me?”

Fedyor picked up the parchment, scanning it quickly. “Yes. You’ll need to memorize it, milaya. Place of birth, parents’ names, everything. If anyone asks, you’ve been at a village school until now, because your family was remote and protective.”

Alina’s hands curled in her lap. “And if someone finds out the truth?”

Ivan’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and certain. “They won’t.”

The finality in his voice left no room for doubt. Still, Alina’s stomach twisted. A false name. A false life.

“Why Kaminsky?” she asked softly.

For a moment, silence. Then Ivan said, “Because that’s our name.”

Fedyor’s smile warmed, gentling the edges of the moment. “You’re family now. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Alina’s eyes stung. She bit down on the feeling, but couldn’t stop her voice from trembling. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t understand why we have to lie, I thought you wanted me as a ward. ”

Ivan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes were unyielding, but not unkind. “This will lead to less questions, trust us. You’re not a burden. You’re under our protection. That’s all.”

The scribe cleared his throat nervously. “I’ll leave you to it.” He gathered his things quickly and all but fled the tent.

Silence settled again.

Alina traced the forged signature at the bottom of the page with a hesitant fingertip. Alina Kaminsky. The letters swam in her vision.

Fedyor reached out, covering her hand with his. “It’s just a name. You’re still Alina. But this way, you’ll be safe.”

Ivan only nodded, but there was something in his eyes — something fierce, almost possessive.

And for the first time, Alina wondered if she’d been claimed long before the papers were signed.

The Second Army camp had quieted. Outside, the night hummed with crickets and the soft clatter of distant patrols, but in the grand tent Ivan had claimed for the three of them, the air was still.

Alina sat cross-legged on her cot, cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. The papers lay folded on the thick quilt, their ink barely dry. She couldn’t seem to stop staring at them.

Alina Kaminsky.

It looked so official. So permanent.

Fedyor noticed her gaze. He reached across, plucking the parchment up with an easy smile. “Stop frowning at it, milaya. You’ll wear a hole in the page.”

“I’m just… thinking.” Her voice was small. “What if I forget? What if someone asks something I can’t answer?”

“Then we answer for you,” Fedyor said gently. He tucked the papers away in his satchel like they were already part of their belongings. “No one will doubt it. You look far too much like Ivan when you’re scowling.”

That startled a laugh out of her, short and uneven. “I do not.”

Ivan, seated on a stool with his boots half-laced, raised a brow. “You do.”

Alina hugged her knees, torn between exasperation and warmth. “I’ve never had a family.”

“Now you do,” Ivan said simply.

The weight of it settled over her. Her throat tightened. “Why are you doing this? You could’ve left me with Mal. Or with the First Army. I don’t belong in your world.”

Fedyor leaned closer, voice kind but firm. “You belong with the people who keep you safe. That’s all that matters.”

Ivan’s tone was rougher, but no less certain. “You belong with us. Don’t question it.”

The words should have felt like chains. Instead, something in her chest loosened.

She lowered her face into her knees, hiding the sting in her eyes. Saints, she was tired of holding herself together, tired of feeling like a burden, like a stray pulled in from the road.

Fedyor’s hand brushed over her hair, soothing. “Get some rest, sestra. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Alina lifted her head at that. “Sestra?”

He grinned. “Of course. If you’re Ivan’s sister, then you’re mine too. I’ve always wanted one.”

Ivan made a low noise of disapproval, but when Alina glanced up, she saw the faintest tug at his mouth — not quite a smile, but close.

Her heart clenched. For the first time in years, she let herself lean into it — the warmth, the belonging, the illusion that she wasn’t alone anymore.

Maybe it didn’t matter that the name on the papers was a lie.

Maybe what they were building together was real.

Chapter Text

Alina knew she was dreaming before she opened her eyes.

The cold earth beneath her bare feet was too soft, too yielding. The air hummed with that strange, electric stillness — as though the Small Science itself had been woven into the sky.

The tree was waiting.

It towered over her, branches spread wide, leaves whispering in a wind she couldn’t feel. Dark blossoms hung heavy, their petals glistening as though wet with ink. Roots pulsed faintly, veins of gold running deep into the soil.

And he was there.

Alexander.

He stepped from the shadows as if they’d parted for him. His figure was sharper now, less blurred — the edges of his kefta visible, the folds catching the silver light. And Saints, his voice… it filled her bones.

“You came back.”

Her throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yet here you are.”

He reached out, and without thinking, she let him take her hand. It was warm, too warm, like holding a coal that never burned.

Her pulse jumped.

“I saw you today,” she blurted.

He tilted his head, unreadable. “Did you?”

Her chest constricted. “At the camp. In General Kirigan’s tent. You—” She faltered. “You looked the same.”

Something flickered across his face — amusement, maybe, or warning. “People see what they wish to see.”

“No.” Alina’s voice shook, but she pressed on. “It was you. The same voice. The same eyes. You called yourself Alexander, but they call you…” She trailed off, unwilling to speak the name aloud.

The blossoms shivered on the tree above them, as though stirred by a storm only they could feel.

His grip on her hand tightened, just enough to make her heart stutter. “And what do you think, Alina? That I am a dream walking in your world? Or that your world is walking in mine?”

Her breath came shallow. “I don’t know. But you’re real. I can feel it.”

He smiled then, and it was beautiful and terrible all at once. “Good. Hold on to that.”

The ground shifted beneath her, the grass turning darker, the tree glowing brighter. Her vision blurred — not because of dream fog this time, but because she felt suddenly weak, unsteady.

“You’re not well,” Alexander murmured, his hand steadying her. “The tether strains you.”

Her chest clenched. “What’s a tether.”

His eyes burned like embers. “All in good time.”

The blossoms overhead burst into bloom, scattering black petals that turned to ash as they fell.

Alina jerked awake with a gasp, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

The tent was dark, the only sound Ivan’s steady breathing and Fedyor’s quiet sighs in sleep. But the dream clung to her, heavy as the cloak at her shoulders.

Alexander. The Darkling.

They weren’t two men at all.

They were the same.

Morning came far too quickly.

The camp stirred with the rustle of boots and the hiss of kettles over fire. Soldiers’ voices carried through the chill dawn air, sharp and clipped. Alina sat on the damp grass outside the tent, cloak wrapped tight, staring at her hands.

They still remembered the weight of his touch.

The Darkling’s touch.

No. She couldn’t think it that way. Couldn’t let herself believe it, not when the thought alone made her stomach twist. Dreams weren’t real. Dreams didn’t follow you into the waking world.

And yet… she had seen him. Heard him. The same cadence, the same stillness that bent the air around him. She wasn’t imagining it.

“Eat.”

Ivan’s voice startled her. He held out a tin cup of porridge, steam curling in the cold. His expression was as impassive as ever, but his gaze lingered just long enough that she knew he’d noticed her unease.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re weaker if you don’t,” he said flatly, and set the cup in her lap. No room for argument.

Fedyor joined them, hair still damp from washing, his smile as bright as the morning sun trying to pierce the clouds. “Ignore him, sestra. He says the same thing to me every day. And look at me—” He spread his arms grandly. “—perfectly healthy.”

Ivan muttered something in Ravkan that sounded suspiciously like a curse, but Alina barely heard them. Her mind was still in the dream, replaying Alexander’s words, the burn of his hand, the storm in his eyes.

She couldn’t tell them. Not Ivan, with his stone-hard loyalty. Not Fedyor, who would only smother her with concern.

If they knew she was seeing the Darkling in her dreams, they’d drag her straight to him. And then…

Her grip tightened on the cup until the metal bit into her palms.

No. Better to keep silent.

Better to carry this secret alone.

Fedyor plopped down beside her, shoulder nudging hers. “Don’t look so grim, sestra. Today is a new day, and soon we will travel home.”

She forced a thin smile, lowering her gaze to the food she didn’t want. Saints forgive her, but she’d never felt more apart from them.

They thought she was their sister.

But if they knew the truth, they’d see what she really was: tied to the Darkling in ways she couldn’t begin to explain.

It started with the nosebleed.

One moment, Alina was forcing down a spoonful of porridge, the next, the tin cup clattered from her hands as hot liquid spilled over her knees.

“Alina?” Fedyor’s voice was alarmed.

Her hand flew to her face. Blood streaked her fingers, warm and bright against her pale skin.

Ivan was already at her side, pressing a square of cloth into her palm. “Tilt your head forward. Fedyor, fix her, ” he ordered, his tone calm but tight with control.

She obeyed, dizzy, heart hammering. The world tilted. She saw Fedyor’s hands move rapidly but it did little to stop the panic rising in her chest. 

Fedyor looked over her shoulder, eyes darting to Ivan. “This isn’t just fever. It’s worse.”

“I know.” Ivan’s jaw worked, muscle flexing hard. He crouched lower, catching her gaze. “Alina. Can you hear me?”

She nodded, but the motion sent another wave of vertigo crashing through her. Her stomach churned. The ground spun.

Ivan swore under his breath, switching to a rapid tongue that she couldn’t follow. Fedyor’s reply was just as urgent, his usual warmth stripped away by worry. She saw the blonde head of Ivanna rush over, her hands shifting as she forced the rhythm into steadier measure.

When her vision steadied again, they were back in the tent. Ivan buckled his pack with sharp, practiced motions, already gathering her cloak and boots. Fedyor knelt, rolling bedrolls with quick efficiency.

“What—what are you doing?” Alina’s voice came thin, frightened.

“Packing,” Ivan said shortly.

“Packing for what?”

“To get you out of here,” Fedyor answered. He tried for a smile, but his eyes gave him away — too bright, too sharp with fear. “The Little Palace has healers far better than any camp medics. We’re not waiting another day.”

Alina’s chest tightened. “But Mal—”

Ivan cut her off. “Mal can wait.” His voice was like stone, unyielding. He shoved her boots into her lap. “Your life can’t.”

She stared at them, her hands trembling so badly she almost dropped them. The blood on her skin was drying, sticky and dark. Saints, what was happening to her?

Fedyor crouched in front of her again, gentle but firm. “Put these on, sestra. Please. We’ll ride hard, you’ll be safe, and when we reach the Palace, the Healers will fix whatever this is.”

Alina pressed her lips together, throat thick with fear. The dream clung to her still — Alexander’s voice, the tether thrumming in her chest. She knew, deep down, that this sickness wasn’t something a Healer could simply stitch away.

But she said nothing.

She shoved her feet into the boots with shaking hands, because Ivan’s glare allowed no room for argument, and because Fedyor’s warmth left no space for refusal.

Her legs felt weak as they guided her outside, the cold morning air biting her face.

Ivanna regarded her cooley and straightened her back as they approached, she assessed Alina carefully as though confirming her work but did not pass a word of greeting. Every adjustment she had made was patchwork at best, she didn’t see her work lasting hours let alone days. It was a failure of her skill. 

They hadn’t made it far from Kribirsk before Alina’s strength failed.

The fever had burned through her all day, each mile of road leaving her more slack against Fedyor’s chest in the saddle. By the time they reached a thicket of trees and set a quick camp, she was trembling so badly she could hardly drink from the waterskin Ivan pressed to her lips.

“Enough.” Fedyor’s voice was taut, stripped of its usual brightness. He guided her gently down onto a bedroll, brushing damp hair back from her forehead. Her skin was hot to the touch, yet she shivered violently.

Ivan crouched nearby, flint and steel forgotten in his hand. His gaze flicked between Alina and Fedyor, sharp and restless. “Can you help her?”

“I can try.”

Fedyor pressed his palms just above Alina’s heart. His eyes slid shut, lips moving silently as he bent his will toward her body. The pulse of his Small Science thrummed faintly, a warmth that spread from his hands into her fevered chest.

Alina gasped, arching slightly against the sensation. It was not unpleasant — more like cool water poured over fire. For the first time all day, her shivering stilled.

Fedyor’s brow furrowed with concentration. “Her pulse is racing, her blood too thin. Something is draining her.” His voice dropped. “It’s not just illness.”

Ivan’s jaw clenched. “The tether.”

Fedyor didn’t answer. He shifted, pressing his hands to her temples now, sending another wave of balancing energy through her system. Alina whimpered softly, then sagged, eyes fluttering closed.

“We don’t know if it exists,” Fedyor said at last, pulling back with a sharp exhale. His face was pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I’ve steadied her heart and slowed the fever, but it won’t last. I can’t mend what’s causing it. I’m not a healer. ”

Ivan rose to his feet, restless energy radiating off him. He paced once, twice, then stopped with his hands on his hips, staring down at her. “Then we ride harder. No delays.”

Fedyor leaned back on his heels, wiping his face with his sleeve. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by quiet, fierce resolve. “We’ll get her there. She just has to hold on.”

Between them, Alina lay still, her breaths shallow but even. For a moment, in the flicker of moonlight, she looked fragile — as if the wrong gust of wind might scatter her into nothing.

Ivan looked away first.

The night was black as ink, the moon hidden behind a thick quilt of cloud, leaving only the creak of saddle leather and the muted thud of hooves on the damp road.

Alina dozed in Fedyor’s arms, fever-bright and restless, her head tucked under his chin. Every so often she murmured words that made no sense — fragments of names, whispers of shadows.

Ivan rode ahead, shoulders rigid, eyes scanning the dark treeline. He had felt it for miles now — a prickle at the back of his neck, a presence threading through the silence.

When the riders emerged from the gloom, he wasn’t surprised.

Black horses. Black cloaks. At their center, astride a warhorse as dark as midnight, was the Darkling.

“Moi soverennyi,” Ivan said, reining in at once, bowing his head in deference even as his hand twitched close to his weapon.

Fedyor pulled his horse up alongside, his arm tightening protectively around Alina’s limp form. “You weren’t meant to meet us until Os Alta.”

The Darkling’s gaze slid past them both, fixing on Alina. “And yet here I am.”

His horse shifted closer, the sheer weight of his presence dimming the night itself. He studied Alina’s pale face, the sheen of sweat across her brow. “She looks worse.”

Ivan’s voice was flat. “She is.”

For a long moment, the Darkling said nothing. Then he swung down from his saddle with effortless grace, boots striking the earth without sound. He stepped toward Fedyor’s horse, the shadows seeming to fold around him like a cloak.

Alina stirred, murmuring softly, her lashes fluttering. When her eyes opened, they found him at once.

For a heartbeat, her fever-clouded gaze sharpened. Recognition flared.

“Alexander,” she whispered.

The name struck the air like a blade.

Ivan’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. Fedyor stiffened, his hold tightening instinctively.

The Darkling’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed was heavier than steel. He reached up, brushing his fingers briefly across Alina’s temple. Her eyes slid shut, her body sagging back into sleep.

The road jolted beneath the horses, but Alina felt weightless, like she was floating in water. Her head lolled against Fedyor’s chest, her skin clammy, each breath rasping as if the air itself was too thick.

And then—darkness.

Not the kind of darkness that came with closed eyes, but a world made of it. Shadows curling like smoke, endless and alive. Her boots touched nothing. She was suspended in a place between thought and heartbeat.

The tree was there again.

Its trunk stretched higher now, impossibly vast, roots splitting the earth into jagged veins. The black-green leaves whispered secrets she couldn’t catch.

“Alina.”

His voice. Low. Certain. It rolled through her like thunder through stone.

She spun, and he was there. Not blurred this time — not completely. His shape wavered, but sharper now, shoulders squared beneath a black kefta, his hair swept dark across his brow.

Her throat was dry. “You.”

“You’re weak,” he said, stepping closer. “The tether pulls at you too hard.”

Her chest ached. She pressed a hand against it, but even here, even in this not-world, she felt the pain. “What’s happening to me?”

His gaze lingered on her trembling fingers, the blood smudged faintly along her palm from the nosebleed she hadn’t even realized she carried into the dream.

“You’ve carried me too long,” he said softly. “Since childhood. Most would have broken by now. But you’re stronger than they know.”

“Who are you really?” she demanded. Her voice shook, but it still carried. “Alexander… that’s your name. But you—”

He reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She didn’t feel the warmth of skin, only the shock of something like lightning, a hum of power that wasn’t hers.

“You already know,” he murmured.

Her breath stuttered. “Why can’t I see you clearly?”

“Because you’re not ready to face me.”

The tree shuddered behind them, leaves flaring silver-black. The roots pulsed with golden veins like blood. She swayed on her feet.

“You’ll die if you don’t let me in.”

She stumbled back. “No—”

“Alina.” His voice thickened, deepened. Shadows wrapped around her like arms. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not of me.”

Her vision blurred — dream and fever and waking all tangling together. She gasped, fighting to stay upright, but the ground split beneath her feet, and the world tumbled—

—she jerked awake with a violent shiver.

The world returned in shards: the rocking of the horse, the cold press of Fedyor’s hand steadying her, Ivan’s voice sharp ahead, calling her name.

And behind it all, like an echo stitched into her chest, his voice lingered.

You’ll die if you don’t let me in.

The world tilted sideways.

Alina’s head lolled against Fedyor’s shoulder, her lips pale, her breaths shallow and uneven. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he coaxed her faltering rhythm back into something steady. It was like trying to cup water in his hands—every beat slipped through.

“Stay with me, milaya,” he whispered against her hair. “Just a little longer.”

Ivan reined his horse in hard, wheels of mud splashing up around him. His face was carved from stone, but his voice cracked sharp with command. “We stop. Now.”

The convoy ground to a halt, horses shifting uneasily. Fedyor slid down with her cradled in his arms, kneeling on the wet earth. Alina’s head lolled against his chest, a faint smear of blood still under her nose.

“She’s burning up,” he said, panic bleeding into his voice. “Her body can’t take this.”

“I know,” Ivan snapped, kneeling beside them, hand hovering uselessly over her as though he could will her heart stronger by sheer force. “Where is he—”

The Darkling dismounted in one smooth motion, his black cloak sweeping the damp road as though the mud dared not touch it. The night itself seemed to deepen around him.

“Give her to me,” he said.

Fedyor’s arms tightened around her instinctively. “She’s not—”

“She’s dying,” the Darkling cut in, his voice low, heavy with authority. His gaze flicked to Alina’s ashen face, her trembling lips. 

Ivan’s jaw worked, fury burning in his eyes. He looked at Fedyor, silently asking, silently begging him to resist.

But Alina stirred then — a soft gasp, a weak clutch of her hand against Fedyor’s tunic. He felt her heartbeat falter again beneath his palm, no matter how tightly he held on with his Small Science.

Fedyor’s throat tightened.

Slowly, reluctantly, he stood, lifting her like a child and turning. His eyes found Ivan’s for the briefest moment.

Forgive me.

And then he placed her in the Darkling’s arms.

The moment Alexander gathered her close, the world shifted.

The feverish tremor in her body eased, just a fraction, as though the shadows themselves were wrapping her in stillness. Her shallow breaths steadied. She gave the faintest sigh, her head turning into the black folds of his kefta, as though she had been meant to rest there all along.

Chapter Text

The motion of the horse was steady, but Alina barely felt it. She was floating again — not quite dream, not quite waking. Her cheek pressed against something solid, the scent of leather and pine filling her lungs.

His heartbeat thrummed beneath her ear, strong, unyielding, as though she had been carried there all her life.

And then the warmth began.

It started in her chest, a faint thrum like the first spark of kindling. She thought it was the fever at first, the same burning that had been gnawing at her from the inside. But this was different. This wasn’t pain. It was… release.

The glow spread under her skin, faint at first — a silvery shimmer along the curve of her throat, then down her arms, flickering through the weave of her cloak like trapped starlight.

The Darkling’s arms tightened, steadying her. His gaze dropped to her face, and for the briefest instant, something sharp and unreadable cracked in his expression.

Behind him, Fedyor’s voice broke. “Ivan—look.”

Ivan pulled his horse alongside, his eyes widening at the sight of her faint, growing light. The glow wasn’t fire. It wasn’t reflection. It was her.

Saints.

The small convoy had slowed, the Oprichniki staring in stunned silence as the night itself bent back from her glow. It wasn’t bright, not yet, but it was enough to touch every shadow and make them softer.

Alina stirred faintly, her lips moving, voice no louder than a breath. “I feel… lighter.”

The Darkling bent his head closer, his voice low, meant for her alone. “That’s because you are, solnishka.”

The word slipped like a promise, a claim, into the air between them.

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and golden with fever, but for the first time, she looked not broken but otherworldly. Light danced in the hollow of her collarbone, across her lashes, faint as dawn but undeniable.

Ivan’s grip on the reins was white-knuckled, fury and awe and fear clashing in his chest. “What is this?”

The Darkling’s gaze never left Alina. “The truth.”

The road blurred underhoof, the convoy pushing faster now, but Ivan barely felt the rhythm of his horse. His eyes hadn’t left the Darkling’s back, where Alina lay draped in his arms, glowing faint as a coal under ash.

It was wrong. All of it.

Grisha didn’t glow. Not like that.

He’d seen fire, lightning, sparks, storms — he had felt heartbeats stop beneath his hands — but he had never seen light seep from skin like it belonged there.

Fedyor rode beside him, uncharacteristically silent. The brightness still reflected in his wide eyes, as if it had burned its way inside him.

Finally, Fedyor spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Saints, Vanya. Did you see—”

“Yes,” Ivan snapped, sharper than he meant. His hands tightened on the reins, the leather creaking. “I saw.”

“She wasn’t using the Small Science. That wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t anything I know.” His tone was harsh, but it was only to smother the unease clawing up his throat. “She’s sick, Fedyor. Feverish. The tether is—”

“That wasn’t sickness.” Fedyor cut him off, shaking his head. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by a kind of reverent fear. “That was power. Saints, Ivan. She’s lit up like—like a star.”

Ivan gritted his teeth, staring hard at the glowing figure ahead. The Darkling’s silhouette was solid, commanding, his black kefta a cage around her fragile light.

“I don’t care what it looked like,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’s breaking. That’s all I see.”

Fedyor was quiet for a long moment, the hooves drumming between them. Then, softly: “What if she isn’t?”

Ivan turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” Fedyor’s gaze flicked toward Alina, his voice trembling with something close to awe. “What if she’s not breaking at all? What if she’s becoming?”

The words hung heavy between them.

The horses’ hooves pounded steadily, the air damp with the promise of rain. Ivan and Fedyor’s words barely rose above that rhythm — but it was enough.

Ahead, the Darkling’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

“You’re both right.”

Ivan stiffened. He hadn’t realized how close the man’s hearing was, or maybe it wasn’t hearing at all. Maybe the shadows carried their voices straight to him.

Fedyor sat taller in his saddle, color draining from his face. “Moi soverennyi—”

The Darkling didn’t turn, didn’t raise his voice. He simply kept riding, Alina’s glow faint against his kefta, his tone calm and absolute.

“She isn’t breaking. She’s awakening.”

Ivan’s jaw clenched. He forced steel into his voice. “She’s feverish, delirious. Whatever your doing—it doesn’t mean she’s stable.”

“No,” the Darkling agreed. “It means she’s dangerous.”

The word landed heavy, choking the air between them.

Fedyor swallowed hard. “She’s just a girl.”

The Darkling finally turned his head slightly, just enough for his profile to catch the dim light. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was soft, steady, and filled with something Ivan couldn’t name.

“She’s never been ‘just a girl.’ Not since the moment she drew breath.”

Alina drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, a thin thread holding her to the world. Every breath felt too heavy, too loud in her chest, but there was another heartbeat beneath her ear — strong, steady, carrying her along like a current. She clung to it, afraid that if it faltered she would vanish into the dark.

The voices came dimly, like she was underwater.

“…not breaking… awakening…”

Her brows knit faintly. Was that Ivan’s voice? Harsh, clipped — the way he always was when he was afraid.

“She’s… dangerous…”

Dangerous. The word rang louder than the rest, sharp enough to pierce the fog. Dangerous. Her?

She wanted to protest, to sit up and tell them how wrong they were. She couldn’t even keep her eyes open — what danger could she be to anyone? But her lips wouldn’t move, and her throat burned when she tried to swallow.

Then another voice, closer. Deeper. One that seemed to come from inside her chest as much as from outside.

“Never just a girl.”

Her pulse skipped. The tether tugged sharply, a familiar warmth coiling low in her ribs. Alexander.

Her eyes fluttered open, just barely, and she thought she saw him — the familiar shadowed face, dark eyes catching the glow bleeding faintly from her skin. He was watching her the way he always did in dreams, gaze unreadable, as though he could see through her bones.

But no — this wasn’t a dream. The cold air stung her skin, the rhythm of the horse jostled her body. And still, he was here, holding her.

Her lips parted, a breath of sound escaping. “Alexander…?”

The chest beneath her stiffened, just slightly. The arms around her tightened.

But when the voice came, it wasn’t soft, intimate, the way it was in dreams. It was cool, careful. “Rest, Alina.”

Her eyes fluttered open as they passed beneath high, gilded gates. The ironwork glimmered with faint light. Beyond them, pale towers rose against the grey sky, sharp and elegant, their windows gleaming like watchful eyes.

The Little Palace.

She had heard the name whispered, half in awe, half in fear. But nothing in her fevered imaginings had looked like this — beautiful and forbidding all at once.

The arms holding her tightened as the horse slowed. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. That same steady heartbeat thudded beneath her ear, unyielding, immovable.

Fedyor appeared before her, his tone trembled with both worry and relief. “Moi soverennyi, the Healers—”

“They’re waiting.”

The Darkling swung down from his horse, cradling her against him as though she weighed nothing. The cold air hit her as he carried her forward, but it was drowned out by the heat rolling in waves from her own skin.

Her gaze snagged on Ivan’s face as he dismounted. He followed close, rigid with tension, but his eyes betrayed him — fear and fury both warred there. He looked at her like she was slipping through his fingers.

She wanted to speak. To tell him she was still here. But the fever clawed at her throat, dragging her back down.

Inside, the palace loomed darker, quieter. Torches flared against polished stone, shadows clinging to vaulted ceilings. She was laid gently onto a high bed draped in embroidered silks, her head cushioned, the scent of lavender sharp in the sheets.

Hands were on her at once — cool, precise. Healers. They murmured to one another, words she couldn’t follow, as they hovered their palms over her chest, her brow, her trembling hands.

But still, even as exhaustion tugged her under, she felt it.

The tether.

Alexander was here.

Not in dreams. Not in shadows. Here, watching.

And that made her both safer… and more trapped… than she had ever been before.

The fever broke sometime in the night.

Alina woke slowly, as though surfacing from deep water. The sheets were cool against her skin now, damp with the sweat of her illness. The glow that had burst from her before was gone, but her body felt hollow, like an emptied lantern.

The chamber was dim, lit only by a single lamp burning low on the table. Heavy curtains muffled the sounds of the palace beyond. For the first time in days, the air didn’t smell of mud and smoke, but beeswax, pine, and clean linen.

And he was there.

Seated in a carved chair beside her bed, black kefta spilling like a shadow across the floor. His posture was impeccable, hands folded loosely in his lap, as if waiting was nothing to him. But his eyes — they caught the lamp’s glow, and they were fixed on her.

She shifted faintly, and his gaze sharpened.

“You live,” he said quietly. No flourish. No warmth. Just fact.

Alina pushed herself onto one elbow, though the effort left her dizzy. “What did you do to me?”

“You assume I did anything,” he said. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his face too close in the dim light. “The Healers kept your body from failing. The rest…” His gaze flicked down, almost imperceptibly, to the place where the glow had once shone from her chest. “…was you.”

Her heart stumbled in her chest. “That wasn’t me. It was—” She faltered. She didn’t have the words.

“Call it instinct,” he said softly. “Call it truth, breaking free.”

His voice pulled at her, low and steady, weaving around her like silk.

Alina shook her head, though weakly. “You’re wrong. I’m no one.”

He studied her then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes impossibly deep. “You’ve never been ‘no one.’ That was only the story you told yourself to survive.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Because part of her wanted to believe him.

He sat back, the distance between them a sudden cold. “Rest, Alina. The time for answers will come. For now, you need only remember this—”

His voice softened, intimate, almost a whisper.

“You are not alone anymore.”

And then he rose, his cloak whispering across the floor as he vanished into the shadows, leaving her with the weight of his words echoing in the dark.

The door opened with a quiet creak.

Alina stirred, bracing herself for the return of the Darkling’s shadowed presence. But instead, two familiar figures stepped into the lamplight — one with sharp, tired eyes, the other with a smile that faltered as soon as he saw her.

“Alina,” Fedyor breathed, the name half relief, half prayer. He was across the room in three strides, kneeling beside the bed. “Saints, you look—” He stopped himself, forcing a softer smile. “—better than before.”

“Liar,” she rasped, but there was a faint curve to her lips.

Fedyor chuckled, though it broke with emotion, and reached carefully for her hand. His touch was gentle, warm in the way that never felt threatening. “You scared us.”

Behind him, Ivan lingered near the door, arms folded, posture stiff as carved stone. But his eyes gave him away. They flicked over her — the pallor in her cheeks, the hollow shadows beneath her eyes, the way her body seemed too small against the heavy sheets.

Alina’s smile faltered. “Ivan…”

He didn’t answer. He came closer, slowly, like every step was deliberate. His gaze was steady, hard to read, but there was no mistaking the tightness in his jaw, the lines bracketing his mouth.

“I didn’t mean for any of this,” she whispered.

For a moment, silence stretched. Then the bed dipped as Fedyor sat carefully beside her. “We know. And we don’t blame you, Alina. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Her throat tightened, tears threatening, but she forced a small nod.

Ivan finally exhaled, the sound harsh. He dragged a chair forward and sat heavily, his eyes fixed on her, fierce and unyielding. “You don’t run. You don’t wander. You stay where we can find you. Understood?”

There was no room for argument in his tone — but beneath it was fear, raw and unspoken.

Alina swallowed hard. “Understood.”

Only then did Ivan allow himself the smallest concession — his hand reached out, brushing the edge of her blanket, not quite touching her. As though the contact might undo him.

And for the first time since she’d left Keramzin, Alina felt like she had come home.

The fire in the corner crackled softly, the only sound between them.

Fedyor was still holding her hand, thumb stroking absently along her knuckles as if to remind himself she was real. His kefta sleeves were wrinkled, his hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. He looked tired, but it was the kind of tired born from worry, not weariness.

“You know,” he said after a long silence, his voice gentle, “Ivan wouldn’t leave the healer’s hall until they let him carry you up here himself. He pretends not to care, but don’t believe him.”

“I don’t,” Alina murmured. Her lips curved faintly. “I know he cares.”

Ivan’s chair creaked as he shifted. “I don’t pretend,” he said flatly.

Fedyor smirked. “You do.”

Alina glanced between them, a fragile warmth curling in her chest. They bickered so easily, like two halves of something whole. It made her feel… steadier, somehow.

She dared a breath. “I thought I was going to die.”

Both men went still.

“You didn’t,” Ivan said, voice a little rougher than usual. “Because we didn’t let you.”

Fedyor’s smile dimmed. “We nearly lost you, solnyshko. That’s not something I want to feel again.”

Her eyes burned, tears pressing hot against the edges. She blinked quickly, not wanting to break. “I’m sorry.”

Ivan leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze heavy on her. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t choose this.” His words were sharp, but his hand finally reached across the blankets, resting lightly over hers where Fedyor still held it. “We choose to protect you. That’s ours to carry, not yours.”

Something in her chest cracked open at that. She’d spent so long being small, unwanted, invisible. And here they were, setting themselves between her and the dark.

Her voice came out as a whisper. “Why?”

Fedyor and Ivan shared a look — the kind of wordless conversation that came from years of trust. Then Fedyor turned back to her, eyes soft.

“Because you’re ours now.”

The room felt suddenly warmer, safer. Alina let herself sink back into the pillows, holding onto the moment like a lifeline. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to fight alone.

The door opened without a knock.

The room seemed to contract as the Darkling stepped inside, his presence pulling the air taut. Beside him walked a woman in red kefta, her pale hair braided down her back, her hands folded neatly. A healer.

Ivan’s hand slipped back from Alina’s, shoulders squaring in reflex. Fedyor sat up straighter, though his fingers lingered just long enough to give her hand a last squeeze before releasing it.

“Resting?” the Darkling asked, his gaze settling on Alina with unnerving precision. His tone was mild, but it was no question.

Alina nodded, throat dry. “Trying.”

“This is Helena,” he said, gesturing to the woman. She inclined her head politely. “She will monitor your recovery while you remain here.”

Helena moved to the bedside, her cool fingers brushing Alina’s wrist, pulse measured. Alina fought the urge to shrink away. “Too weak,” Helena murmured after a moment, her brow furrowing. “She cannot endure strain, not even minor use of her small science at this time.”

“Exactly as I thought.” The Darkling’s eyes stayed on Alina, unblinking. “You will not use your power until I give permission. It will only worsen your condition.”

Alina’s stomach twisted. “But—”

“No,” he cut across her, the single word smooth as glass and just as sharp. “You are not to reveal yourself. Not here. Not now. Until you are stronger, you are Ivan Kaminsky’s sister. Alina Kaminsky. Nothing more.”

The weight of the name settled heavy on her shoulders. She dared a glance toward Ivan, but his face gave nothing away — only stillness, obedience.

“You may walk the wing you’ve been placed in,” the Darkling continued. “Nowhere else. No wandering through the Little Palace, no curiosity pulling you into rooms you don’t belong in. If you are seen, you are Kaminsky. If you falter, you are sick. That is all.”

Alina swallowed. “And if someone asks questions?”

“Then you answer them as Kaminsky,” Ivan said quietly, the first time he’d spoken since the Darkling entered. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked to hers, deliberate, willing her to understand.

The Darkling’s gaze shifted briefly toward him, unreadable, before returning to Alina. “Do as you’re told,”

With that, he turned and swept from the room, Helena trailing silently after him.

The door closed, leaving the silence thick in his wake.

Alina exhaled shakily, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I don’t like him.”

Fedyor leaned forward again, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “That’s why you have us. Let him have his rules, milaya. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Chapter Text

The days blurred into a strange rhythm.

The Little Palace was a world of color and movement, but Alina saw only fragments. A sunlit corridor here, a quiet courtyard there, always in the same wing, always within boundaries marked out for her by the Darkling and enforced — relentlessly — by Ivan.

He walked her everywhere. To meals. To the small library tucked away at the end of the hall. Even just to the courtyard when she wanted air. Always a step behind or beside her, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of restraint.

It should have been comforting. It was suffocating.

On her third morning, she lingered too long at the windows overlooking the main training grounds. Grisha sparred in brilliant flashes of color — blue, red, even grey oprichniki— their power and skill on display like fireworks. She pressed a hand to the glass, wishing she could feel the weight of it herself.

“You’re staring,” Ivan said behind her.

Alina jumped. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He moved closer, his reflection tall and unyielding beside hers in the glass. “Don’t. People notice stares.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. She wanted to argue, but the look on his face — hard lines, that constant alertness — made her shrink back.

Later, in the library, she tried to lose herself in a book of Ravkan folktales, but Ivan stood by the door the whole time, eyes flicking across the shelves, the windows, the corners of the room as if enemies lurked in every shadow.

“You don’t have to stand there like a soldier,” she muttered at last.

“I am a soldier,” he replied.

She snapped the book shut, glaring at him. “You don’t have to be my jailer.”

Something flickered across his expression — hurt, maybe, or guilt — but it was gone too quickly to name. He only said, “Better a jailer than a gravedigger.”

The words struck harder than she expected. She didn’t answer.

When Fedyor arrived that evening, carrying a tray of tea and sweet rolls, Alina nearly sagged with relief. He had a way of filling a room with light, of laughing away tension like it had never existed.

“You’ll wear her to pieces if you hover like that,” Fedyor said, tossing Ivan a pointed look as he set down the tray.

“She’s not strong yet,” Ivan retorted.

“She’s not glass either,” Fedyor countered gently, pressing a cup of tea into Alina’s hands.

She smiled faintly at him over the rim. For once, she didn’t feel like an impostor, or a secret to be hidden. Just… cared for.

But when she glanced back at Ivan, he was watching her with that same unshakable vigilance, and her heart twisted.

When Fedyor walked her to the small enclosed courtyard for air one afternoon, she tried to draw strength from his easy chatter. He talked about the gardens, about silly arguments between Squallers and Tidemakers, about the way the cooks were hopelessly in love with a Durast who never noticed them.

Alina laughed — a real laugh, sudden and startled — and for a moment she almost forgot the weight of her new name.

But then Ivan appeared at the archway, sharp-eyed, scanning the enclosed garden like an enemy camp. Her smile faltered.

Fedyor noticed, of course. He always noticed. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, milaya,” he said softly, once Ivan had stepped a little out of earshot.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered back. “I just… I don’t know how to breathe with him watching me all the time.”

Fedyor’s expression softened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he touched her arm lightly. “Then let me be the one to make you laugh. That way, when he hovers, it won’t feel quite so heavy.”

Alina glanced at him, warmth threading through her chest despite everything. “That helps.”

That evening, as she lay in her bed beneath the tall windows, she thought of both men — of Ivan’s fierce vigilance, of Fedyor’s gentle light — and the strange truth settled heavier and heavier:

She was caught between them. Shielded. Watched. But also cared for in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

And though she told herself she would remain cautious, her heart whispered something else entirely:

How much longer can I stay hidden like this?

Alina stood in the middle of her room, turning slowly as though the walls might vanish if she blinked too hard.

Her bedroom was larger than the entire kitchen at Keramzin. A tall window framed the courtyard, its panes latticed with fine ironwork, and heavy curtains of deep green silk spilled to the floor. The bed was absurdly big, draped in embroidered quilts that shimmered faintly when the lamplight touched them. Even the rug beneath her boots was thick and soft, patterned with curling gold vines.

She ran her fingers over the carved dresser at the foot of the bed, half-afraid she’d leave smudges. Inside, folded with exact precision, were gowns finer than anything she had ever touched. Satin in pale shades of blue and green. Velvets rich enough to swallow light. Simple day dresses made of fabric that would have been considered luxurious where she came from.

She pulled one out — a deep forest green, the hem stitched with tiny seed pearls — and held it against herself in the mirror. She almost laughed. It didn’t look like her at all. It looked like someone she might dream of being.

The strangest part was the care.

Fedyor had taken it upon himself to fuss with her hair each morning. Sometimes he wove little braids into it, sometimes he pinned it with delicate combs that he swore had “been neglected for far too long in the drawer.” He hummed while he worked, patient and cheerful, as though making her pretty was a task as ordinary as polishing boots.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

Sitting at the vanity, surrounded by crystal bottles of perfume and brushes with carved handles, Alina studied her reflection. Her hair gleamed in its new braids, the plain girl she remembered still there beneath the polish — but softened, made different by all this finery.

She touched the string of beads Fedyor had insisted she wear that morning. “You’ll feel like yourself soon,” he had promised.

But she wasn’t sure.

This wasn’t her world. These weren’t her clothes.

And yet… when Fedyor beamed at his handiwork, when Ivan’s sharp gaze softened just enough to linger in quiet approval — for a moment, she almost believed she belonged here.

The library smelled of parchment and beeswax, the kind of scent that made Alina’s chest loosen, like home pressed into a book spine.

She had chosen the blue dress that morning — pale as summer sky, trimmed with silver thread that shimmered in the light. Fedyor had insisted it suited her, weaving her hair into an intricate crown braid to match. When she caught her reflection in the tall mirror by the door, she had hardly recognized herself.

Now, as she wandered between shelves heavy with leather-bound volumes, she felt the dress swish around her legs, too fine, too fragile for her hands. She clutched a book to her chest, trying to pretend she belonged.

“Strange place to hide,” a voice said lightly.

Alina turned.

A young man stood at the end of the aisle, dressed not in Grisha kefta but in the neat uniform of the First Army — though the cut was finer, the boots better polished, the smile a little too sharp to belong to an ordinary soldier. His blond hair caught the light, and his eyes gleamed with something far cleverer than the easy grin he wore.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Alina said, hugging her book closer.

“Weren’t you? Everyone else seems to be parading in the halls, showing off sparks or storms or whatever it is they do.” He strolled toward her, hands clasped behind his back, as if this were his library and she an unexpected guest. “And here you are, tucked away in blue silk.”

Alina bristled. “I like books.”

His grin widened. “A sensible answer. But I think there’s more to it, Miss…” He trailed off, letting the silence invite her to fill it.

“Kaminsky,” she said at once, her false name heavy on her tongue. “Alina Kaminsky.”

“Kaminsky,” he repeated, as though tasting the sound. “Relation to Ivan and Fedyor Kaminsky, yes? He’s never mentioned you before.”

Her throat went dry. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Not everything needs mentioning. Ivan is my brother.”

“True,” he allowed, circling her slowly, his eyes flicking from her braid to her dress to the book clutched in her arms. “But secrets have a way of slipping out. Especially in places like this.”

For a heartbeat, Alina thought he knew. Knew about the tether, the fever, the way she had glowed in the Darkling’s arms.

But then his expression softened, and he gave a small bow, all courtly grace. “Nikolai Lantsov. At your service.”

Her breath caught. She knew the name, even if she’d never seen his face before. A prince.

Alina dipped her head, awkward, uncertain. “I… didn’t realize—”

“Good,” Nikolai cut in, eyes gleaming. “I like to be underestimated.”

And with that, he plucked the book from her arms, glanced at the title, and smiled faintly. “A story about saints. Fitting.”

He handed it back, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. “We’ll speak again, Miss Kaminsky. I have a feeling your story’s more interesting than you’re letting on.”

And then he was gone, leaving her heart thudding and the weight of her false name pressing heavier than ever.

Alina sunn into a carved wooden chair in the library, the blue dress spread around her like spilled ink. Her hands trembled against the book in her lap. Nikolai Lantsov. Saints, she had just spoken to a prince. And worse — he’d looked at her like he knew she wasn’t who she said she was.

“Alina.”

The sound of Ivan’s voice made her flinch. He stood in the doorway, shadow falling across the shelves, his eyes fixed on her like a hawk sighting prey.

“You spoke to him.”

Alina swallowed. “He—he came to me. I didn’t—”

Ivan strode forward, the long lines of his coat cutting sharp angles in the lamplight. “Do you know who that was?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Nikolai Lantsov.”

His jaw tightened. “Then you should know better than to let him sniff around you.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Alina protested. “I just said my name. My name.”

“Just your name,” Ivan snapped. The words struck like a whip. He paced once, twice, before stopping in front of her chair. “You don’t understand how dangerous this is. One wrong word, one slip, and it isn’t just you who suffers. It’s Fedyor. It’s me. It’s everything we’ve built to keep you safe.”

Her eyes burned. “I didn’t ask you to build anything!”

For a moment, the air between them crackled with silence. Ivan’s expression barely shifted, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Then, softer — almost too quiet to hear: “And you didn’t ask to die in the mud, either. But that was what would’ve happened if we hadn’t carried you out of it.”

Alina’s breath caught. His words were harsh, but underneath them was something she had never expected to hear from him — fear.

“Ivan…” she began.

But he only shook his head. “No more wandering alone. No more chance encounters. If Nikolai Lantsov so much as looks at you again, you walk away.” His gaze pinned her in place, unyielding. “Do you understand?”

She nodded, though her throat ached.

Ivan lingered a moment longer, searching her face for something he couldn’t name. Then, with a final curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode from the library.

Alina sat frozen in her chair, the book forgotten in her lap, her pulse still thrumming with the echo of his words.

Safe. Hidden. Watched. Always watched.

And yet, beneath the sting of his rebuke, a flicker of something more dangerous still curled in her chest: the memory of Nikolai’s knowing smile.

The knock on her door came late, when the halls of the Little Palace had gone quiet. Alina sat perched on the edge of her vast bed, still in the blue dress but with her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered to undo the braid properly — it had unraveled into a tangle, and her fingers had been too unsteady to fix it.

The door creaked open. Ivan stepped inside without a word. His face was its usual mask of stone, but there was a tension in his shoulders that told her he wasn’t here to scold.

He crossed the room, stopping beside her bed. For a long moment he only looked at her, then let out a slow breath. “Turn around,” he said quietly.

She blinked at him, startled. “What?”

“Your hair. It’s a mess.”

Alina hesitated, then shifted, her back to him. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down behind her. His hands were unexpectedly gentle as they gathered the loose strands of her hair. Slowly, carefully, he began to brush through the tangles with his fingers, patient where she would have tugged.

The room was silent but for the whisper of hair sliding between his hands.

Alina’s chest tightened. The words she’d been swallowing all evening finally spilled out in a whisper: “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Ivan murmured, still working through the braid.

“Yes, I do.” Her voice cracked. “Everything I do feels wrong. I say the wrong things. I can’t even… even stand in the library without ruining it.”

Her eyes burned, and before she could stop herself, the tears broke free. She bowed her head, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.

Ivan’s hands stilled in her hair. Then, after a beat, one came to rest on her shoulder — warm, steady, anchoring her as she broke.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said at last. The words were rough, like they scraped against his throat, but they were steady. “You’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

Alina turned slightly, just enough to catch his profile in the lamplight — sharp, unyielding, but softer now, the edges dulled by something she hadn’t expected to find in him: care.

Her tears kept coming, but quieter now, her body leaning into the weight of his hand on her shoulder, into the simple, wordless comfort he offered.

The tears left Alina drained. van didn’t move, just stayed there with one hand resting lightly on her back as though he was afraid she might break apart if he let go.

It was the first time she’d felt him stay — not just hovering, not just guarding, but staying with her. The silence between them wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was something she could lean into.

When she finally drew a shaky breath, Ivan let his hand fall back to his lap. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to offer words of comfort he didn’t have. But he brushed her hair one last time, untangling the final knot and smoothing it down her back.

Alina turned, meaning to thank him, but the words caught in her throat. His face was so close, unreadable as ever, but his eyes held a shadow of something that looked almost… protective.

The knock at the door shattered the moment.

Ivan stiffened instantly, the softness gone in a heartbeat. He rose to his feet in a single motion and opened the door just enough to see who stood beyond.

A young Corporalnik bowed sharply. “Orders from the Palace,” he said. “The King requests the presence of the Darkling — and of Ivan’s sister. Immediately.”

Alina’s stomach lurched. “The King?” she whispered.

Ivan didn’t answer. He closed the door, turning back to her with his face carved back into that mask of control. But his hands were clenched at his sides.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” he said after a long pause, his voice low. “Stay close to me. Say nothing more than you must.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She thought of the lie of her name, of Nikolai’s knowing eyes in the library, of the weight of Alexander’s gaze when no one else seemed to see him.

The King wanted her.

And suddenly, the grand room, the fine dresses, even Ivan’s gentle touch on her hair felt like threads in a web tightening around her.

A knock came again, softer this time, followed by a silken voice.

“May I come in?”

 A woman in a white kefta swept into the room without waiting for an answer. She was radiant, her copper hair gleaming in the lamplight, a box tucked beneath one arm.

“I hear we’ve been summoned,” she said lightly, setting her case on the table. “Best we not look like we’ve just crawled out of a hayloft, hm?”

Alina sat frozen on the edge of the bed, still reeling from the announcement. Ivan stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the woman with suspicion.

She clicked her tongue. “Don’t glower at me, Ivan. I’m here to make your sister presentable, not to poison her.”

He didn’t move. “You’ll keep your hands steady, Genya.”

“Always do.” She tilted her head at Alina. “Well? Come here, little bird. Let me see what we’re working with.”

Before Alina could rise, another presence filled the room. Quiet, weighty, commanding.

The Darkling leaned in the corner, clad in black as though he’d stepped out of shadow itself. He hadn’t spoken, but his gaze alone pressed against her skin like a brand.

Alina swallowed hard. Her fingers twisted in her lap, and she stood slowly, obeying Genya’s gentle tug toward the chair by the mirror.

Genya worked with quick, confident motions — brushing out Alina’s hair, smoothing her fingers over the ghostly pale of her cheeks, drawing out the faint golden warmth in her skin. “There,” she murmured. “Pretty enough to catch a king’s eye, but plain enough he won’t look too closely.”

Ivan bristled at that, stepping closer, but Genya only smirked at his reflection. “Relax, Heartrender.”

Alina forced herself to meet her own reflection. The girl staring back at her looked nothing like the orphan from Keramzin, nor the sick girl she had been weeks ago. She looked almost like… someone else entirely.

“Her name is Alina Kaminsky,” Ivan said at last, his tone flat, as if daring anyone to contradict it.

“Yes,” Genya agreed softly, fastening a pale ribbon at Alina’s throat. “And tonight, she’d better believe it herself.”

From the corner, the Darkling finally stirred.

“Remember your place, Ivan,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “If the King asks, she is your blood. Nothing more, nothing less. And you”—his dark eyes fell on Alina, unreadable—“you will keep your head bowed.”

The air in the room seemed to thrum. Alina’s heart hammered so loudly she thought the others must hear it.

Genya smoothed the last curl of her hair into place and kissed her lightly on the cheek, as though to bless her. “There. She’s ready.”

Ivan set a hand briefly on Alina’s shoulder, grounding her.

And from the shadows, the Darkling’s gaze lingered like a promise she didn’t understand.

The door creaked softly before Ivan could answer, and Fedyor slipped inside, closing it quickly behind him. His hair was damp from the mist outside, his red kefta darker at the shoulders where the rain had caught him.

Alina half-rose from her chair, relief washing through her like sunlight breaking through cloud.

“You took your time,” Ivan said, sharp but low, still standing guard at her side.

Fedyor held up a hand. “Because I didn’t want to be followed. Everyone is buzzing like flies in a honey jar.” His usual smile faltered. “Rumors are spreading. A mysterious girl, brought to the Palace under the General's protection. People are whispering already. The King wants to see for himself.”

Genya clicked her tongue, busying herself with her brushes. “Of course he does. Old men always think they’re owed a new toy.”

Ivan’s jaw clenched. “Watch your words.”

“Oh, relax. It’s curiosity. He’s bored.” Genya waved a hand, but her eyes flicked toward Alina with something gentler. “Still — she should be careful. He’ll be looking for weakness.”

Fedyor crouched in front of Alina’s chair, his eyes warm and earnest. “You don’t have to be afraid. Just stay close to us. Let Ivan lead you, let General Kirigan speak. If the King asks you something, keep your answers short.”

“She’s still weak,” Ivan muttered. “Her color’s not right.”

“I know,” Fedyor said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind Alina’s ear in a gesture almost brotherly. “But this isn’t something we can refuse.”

The Darkling’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade.

“Indeed it isn’t.”

They all turned. He hadn’t moved from the corner, but his gaze was fixed on Alina, unreadable, fathomless.

“You’ll come,” he said simply. “And you’ll remember — you belong to us.”

Alina shivered, though whether from his words or the way Ivan’s hand closed firmly over hers, she couldn’t tell.