Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a perfectly normal day when they enter the Fold.

The wind slinks across bleached sand, sending ripples and eddies out into the distance. Down at the dry docks, the skiffs are full of the bustle that comes before a journey, people moving like a swarm of ants around a kicked nest. A hive of olive green specked with flashes of bright colour. Blue for the Squallers by the rigging. Red for the Heartrenders patrolling the edge of camp. Purple ducking in and out of sight as Fabrikators perform last-minute checks. The sky stretches above them, empty and grey until it reaches the edge of the Fold, where it abruptly vanishes into the black.

Alina sits at the top of a hill and tries not to throw up.

This is what you wanted, a voice inside her says nastily. You wanted on that skiff so badly, didn’t you? You wanted to be with Mal. And now your whole unit is going to die alongside you.

“Shut up,” she mutters through gritted teeth. Trips were made all the time. And these skiffs were better, quieter, the most advanced design yet. The Black General himself had come to see them off. They had a whole team of Grisha there to protect them. They would be safe.

Safe enough to for you, the voice says. But safe enough for the other cartographers? For Ruby, who made snide remarks but would lend you hair pins when you were out? For Alexei, who often stumbled on the line between sweet and awkward, and who covered for you when the Head Cartographer came looking?

The truth was, she hadn’t been thinking of them when she burned those maps. She hadn’t been thinking of anyone but Mal.

Stupid, she thinks later, as their skiff slides towards the black wall of the Unsea. The wind feels like ice against her exposed neck, in sharp contrast to the sweat gathering on her palms. Alexei’s eyes are wide beneath his floppy hair and Ruby’s knuckles turn white on the railing. Mal’s shoulders tense under his jacket as he holds his position by the edge of the skiff, rifle at the ready. Did you think he would thank you? If it were you going, wouldn’t you want him to stay behind, where it was safe? Did you think he would be glad to see you here, sailing to your deaths?

Alina lifts her chin. What’s done is done. If the Saints are kind, they’ll make it to the other side. If they’re not, at least they’ll die together. Inseparable, as they were always meant to be.

-

The Saints are not kind.

Ruby is torn into the sky. Alexei jumps over the edge of his own free will. There is blood everywhere, fire roaring into the sky as the Inferni sends blast after blast until she, too, is yanked from the skiff with a sickening crunch. Rifle fire splits the air, answered by furious screams from the darkness around them. More volcra. One Squaller dead, another fighting as hard as she can with one arm bloodied and limp at her side.

There’s no escape. No way out. They’re going to die here, nothing but bodies in the dark.

And Mal—

Mal, bleeding on the deck.

His hand reaches out. His lips form words. No, she wants to scream, or maybe cry. Not you, too. You can’t leave me here alone. We’re supposed to be together.

Something collides with her from behind. Pain lances through her back and she’s lifted into the air. The scream builds in her throat. Mal’s eyes are on her. Determined. Tethering her to the ground with nothing but the weight of his body.

Claws in her back. A hand in hers. That scream racing up, building in power. It reaches her chest and something inside of her snaps.

The world explodes into white.

-

The Sun Summoner, Aleksander privately admits, is a bit of a disappointment.

A Fabrikator had told him, long ago, that the best way to avoid disappointment was to temper your expectations. Aleksander had hummed in acknowledgement and moved on with a dip of his head, more focused on Materialki prototypes than philosophy. That Fabrikator’s team had later developed corecloth, so in all, Aleksander considered the warning rather premature. Determination, he’d found, served better than hope. Everything worth achieving can be managed in time, and he had centuries on his side.

But how does one guard against the impossible? When the idea of a saint imbued with divine light had sprung up in the wake of the Fold, Aleksander had dismissed it with a scoff. He knows where his power comes from. A Sun Summoner was nothing but religious fervour given form, born out of humanity’s desire to balance darkness with light. Foolish of them. Life is neither a story nor a set of scales. He has no need for balance.

Then, grubby, stick-limbed Miss Starkov lights up his tent with the force of a meteor strike.

The world fractures and rearranges itself before his eyes. A dozen new paths spin out before him, gossamer-thin and tantalising with possibility. She is a miracle, a gift, the key to securing their future. With her at his side, he can do more than scrape together a future from the servitude of his people: he can rewrite the course of Ravka. He can rewrite the world.

But she rejects her gift. She calls it a curse, as if were not something better people than him would kill for. She feels the blood spattered across her face and the terror of their gallop across open fields and wants nothing more than to go crawling back into the hole he’d plucked her out of.

The Sun Summoner, a girl more otkazat’sya than Grisha. It’s the world’s cruellest joke.

Her eyes are dark as her resentment hangs thick between them. He can’t begin to explain to her the danger they face, this high-stakes game he’s playing with the future of their people. They’re in the middle of a field, visible on all sides to anyone hunting their trail, still miles away from the walls of the Little Palace. His reputation won’t stop their enemies forever, and his instincts are prickling at being so exposed, uneasy in the open air after centuries on the battlefield.

Instead, he listens, and in the lull after her outburst, he says, “You are not alone.”

He offers her his hand. She looks at it like it’s a volcra, but he is patient. Finally, her hand slides into his. It’s warm and dry, calluses on her palm and a groove in the tip of her middle finger, likely from years of holding a pencil. It’s a cartographer’s hand. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

Nevertheless, as they ride towards Os Alta, he knows he holds the end of the war in his arms.

-

Mal’s heart leaps every time the post arrives. His unit teases him mercilessly, but Mikhael still swoons over his love’s perfumed paper, and he’s seen the twist of hair inside Anismov’s locket, so really, they have no room to talk. Each letter soothes the thought of her so far away from him, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that they’re simply stationed at the opposite ends of Ravka; fellow solders writing back and forth while slogging through the winter mud, waiting for the day their units meet back up.

But then he opens his eyes and reads about girls who can shoot fire and change their faces and a crazy old woman who Alina swears is trying to cook her alive (maybe if I burst into flames they’ll give me up as an Inferni, she grumbles), and he remembers that there’s more than distance between them, now. So instead, he imagines that he can feel the warmth of her hand from where the words press into the page, and tries not to think about how frightened her face was when they took her away.

-

Alina stares at her bedroom ceiling and counts the flowers carved into the plaster. She should have been asleep hours ago, but her nights have been restless these past weeks. Her dreams are full of endless forests and the crunch of snow underfoot, the drift of moonlight through the trees, falling like snow on a brilliant white stag whose twisting antlers almost touch the sky. It feels familiar in a way she can’t place, a way that makes her chest ache with longing, but the dream always shatters when she reaches out to touch it.

She goes through her days sleep-bruised and short-tempered, only made worse by Baghra’s growing irritation. They train daily. Alina had though she was getting better—the first time she’d held a ball of light in her hands, she’d felt complete for the first time in her life. She’d been so sure, so proud, but she hadn’t been able to summon anything more than a flicker since. Baghra had scolded, insulted, whacked her with a cane, and even drugged her tea, but the light had remained stubbornly small, no matter how hard she tried. When Baghra had accused her of holding back, it was all she could do not to throttle the woman then and there.

Holding back for what? she’d wanted to scream at her, and she’d fled the hut with tears stinging her eyes, ears ringing with the shame of failure and the spiteful things the old woman had said about Mal.

Mal wasn’t a weakness. He wasn’t. He’d been her source of strength since they were at Keramzin, and she’d been his protector until they’d joined the army. His letters were all that had gotten her through those first awful months at the Little Palace, and his steadfast encouragement the only reason she’d been able to summon so much as a spark in the first place. The memory of his hand holding hers, the surge of strength that always came from the steady grip of his hand on her wrist, had sent a flutter of power running through her, and she loved him all the more for it. Even miles away, in a place far stranger that they’d ever dreamed of, he was helping her. She could only hope her letters brought him half as much comfort as his did to her.

She huffs and throws the covers back. Sleep is clearly a lost cause. She slides on her slippers and shrugs on a dressing gown, shivering a little at the chill of the room. Hopefully a walk will tire her out, or at least clear her head enough for her to stop thinking about how much of a failure she is for five minutes.

The Little Palace is dark and quiet. The only sound is the soft whistle of her breath and the scuff of her slippers on the floor as moonlight filters in through the windows, turning the world pale silver and grey. A sleepy peace fills the halls as she drifts through the palace, letting her feet wander aimlessly. She pauses in front of a large window situated to look out onto the training grounds. The frost trails up the glass in swirls and branches, glowing white in the moonlight like patterned glass and obscuring the world from view. Behind these walls, it’s like nothing can touch her. She closes her eyes and breathes, relishing the pull of air into her lungs as tension slowly seeps out of her. She presses her forehead to the window and focuses on the cold glass against her skin, letting her mind go blissfully blank. Silence falls over her like a featherdown blanket. If she fell asleep here, she’s almost certain her night would be dreamless.

Unfortunately, there would be more than a few questions if the guards found the Sun Summoner passed out in the middle of a random corridor, so she collects herself and tries to remember which way she went. The Little Palace is familiar by now, but it’s no Keramzin, and all the rooms look strange in the dark. She walks for a bit, trying to reconcile her internal map to the halls and stairways in front of her, before giving it up as a lost cause. She’ll either find her way back to her room or not. Either way, she’s not eager to return to tossing and turning in her too-large bed, so staying out a bit longer will only be a good thing, really.

She turns a corner and sees soft yellow light spilling out from a doorway in front of her. Coming closer, Alina recognizes it as the room she’s seen Ivan and other high-level Grisha coming in and out of for meetings. The war room, she thinks it’s called. Curious as to who’d be there so late, she approaches on light feet and peers inside.

The Darkling is facing away from her, hands braced on the edge of the table and figurines scattered in front of him. He has his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, kefta and jacket discarded on a nearby chair, and his hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it. Candlelight softens him into something out of an oil painting, the picture so vivid in her mind that her breath catches.

He looks up. She flushes a little at being caught staring and edges into the doorway. He looks as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

“Alina.” He takes in her dressing gown and rumpled hair. His eyes soften. “Can’t sleep?”

She nods mutely. He picks up a small glass sitting next to him and offers it to her. She doesn’t recognize the orange drink, but finds it sweet when she takes a sip. She looks down at the map that she instantly identifies as Ravka, miniature soldiers stationed all over the country. Red, blue, and purple for the Second Army,  olive green for the First Army, all of them separated by a dark slash down the centre that must be the Fold. Strange to think that she was there only a few months ago, one more unremarkable soldier trudging through the days. It seems faded and far away, yet at times, she still expects to blink and be back in the cartography tent.

Conscious of the Darkling’s eyes on her, she swallows the drink and gestures at the map. “Is this current?”

The Darkling nods. Her eyes are drawn north to a small clump of First Army soldiers near the permafrost.

“My friend is stationed there.” She points to a spot close to the mountains. Mal’s last letter had featured lengthy complaints about the freezing weather, a deep envy for the warming stones in her bed, and an account of the snowball fight between his unit and the village children that had made her laugh until her sides ached.

The kids won, of course, he’d written. Turns out His Majesty’s finest are no match for ten-year-olds with snowballs.

The Darkling hums. “The tracker?”

She looks at him in surprise. “You know him?”

“You’ve mentioned him before,” he says. “By all reports, he’s a talented asset to the First Army.”

“He’s the best tracker in all of Ravka,” she says with a small glow of pride. “We used to joke that he could make rabbits out of rocks.” Then the rest of his sentence registers and she blinks. “Wait, you remember me talking about him? But that was months ago.”

He picks up a figurine and studies it, turning it back and forth in the light. Without looking at her, he says, “There are precious few conversations these days where the news isn’t bad or being delivered by fools. Speaking with you is… refreshing. And… it is good to remember that there are those who don’t turn their backs on us simply for being Grisha.”

A warm feeling creeps into her chest. She drops her eyes and fiddles with the edge of her sleeve. “I’m not that special. Anyone else would tell you that if you asked them.”

A hand touches her chin. The Darkling tilts her head up, an expression on his face that she can’t quite read.

“No,” he says quietly, “they wouldn’t.”

Her heart hammers in her chest. He’s close—when did he get so close?—and her eyes flick down to his lips. For a wild moment, she imagines leaning in, closing the distance. Would he let her? He took her riding, made sure she was safe, looked at her like she held the world in her hands—surely those aren’t the actions of someone who feels nothing for her?

She swallows and hastily glances away. Saints, she’s being an idiot. He barely knew her at the time. If he did those things, it was because he was concerned about the Sun Summoner, not Alina Starkov.

“Well,” she says, “in that case, I’m happy to help.”

“You help more than you know,” he says softly, and her stupid heart stutters in her chest. “Just knowing you’re here has brought hope to so many across Ravka. You mean a lot to… everyone.”

And just like that, the warm feeling vanishes. She puts the glass down. “I should go.”

“Alina?” His hand comes out to touch her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly, it’s bothering you,” he says gently. “I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

She wraps her arms around herself and bites her lip. “I still can’t summon very well,” she confesses, shame churning in her belly.  “It’s been weeks and I can’t summon any more light, no matter how hard I try. I’ve tried relaxing. I’ve tried to force it. Baghra had to drug my tea today to make any progress, and I can’t go into the Fold like that.”

“Some kind of block, perhaps?” the Darkling suggests.

“Maybe I’m just not as powerful as you think I am.” The sick feeling in her stomach grows at the thought. What if this is all she can ever do? What happens if they realise she’ll never be strong enough to destroy the Fold? Will she fade into the background, just another untalented Grisha sent to die in some far-off border town? Or will they declare her a fraud and send her back to the First Army?

A hand closes around her wrist. Something inside her sings out and light bursts from her skin in a rush of heat and spills through the air, twining with the shadows in swirling patterns and surrounding them with a pearlescent glow. Her breath catches. He’s looking at her in a way she’s never seen before. It’s different from the subtle triumph of their first meeting, the expectant gazes of other Grisha, the covetousness of the royal court that felt like oil on her skin. He looks at her with unwavering certainty, tempered with something softer, something akin to wonder. Something she can’t name. Her heart hammers in her chest.

“This is who you are,” he says with a surety that settles deep in her bones. “You are Grisha. Your power cannot be taught or taken away. It has been inside you your whole life, just waiting for you to call it.” His other hand comes up to brush her hair out of her face. Warmth blooms at his touch. “You are not a mistake. You and I were made to change the world.”

She swallows. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she says, but softly, more a whisper than a protest.

“Not about this.”

Slowly, he guides her hands into a summoning position, palms facing up, hands overlapping slightly, curved as if holding an invisible ball. It’s different to the one Baghra uses, bringing to mind statues of the Saints in the churches, their hands raised in supplication.

“The light is everywhere,” he murmurs. “It surrounds you, calls to you, even in the darkest of nights. It is not some unruly animal to be tamed and forced into obedience; it is yours, and will come if only you ask.”

She draws on the warm thrum of power humming between them and slowly grasps the light emanating from her skin. It seeps back, drawing closer, and coalesces into an orb that floats gently above her hands.

“Good,” the Darkling says. Alina opens her mouth to point out that she can’t go everywhere with him attached to her wrist, but he holds up a finger with a chiding expression. She gives him a dubious look but waits. If there’s even a chance he may be able to help her, she’ll take it. She can’t go back to Baghra like this.

“Close your eyes,” the Darkling says. Her eyes flutter shut and the light flickers behind her eyelids. He steadies her with a squeeze of her wrist, a fresh rush of power running down her arm and stabilising the orb. “Easy. You don’t need to see the light to know that it’s there.”

She frowns. “But how will I know if I’m summoning anything?”

“Does the sun cease to exist when it slips under the horizon? Do the stars wink out behind a cloud? Of course not.” His breath sweeps across her cheeks with every word and a thrill runs through her. It’s like being on a cliff’s edge, toes curled over the precipice, nothing but a long drop beneath her. Once strong gust of wind and she’ll tumble over the edge.

She could take that fall. Don’t wait for the winds to come, just hurl herself over the edge. It would be so easy. Just a step forward.

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, forcibly shoving all her focus onto the light calling her. She follows it beneath her skin, rushing through her veins and up through channels and pumps, through her heart and swirling around her ribcage. She dives deeper and deeper to where the pressure grows ever more intense, squeezing into her from all sides, a deafening rush that fills her up and swallows her whole until it’s hard to tell where she ends and the light begins—and then, suddenly, she’s bursting out, up and up and up through every light every candle every sunrise and sunset in the world, through the stars and the sun and the ever-spinning earth beneath her. She is everywhere, she is infinite, she is never-ending and boundless, she is the light and it is hers-hers-hers, forever and always, until every star is gone and the universe and everything within it turns to dust.

“Alina.”

She eases back, slipping down through the sky as the stars call mournfully after her. She jumps between fires and candles, matches and lanterns, following the tugging in her soul until she reaches Ravka. She swirls over the permafrost and valleys, nothing more than a flicker on the wind, until she slips over the walls of Os Alta and slides back inside her body with something like a sigh.

She draws a deep breath and slowly releases it, settling back into the heaviness of flesh and blood. Only once the call of the light has receded to a bearable level does she open her eyes.

For a moment, it’s hard to see anything. With sudden shock, she realises it’s because the room is white with blazing light that bursts from her skin in a glorious blaze. She reaches up and a tendril of light coalesces around her fingers, winding lazily through the air and wrapping itself around her wrist with a happy little hum. The light drapes itself around her like a cloak, comforting and familiar, and it’s only when she goes to pull it closer that she notices Aleksander is no longer touching her.

A wild joy bubbles up within her. She’s doing this on her own. She is the Sun Summoner, and for once, that title doesn’t seem like a curse. She’s not weak, she’s not a fraud—maybe she can do this impossible thing that everyone looks to her for. She can end generations of division. She can put her country’s nightmare to an end. She has the sun in her veins and the will to see it through—she can do anything.

She laughs and spins in a circle, flinging her arms wide to embrace the light. It ripples out, echoing her joy back at her like the chime of a million silver bells. Movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention and she looks over her shoulder to find Aleksander standing a few steps away. It must hurt for him to look at her, but his gaze doesn’t waver. He looks at her with an expression she can’t make sense of, a pained sort of hunger.

“Aleksander,” she says.

He reaches out. One of his hands comes up to cradle her cheek, soft and warm against her skin. There’s something close to reverence in his eyes.

“Aleksander,” she says again, softer.

She steps onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his.

He makes a small noise and his mouth opens under hers. She sinks into him with a sigh, her brain going blissfully blank. His hand skims up her back and slides around her waist in a trail of heat that’s almost scorching. His other hand comes up to tilt her jaw up as he kisses her, deep and slow in a way that sends sparks skittering down her spine.

She threads a hand through his hair and pulls him closer, dizzy and drunk with it. His teeth catch on her lower lip and she makes a noise of surprise, then presses back eagerly. He lets out a chuckle that turns into a low groan as she arches against him. His hand tightens on her waist. She grins against his lips and slowly eases back, steadying herself against him as her heart tries to pound its way out of her chest.

He presses a ladder of kisses down her neck, ducking his head to nip at her pulse point and smiling when she lets out a squeak. She laughs and presses at his shoulder, even as her head tips back of its own accord. “Aleksander,” she says, but her voice comes out more breathy than she’d aimed for. Heat floods her cheeks. She clears her throat. “Aleksander,” she starts again, more firmly. “We can’t be—we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“This is all I want to be doing.”

“People will think you have favourites.”

“Perhaps I do. Would that be so bad?”

A kiss on the corner of her eye. A brush of lips over the bridge of her nose. A puff of air against her browbone.

“Aleksander.”

He relents and lets his grip on her loosen. His knuckles brush her cheek, achingly sweet. “I offered you a black kefta for a reason. We stand apart, the two of us.”

“I—”

“We’ll always be different. But I can wait for you to see that.”

Before she can reply, he captures her lips in another kiss. It’s gentle and short, and the remaining fizzles of urgency dissipate into a warm contentedness that curls in her chest like a sleeping cat. He pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together, their breath mingling in the space between them.

“Goodnight, Miss Starkov,” he murmurs. His words curve in the space between them, thick and sweet like honey. “Sleep well.”

Later, lying in bed with sleep gently tugging at her body, she raises a hand and summons a tendril of light to wind around her fingers. Its movements are sluggish and lazy, almost as if it, too, was an inch away from sleep.

“I am the Sun Summoner,” she whispers to herself. Then echoing somewhere deep inside her: I am the sun.

She touches a hand to her lips and smiles. She closes her fist. She’s asleep before the light winks out.

-

Mikhael dies.

Dubrov dies.

Mal pulls the trigger once—twice—three times, a scream trapped in his throat. The Fjerdans crumple. Dead bodies. There are so many dead bodies. Mikhael screamed as the bayonet stabbed his chest—seconds ago. Only seconds. And now? Silence. Lumps in the snow.

His chest is on fire, grief and bullet holes tearing through him until he can barely breathe. Grey trees, grey ground—white? Red on white. Red on snow. Blood on snow. There’s so much blood. Is it his? Mikhael’s? His eyes are empty but his blood is still warm. Still leaking. On his hands. His jacket.

Oh. His blood.

His tears are frozen on his cheeks. From far away, a ringing in his ears. High-pitched, like a chime. Familiar.

Alina, he thinks, and crumples into the snow.

Chapter Text

Night falls over Os Alta and lanterns flare to life in the woods, bobbing circles of light that line the path to the Grand Palace as excited chatter drifts up from below Alina’s window. From her room, she can see carriages pulling up in the courtyard below, lords and ladies twinkling in the torchlight as they join the glittering throng of dignitaries that have descended on the Little Palace for the winter fete.

Behind her, Genya finishes twisting her hair into place with a sound of satisfaction. She steps back to survey her handiwork and breaks out into a grin.

“Oh, I’m good,” she says. “I’m going to make myself jealous.”

Alina snorts, attention torn from outside. “No, you’re not.”

“Maybe not,” Genya agrees blithely, “but everyone else at the fete is going to fall over themselves when they see you. The queen is going to go green.”

“The queen would go green over a troll.”

Genya claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a snigger. “Are you insulting my handiwork? See if I ever tailor you again after such slander.” She taps the last touches of colour into Alina’s cheeks then spins her towards the mirror with a flourish. “There. I expect my sainthood any time.”

Alina’s reply catches in her throat. Her reflection is her childhood daydreams come to life, back in the orphanage when food was scarce and winters cold. Gone are the prominent bones and sickly pallor of the terrified girl who’d been dragged here under guard. The girl looking back from the glass is straight-shouldered and soft-cheeked with health, her hair swept up in curls and twists that seem to defy gravity. And—

“Did you make my skin glow?” she asks incredulously.

“Well,” Genya winks, “just a little. You’re meant to be a saint, aren’t you?”

“Whoever thought that was a good idea should be exiled,” Alina says, tilting her head from side to side as a faint glow emanates from her skin. She pokes her cheek. It feels normal enough. “Have they met me? I’ve only been a Grisha for a few months, never mind a saint.”

Genya hooks her chin over her shoulder and meets her eyes in the mirror. “You may have only known for a few months, but you’ve been Grisha your whole life.”

Alina lets her friend’s surety settle over her and squeezes her hand. Genya squeezes back then tugs her over to the sofa where her undergarments are laid out, chattering lightly about the latest gossip from the palace. The Zemeni ambassador likes his meals with an alarming amount of spice, apparently, and the party from Shu Han decided to throw an absolute fit the other day—something about the decorations in their suite. Honestly, it’s like the diplomats assigned to them hadn’t bothered to do any research at all, damage control was an utter nightmare…

Alina’s mind drifts. She rubs a hand over her chest where a dull ache had settled a few days ago. At first she thought she’d slept strangely, or maybe caught a cold, but the bruised feeling had diminished into a vague sense of unease as the days went on, leaving her anxious and jumpy. Her strange dreams have returned with a vengeance, too. It’s all blurry flashes of trees and snow and a faint ringing in her ears, which persists for long minutes after she wakes, tense with the feeling of being hunted. She can’t shake the feeling that there’s someone else in her dreams, too, a blurry figure who reaches out before crumpling to the ground.

“-lina? Alina? Hello?”

Alina blinks back into reality to Genya snapping her fingers in front of her face. Genya gives her an exasperated look and Alina smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

“You weren’t even listening, were you?”

“I was!”

“Alina,” Genya says dryly, “you’ve tied your bustle on backwards.”

Alina looks down. Looks up.

Genya raises an eyebrow.

“It was on purpose?” she tries.

“Saints preserve me.” Genya bundles the petticoat back into Alina’s arms, then reaches under and repositions the bustle with a few quick tugs. “How you’ve survived this long without my help, I’ll never know.”

“The First Army isn’t exactly know for its fashion,” Alina protests around a mouthful of ruffles. Genya taps her arm and she lowers the petticoat back over the bustle. It sits properly this time, trailing behind her until it reaches the floor. Alina cranes her neck over her shoulder and wiggles, watching her skirts sway with the movement. There’s so much fabric—how did they afford all of it? “Most of our uniforms don’t fit right, anyway.”

“Ugh,” Genya wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

Alina shrugs. “Someone else will wear it soon enough.”

There’s an awkward pause.

Genya clears her throat. “Well,” she says in a forced imitation of her lofty tone, “I think a ballgown looks better on you, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t know, seeing as I haven’t seen mine yet,” Alina says, seizing on the chance to lighten the atmosphere, and gets a grin in response.

“Nobody has except the Fabrikators, that’s the point! I asked David to take a peek for me, but he didn’t even look up from his experiment.”

“Really?” Alina says disbelievingly. Genya would outshine anyone even in a burlap sack, but the ivory satin and diamonds at her ears make her look like nothing less than a goddess. If Genya walked into the palace at her side, she was sure on one would look twice at her.

Unless I throw up all over the guests, Alina thinks. Not even Genya would be able to distract from that.

“I know,” Genya says mournfully. “At this point, I may as well strip naked and dance a Baranya in the middle of the workshop for all the good it’ll do me.”

Alina fights down a giggle and pats her arm consolingly. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

Genya side-eyes her. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not appreciating the scale of the problem, here?”

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Two servants enter with their arms full of boxes, which they deposit on the bed before leaving.

Genya gasps in excitement. “Your kefta!” She drags Alina over and practically shoves her at the boxes.

Alina’s heart pounds as Genya bounces at her shoulder. The boxes are soft white, embossed with the sign of the royal Materialki workshop, and tied with pale gold ribbons. Her hands hesitate over the lid. She’s spent the last week alternating between daydreaming and stressing about the fete, and now she’s getting cold feet over her clothes? It’s ridiculous. But there’s still the little voice in her head that wonders what on earth she’s doing here. She’s a penniless nobody from the middle of nowhere. What is she doing this near to something whose packaging alone looks to be worth twice her year’s salary?

You’ve spent almost a year sleeping under a silk canopy, she tells herself sternly. Open the damn box, Alina.

She lifts the lid and freezes.

The kefta inside is a deep black velvet, yards and yards of rich fabric folded on top of itself. She lifts it up to reveal gold embroidery spilling down the front and back, so dense in places that it completely covers the fabric underneath. Fur peeks out from the high collar and bell-shaped sleeves, pale grey and softer than anything she’s felt in her life. The kefta is utterly gorgeous. She runs a hand over it, momentarily struck speechless.

“Oh,” Genya breathes. She’s holding up the bodice of Alina’s gown, and for a heart-stopping moment, Alina thinks it’s black as well. Then the light catches on the silk and it ripples a deep navy blue. It’s darker than the jewel tones of the Etherialki; almost black, but not quite. In the palace, under lamplight and with the night pressing all around them, Alina wonders if anyone will be able to tell the difference.

I will, she thinks. Is it some sort of plausible deniability on the Darkling’s part? A way for her to deflect needling questions? The kefta, though—that’s unmistakable. It’s so long it will nearly cover her dress, and between that and the dark blue… it makes her wonder. Would he have put her in all black, if he could? Would she have let him?

She could just wear the gown, she supposes. It’s not like she’ll be mistaken for anyone else, but… it might be nice to wear black tonight. Until she proves herself, until she takes down the Fold, her greatest achievements are nothing more than theory. All Grisha are under the Darkling’s protection, of course, but the other orders are already well established. She represents an unknown—worse, a potential threat. The court knows he’d discovered her, but it would be comforting, she thinks, to have someone so powerful so obviously at her side.

And he chose it, she thinks suddenly. The Darkling—Aleksander—he chose to put her in black.

“Alina?” Genya’s looking at her closely. “Are you alright?”

Alina takes a breath and nods. “I am.” She reaches out to touch the bodice of the gown, rippling silk edged in lace, and gives Genya a small smile. “Help me with this?”

Genya helps her slip into the gown with uncharacteristic silence. She smooths the bodice and laces it into place, then pauses with her hand on Alina’s shoulder.

“Alina,” she says, then stops. She looks at the kefta for a long moment, as if weighing something up in her mind, then meets Alina’s eyes seriously. “Be careful.”

“Careful?” Alina echoes. Her voice sounds weak to her own ears. “It’s just an outfit, isn’t it?”

“It’s not and you know that,” Genya says. “Tell me you know that.”

Alina looks from the kefta to Genya. “I do.”

A bit of tension leaves Genya’s shoulders. “Good. I don’t know why the Darkling put you in black, but if he’s deciding to single you out, to pair the two of you together… it’s a risk.”

“A risk,” Alina repeats. She could see how it would upset other Grisha, and she wouldn’t wear it regularly, but the people at court—surely the implication that the Darkling supported her was obvious already? “By marking me as his equal?”

“By marking you as his.” Genya bites her lip and glances over her shoulder at the door. “If the Darkling hasn’t told you more, then it’s not for me to say, but… a black kefta marks you as an extension of his power. His power, not the king’s. And that could get very dangerous very soon.”

Dangerous. If Aleksander sees his power as separate from the king’s… An idea starts to take root in the back of her mind but she pushes it down, hoping she’s wrong, because if she’s not… Saints be good, dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Aren’t we already in danger?” she asks instead of voicing her thoughts. “Aren’t we already seen as his, as Grisha?”

“To most people, yes. But so long as the king rules Ravka, the Second Army officially belongs to him.” Genya’s fingers brush her white and gold kefta. “And for some of us, appearances are everything. Especially if our loyalties aren’t so obvious.”

Oh, Saints. She was right. Alina grips her hairbrush so hard her knuckles turn white and draws a deep breath to steady herself. What she’s about to ask, what she’s about to imply—shut up what are you doing, you’re going to get yourself killed, a small part of her hisses—is something the soldier in her flinches from, raised on the divine right of kings as she was. But she is Grisha now, and moreover, she’s met the king. She knows down to her bones that Genya and Aleksander are better people than he would ever be. If Genya is telling her even this much and Aleksander is marking them as equals in the heart of the capital, then she has to trust there’s a reason for it. She squares her shoulders and meets Genya’s gaze.

“If something were to happen to the king—”

“Saints forbid.”

“—Saints forbid. But if it did, would Prince Vasily be a good king?”

“For Ravka or for Grisha?”

“For any of it.”

Genya shakes her head. “He’s his father all over again, only he spends more time drunk at his hunting lodge than having his way with servants. And there would still be the queen to contend with.”

“The younger prince?”

“He hasn’t been at court in years. Nobody knows for sure what he’s doing, but the queen gets letters every so often, so he’s not dead.” She lowers her voice. “Even if he were to take the throne, the court may fracture over it. There are rumours he’s not strictly royal.”

Alina’s eyes widen. “No!”

“Ravka can’t handle that uncertainty while we’re at war. We need to know who our king is and what he’s capable of if we ever want peace.”

Alina turns around. Genya’s back is straight, her chin up, gaze steady. Alina takes her hands and holds them for a moment, then nods.

“Tell me you’re being careful.”

“Always.”

There’s silence for a moment. Outside, wheels trundle over gravel. A woman laughs. From high above, the stars are calling.

It sounds like a warning.

Genya draws back and sends her a blinding smile. “That’s enough depressing things for tonight. Come one, I’m in desperate need of champagne!”

Alina pushes down her anxieties and loops her arm into Genya’s, letting excitement bubble back up. She’s going to a party. A party with fancy clothes and enough food to feed a battalion, full of important people who are here to see her. There’s enough time for trouble tomorrow.

Tonight is hers.

-

A pair of Oprichniki escort Mal and Tofin through the Little Palace. Each step takes them further into a maze of chequered tile and glittering chandeliers, every turn leading to a corridor that’s gaudier than the last. It’s enough to make Mal’s head spin. If this is how Grisha were brought up, then it’s no wonder they were so haughty out in the field. Who would want to waste their time fighting with some poor soldier out on the edge of the border when they had this waiting for them at home?

And it’s Alina’s home, now. Mal tries to picture her here but can’t do it. His Alina, with her scuffed knees and charcoal-stained hands? The girl with sallow cheeks who’d scared him half to death every time she caught sick? In this impossibly lavish place? The thought refuses to form, and trying feels like forcing opposing magnets together. But she’s been here for months, now, and her letters sound happy more often than not. Does she move as confidently as the guards in front of him? Would he even recognise her in her blue kefta, or would his eyes skim over her in the crowd?

No, he would know her. Deaf and blind, he’d know her. He’s sure of it.

They pass by a half-open door from which the sounds of a party drift though, the clink of plates and the chatter of guests underlaid by the faint thread of music in the distance. Tofin’s steps slow and he peeks his head around the corner.

A whoosh of fire shoots past the doorway and Mal jumps and Tofin jerks back with a yelp. The crowd ooohs and applause fills the air. The Oprichniki don’t speak, but their silence feels distinctly entertained. Mal’s heart slowly calms. Inferni. Of course there’d be Grisha performing at whatever fancy party this is. Why not? It’d be one hell of a party trick.

 A hush falls over the crowd. The guards don’t seem to be in a hurry to move on, so Mal cautiously approaches the door. The room beyond is full of nobles, a sea of sparkling jewels and gleaming military medals that he’d bet an arm none of them had done anything to earn. The only familiar sight is the Grisha scattered throughout the crowd, although even their keftas seem fancier than usual, long enough to cover suits and gowns instead of plain military uniforms. At the centre of the room, a man dressed all in black stands on a raised platform to address the crowd. The Darkling. He spreads his arms and steps down, and Mal’s eyes are drawn to the figure behind him.

There, on the dais, is Alina.

She looks good, is the first thought that crosses his mind. She looks fleshed out and healthy in a way he’s never seen her before. Solid instead of scarecrow-thin. Her hair shines in the candlelight and her eyes sparkle from across the room.

His next thought is that she’s wearing black.

His heart stops but no one steps forward to arrest her or drag her off the stage for wearing colours exclusive to the Darkling. Maybe they’re used to it? Alina had mentioned getting a kefta in her letters, and he’d assumed it was blue like the other Summoners, but maybe it was black all along. His stomach churns. Had she been in his colours this whole time while Mal went on like an idiot, barely stopping his heart from spiling onto the page every time he put pen to paper? He doesn’t know much about Grisha, but he knows uniforms, and a kefta shows where you belong. What does a black kefta say about Alina? Where does she stand in this world so far from what he knows?

He has no colours to give her. Nothing but himself. He’d thought it would be enough. And maybe it would have been, if he and Alina were who they used to be. But Alina… he watches darkness descend upon the room, watches her raise her hands and shatter it into pieces, watches a room full of nobles go to their knees before her. Alina is a saint, now. The girl on the dais is glowing, confident, something out of a priest’s sermon or a holy man’s prophecy.

She’s a stranger.

She glances around, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks she’ll spot him behind the door. Instead, her gaze falls on the Darkling. He gives her a small nod. She smiles, and suddenly his Alina is there in front of him, the stranger melting away like summer snow. The crinkles around her eyes are familiar from days exploring the nooks and crannies of Keramzin, and one corner of her mouth pulls up higher than the other, like it had the day he first held her hand. To see it aimed at someone else hurts like a kick to the chest.

A lump forms in his throat. Maybe it’s a good thing Alina is wearing the Darkling’s colours, he thinks, slightly bitter. The Darkling has power here. He can protect her, while Mal’s stuck in the corner, hiding behind a door like some gawking idiot. He touches his pocket where Alina’s letters lie, a reassuring weight close to his chest. She’s alive. She’s alive and safe, which is more than he thought she’d be when he saw her last. So what if she’s wearing black? The Darkling owns the Second Army already. What’s one more Summoner compared to all that?

Maybe if he tells himself that enough, he’ll begin to believe it.

The guard behind him clears his throat. Mal squares his shoulders and turns away from the scene. He’ll do what he can for Alina. He’ll find her the stag—he’ll find her a whole herd if that’s what she needs. And if all she ever does is write him letters, if he never gets to sling his arm around her shoulders and feel the sun at their backs again… he’ll find a way to live with it. She belongs to a different world than him now, but that doesn’t make this the end of their story.

It's just different to the one he was writing in his head.

-

Aleksander slips away after Alina’s demonstration is finished. In all the outburst and giddy chatter, no one notices him pull the shadows closer and disappear into thin air. It’s a parlour trick, but an undeniably effective one. It had saved his life on more than a few occasions, and even Baghra hadn’t sniffed in disapproval when he’d shown it to her.

He walks through the crowd unnoticed, picking up snatches of conversation as he goes. The reactions seem to be a mixture of reverent whispers and excited shock—evidently, there’d been some thought that he was bluffing, despite the demonstration before the king. His lip curls. As if he’d be so foolish as to feign a Grisha’s powers in full view of the court, not to mention his army. If he hadn’t had a Sun Summoner, he’d hardly go to the trouble of conjuring one up. His plans before Miss Starkov’s timely arrival had hardly depended on miracles, after all.

He stops to listen as a woman in a glittering headdress converses with a man whose chest gleams with medals. So, Novyi Zem had commitments with West Ravka?  He’d have to deal with that sooner rather than later. Perhaps a show of force would be enough, with them already impressed by Alina. He sets the thought aside for later as he finally reaches the double doors that mark his wing of the Little Palace.

There are two men waiting in the war room. First Army soldiers—a sergeant and a corporal, from their insignia. The corporal is young, around Alina’s age. A tracker.

Rabbits out of rocks, Alina’s voice whispers in his head.

The world goes perfectly still. He knows, before he even opens his mouth, what the tracker is going to say.

Malyen Oretsev. Tracker with the 36^th, sir.

“Mal,” Aleksander says, familiarity coming far too easily to his tongue. “What a surprise.”

-

There are so many people.

Alina laughs and smiles at something the man—the ambassador? Duke? Why does everyone here have five different names?—says, Nadia arm-in-arm with her and Fedyor a reassuring presence at her side. She bobs her head and presses his hand when he calls her Santka Alina, then Fedyor slips between her and the crowd, Nadia tugs her down a hallway, and within a few moments she’s away from the eyes of the guests and can finally breathe.

Being in the Little Palace had been good for her, but she’d forgotten how they’d look at her outside of its walls. None of the nobles have ever seen her get knocked flat on her face in training or run shrieking through the snow to the banya. She’s different, sure, but it’s hard to glorify someone you’ve seen snoring in the library. The Grisha were used to her now. They know she’s just a Summoner, like them.

The nobles think she’s a saint.

A shiver ripples over her skin. The whispers had erupted after her final sunbeam had split the room into shards of mirror-bright light, but she hadn’t realised what they were saying until the first person had sunk to their knees. The sun had been thrumming under her skin like something alive, and it had taken everything she had to tamp it down to a warm glow, instead of losing herself to it like she had that night in the war room.

Sol Koroleva, the Apparat had said to her. Power to topple kings and Darklings alike. Under the confusion and disquiet, some part of her had thrilled at that. The Grisha had given her a community, but what the Apparat had hinted at was a type of power she’d never had before. Respect. Recognition. The potential to remake the world to its foundations. The possibility to make something of herself, to leave her mark on the world. First the Fold, and then, after that was done… what new pathways would be open for her, with Ravka newly reunited?

Would new pathways even be open for her? If she becomes a saint, if she can perform this feat that still feels half a miracle some days, what happens to her then? Saints have never retired before.

Saints get martyred.

Saints die.

What she wouldn’t give for a smidgen of Aleksander’s certainty. With him, the world seems to reorder itself with the force of his belief. Or Mal—Saints, she misses him more than words can say, an ache at her side where he should be. Once all this is over, they’ll take a trip to the countryside, just the two of them and the open fields, as it was so long ago.

As if summoned by her thoughts, movement from across the corridor catches her eye. She spins around, heart leaping. “Mal?”

Nadia’s head whips around. “Mal? Your Mal? Where?”

She scans the crowd, searching for a flash of First Army green. “I don’t… I thought I saw…” She shakes her head. “I must have been imagining things.”

Nadia squeezes her arm comfortingly. “He’s First Army, right? Handsome? What does he look like? I can keep an eye out and tell you if I see him.”

She’s saved from answering when Marie appears with a plate of cupcakes and a bright red blush. Nadia zeroes in on her flustered expression and instantly begins peppering her with rapid-fire questions and waggling her eyebrows. Alina grins and bites into a cupcake, giggling at the smear of chocolate on Marie’s cheek. She’s at a party. The hardest part of the night is over. She’ll have to go back soon for dinner, but she can take a few minutes to enjoy herself with her friends.

-

The fete is in full swing by the time Aleksander re-enters the ballroom. Alina is nowhere to be seen, but a servant directs him towards the reception area when he asks.

Halfway across the room, he notices Genya standing by a table and studying the crowd, all but invisible in her servant’s livery. He alters course smoothly, slipping down a corridor lined with statues of long-dead Lantsovs. Genya joins him moments later.

“Miss Safin,” he greets her. Her eyebrows lift imperceptibly when she sees the bouquet tucked into his arm but she doesn’t comment, instead dipping into a curtsey. He hands her a drink from a passing waiter and settles into a relaxed stance. “Are you enjoying the winter fete?”

“Very much,” she replies. “Parties are always such fun, although this one is certainly more memorable than most. The Sun Summoner’s demonstration will be the talk of the court for weeks.”

“Talk that will extend well beyond Ravka, no doubt,” he agrees. “Incredible, isn’t it, that such power could have been hidden for so long?”

“She was very impressive.” There’s a trace of genuine warmth in her voice before she smooths it away into her courtly mask. She pauses, taking in the guards posted by the doors and the guests within earshot, before voicing her next comment. “She looked very striking, especially in her new kefta.”

He hums and raises his own glass to his lips. He cannot answer her unspoken question here; things are still too tenuous by half. But with the recent news from the First Army and Alina’s power growing in leaps and bounds… perhaps it is time to tilt the scales further in his favour.

“Your own kefta is starting to look ill-fitting,” he says over the rim of his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Genya go still. “Stop by the workshops soon for a fitting. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

Genya takes a sip of her drink. Her hands are steady but there’s a spark of anticipation in her eyes.

“When should I make the time to visit?”

“Soon. Within the next two months.”

“I understand.”

There’s a burst of chatter from the end of the room as a flash of black in the crowd signals Alina’s entrance. Aleksander does a quick sweep of the room and is pleased to see three of his guards standing by, as well as Alina’s friends sticking close to her. He turns his attention back to Genya in time to catch the hesitation that crosses her face.

“Something on your mind, Miss Safin?” he asks quietly.

She presses her lips together and flicks her eyes towards Alina. “Some of the other servants are concerned about the toll my duties to the king are taking. They’ve offered their support, but I don’t want to overstep.”

…Well, isn’t that a pleasant surprise? His Sun Summoner has noticed more than he’d given her credit for, and it speaks well of her loyalty how quickly she’s offered to help them. But then, she is in some ways less naïve than he was at her age, and she cares for far more than he did. It fills him with a fierce pride that he has created a place where Grisha are free to reach out to each other in this world set against them. Yet, he knows in his soul that there is more out there for his people. If Alina wishes to help them grasp it…

“Your talents are unique and highly prized,” he says to Genya. “Still, if help is offered, I see no reason to turn it away.”

Genya meets his eyes. “I am capable.”

“Indeed you are—of more than you know, and much beyond that as well.” She stands a little straighter at that and Aleksander allows for a small flicker of fondness before dismissing it. Genya is one of his most important soldiers, and her recognition will come in due time. Until then, they continue.

He inclines his head. “Good evening, Miss Safin. I look forward to seeing you in the Little Palace again.”

“Moi soverenyi.” Genya drops into a curtsey a shade deeper than what is strictly proper. It’s an archaic variant, a discrepancy unremarkable to any but the closest observer.

In the past, it was reserved for royalty.

He is waylaid several times as he makes his way across the room. Twice by nobles with Grisha sympathies, whom he engages in careful conversation and leaves with the promise of future meetings; and once by a guard who informs him that Alina’s double is dressed and ready to move at his signal.

By the time he reaches Alina, she’s sequestered herself by a window and is chatting animatedly to a Squaller. Fedyor sees him first and bows at his approach, catching the others’ attention.

“I’ll take Miss Starkov from here,” Aleksander says. He hands her the bouquet of irises with a bow as her face lights up. He feels a curl of satisfaction as she turns to him like a flower towards the sun and tucks herself into his side as naturally as breathing. She’s warm with the remnants of her power even through her kefta, shining as black as his own, as the crowd parts unconsciously in front of them.

“You were wonderful,” he says. “You’ve given hope to all of Ravka tonight.”

She buries her face in the flowers and peeks out from between the blue petals. “It felt wonderful,” she confesses. “I’ve been talking to all these people, and the way they look at me… it’s so different from the Little Palace. Nobody there looks twice at me anymore. And Baghra, well…”

“…is Baghra, yes,” Aleksander agrees with a wry smile. Alina gives a small laugh and grins back.

“Can you believe I’d forgotten what it was like not having these powers? Makes me a bit silly, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” Aleksander says. “It makes you Grisha.”

Alina lifts her chin proudly. Aleksander drinks her in, trying to commit her to memory:  the way her blush creeps across the bridge of her nose, the sparkle of her dark eyes in the lamplight, how well pride fits across her shoulders. She’s perfect, in this moment. Here is a girl who could be his equal. Here is a girl who will bring countries to their knees.

The beautiful irony is that she doesn’t even seem to know it. Everyone else certainly does—his Grisha, the ambassadors, even their fool of a tsar seems to grasp some measure of the power they have in their hands, though not the way in which he means to direct it. But Alina? She’s been training for less than a year and yet she can stun audiences into silence. What could she do in a hundred years’ time? A thousand? Her gift is rare, but beyond that, it's powerful. With her at his side, nothing is beyond possibility. People like them were made to reforge the world.

Aleksander steers her down the corridor as the gala fades away behind them. “Do you like the flowers?”

Alina pulls them close and inhales their scent. “Very much. Thank you for them—blue irises are my favourite.”

“I should hope so,” Aleksander remarks. “Your otkazat’sya tracker was rather insistent about it.”

He realises his mistake instantly. Alina’s attention snaps to him, naked hope on her face.

“Mal? Mal’s here?”

He gives her a secretive smile to cover his slip of the tongue and curses himself for a fool. The merest mention of the boy and her focus is completely diverted. Affection has made him more incautious than he realised; he’s read the letters between her and the tracker. They seem caught up in sugar-spun obliviousness, but he can see the emotions running underneath, artless and obvious in a way almost foreign to him. You are my true north, Alina had written, and didn’t that sting? She was meant to be his partner, his equal and opposite, but what good was your reflection when it turned away from you?

He should have stopped those letters when he had the chance.

Still… the situation is not yet unsalvageable. There were worse choices than the tracker. Devotion in every smudged scribble and loyal to his bones—useful traits for a lover, or an acolyte, or both. Of course, devotion comes with its own set of complications. Jealousy, possessiveness, irrationality… a single meeting isn’t sufficient to gain the measure of the tracker, but he had investigated before allowing his correspondence with Alina. His army reports are generally favourable: some records of insubordination, but nothing too unusual. His results as a tracker are impressive. And now, this loyalty to Alina; very promising, indeed. However, he cannot overlook its possibility as a double-edged sword. He needs to ensure the tracker holds loyalty for him, as well, if he is to truly fulfil his potential.

A suggestion flickers in the back of his mind. Aleksander pauses. Considers it. The boy is hardly repulsive, it is true, so seduction would be no hardship… and yet, it could so easily become so very complicated. There are a myriad of means to ensure a person’s loyalty, and while he hasn’t survived this long by dismissing ideas out of hand, neither has he done so by taking uncalculated risks. He does not yet need to be hasty. Alina, his wonderful Sun Summoner, came to him all on her own. Let the boy prove his uses, let him show himself as either a liability or an asset. Time will tell—and time, he reminds himself, is on his side. No obstacle is insurmountable when they have centuries in front of them.

“Corporal Malyen Oretsev was his designation, was it not?” He opens the door to the war room and Alina all but sprints inside, her head swivelling like she expects the tracker to suddenly materialize out of the curtains.

“He’s been assigned a guest room,” he says before she can ask. It’s only partially true, but he doubts that road-weary soldiers will complain about being relegated to the servants’ quarters. He holds up a hand to forestall her as she starts back towards the door. “He is safe, I promise you. I’ve arranged for you to see him after the fete is over.”

“Why can’t I see him now?”

“We’re in the middle of a royal celebration,” he says with a creeping sense of familiarity. First Oretsev, now Alina—one would think they’d been separated for years. “You’re safe with me, but I cannot stay here the whole time. I’ll not risk you until the Little Palace is secure again.”

Alina acquiesces with a frown.  Aleksander leaves her to settle in and turns his attention to securing their surroundings. Satisfied that the adjoining room is clear, he summons a nearby shadow and twists a touch of his own consciousness into it, then sends it rippling out under the door.

His vision blurs as he-in-the-shadow flickers through the nearby rooms. The area is empty except for the guards outside, but his shadows twist strangely in the hidden passage. He frowns and gathers the darkness there into himself, sifting through it in search of intruders, but finds nothing. A second search turns up only dust and darkness and his head starts to pound, so he withdraws. It’s been too long since he’s seen to his own training if he’s finding such actions taxing. A Grisha who cannot depend on their power is disadvantaged at best and dead at worst—he can afford neither outcome, especially not now.

The rustling of fabric draws his attention as he fades back into awareness. Alina slips out of her kefta and lays it over the back of the chair as she moves closer to the fire. The flames reflect off the folds of her dress, splashes of yellow and orange across deep blue fabric. She sinks into the chair with a sigh and stretches out her feet, stifling a yawn with one hand. He is struck with the sudden desire for a portrait of this moment, to enshrine it somewhere other than his memories, but the urge fades as quickly as it came. The best painter could never hope to capture Alina in any way but a pale imitation, and the thought of sharing this moment with anybody—his Sun Summoner, tired but triumphant, quietly curled up by the fire—feels unimaginably sacrilegious.

Alina catches him looking and sends a pointed look at her dress. “It looks black in the dark, doesn’t it?”

Aleksander hums noncommittally. “Most colours do look black in darkness.”

“And a very dark blue—which, I noticed, none of the other Summoners are wearing—looks no more like black than any other colour, is that right?”

“So you say,” Aleksander says, and holds back a smile as Alina’s expression turns disbelieving. Then, in concession, “You’re the center of this celebration. It was only appropriate for your outfit to make a statement.”

“A statement,” Alina muses. “Genya said something similar.” She rubs the fabric between her hands then looks up suddenly. “Would you have put me in all black, if you could?”

He pauses for a moment, then dips his head. “I very nearly did. Nevertheless, you specifically requested blue, so blue you have.”

“Except for the kefta,” Alina counters. “The kefta that goes over my dress.”

“Does it displease you?”

Alina runs her fingers over the embroidery trailing along the sleeves. The beads gleam in the light, snatches of amber and bronze and gold twinkling like stars against the night sky.

“No,” she admits. “Just… ask me next time. It seems wasteful to put so much work into something I’ll only wear once.”

“It’s yours. You may wear it whenever you wish.”

“And if I prefer blue?”

“That is your choice. You would be beautiful in any colour. You were beautiful the first time I saw you.”

“I was fresh out of the Fold and half in my undergarments,” Alina laughs.

“Even so.”

His hands slide up to cradle her cheeks. She closes her eyes and tips her head up in a request he’s only too happy to oblige. She tastes like success and new beginnings, soft and warm against his lips.

Alina breaks the kiss with a teasing grin. “I was wondering why you’d brought me here.”

Aleksander presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw and relishes the shiver that goes through her. “It’s the most defensible room in the palace.”

“Very defensible,” Alina nods with faux seriousness. He feels a grin tugging at his lips and dives back in to kiss her. She squeaks and laughs, and truly, this must be the closest thing to tasting sunlight that he’s ever known. There is nothing more that he wants to be doing at this moment: only Alina, only them, now and forever.

“Wait, wait,” Alina manages between kisses. “There’s something I—there’s something else I wanted to say. Genya—”

Aleksander catches her bottom lip between his teeth and sucks lightly, revelling in the groan it draws from her. Her hands tighten in his hair as he trails kisses along her neck, down the dip of her collarbones, her power thrumming white hot where his lips meet her skin. Alina tugs him closer and he goes easily, rolling them so she falls back against the cushions. Her hair is in disarray, her mouth bitten red and wet where he traces it with his thumb.

“Genya has her role to play,” he murmurs into the space between them, “as do you, more than you know. When I met you, I knew you would be the end of this war, and I believe that still. Together, we can do anything we want to do.”

Alina’s voice is equally low. “I want to help.”

“You already are. What I need from you now is your loyalty and your trust, no more and no less. Can you give me that?”

“Of course,” Alina says, unhesitating despite the disquiet marring her face. “But… promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will.”

Alina cups his cheek and he lowers his head until their foreheads touch and their breath mingles in the quiet. He can feel Alina’s eyelashes fluttering against his skin as she looks at him, pressing close as if afraid he’ll suddenly vanish. As if by acknowledging this plan that remains unspoken, lurking between them like a monster beneath the waves, he’ll be seized and dragged off at any moment. He cannot ease her fears—even he, sometimes, is breathless with the audacity of what they are attempting. But he has lived through more kings than there are days in a year, and every one of them are now dust beneath his feet.

A banging comes at the door and she startles. Aleksander presses one last kiss to her temple, then slips away to answer it.

Ivan’s grim expression greets him. “Sir. There’s been an assassination attempt on the Sun Summoner. Marie is dead and Genya injured. We have a suspect in custody, but the First Army soldiers are missing.”

-

Mal ducks, cursing, as the guard flings a knife at him. He scrambles for something—anything—to grab, and has to throw himself into a roll to avoid the poker coming for his head. The stab wound in his side burns. He keeps moving even as the guard bends the metal poker, what the hell and slams her elbow into his face. He reels back, his hand closes on something, and he strikes out with a snarl.

The wooden shard drives into the guard’s armpit with a squelch. Her face spasms and, with the last vestiges of his strength, he drives his foot into her stomach. She hits the ground with a thud and lies there, unmoving. His breath rattles loudly in the empty hut. His side is starting to turn worryingly numb.

He grabs the knife and wills his arms to stop shaking. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself to his feet. The world promptly goes grey. He’s only saved from falling back onto the floor by crashing onto the table so hard his vision almost whites out from pain.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He has to get back to Alina.

-

Alina has dreamed of a peaceful future twice in her life. The first time was in the summer of her fifteenth birthday, before they’d accepted that the only steady career for dirt-poor orphans was in the king’s army. In the hot, sticky nights, packed into a sagging bed with five other girls, dreaming had felt like a final act of defiance. She’d dreamed of a small house with creaky floorboards, wide-open fields, and Mal’s hand in hers. Sunrises and sunsets and a warm belly full of food.

The second time was the week before Mal’s first letter arrived. She’d been thinking of him less, caught up in the thrill of her new powers and the hope thrumming through the Little Palace corridors. She’d been demonstrating a move Botkin had shown her while sparring, and when Aleksander had smiled at her, the thought had hit her with the force of a bullet: this is what I want. Hundreds of moments just like this, bright as a sunbeam, spilling out and out and out into infinity.

The first future shattered when the recruiting officer came to town. The second time around is no less painful, every word out of Baghra’s mouth falling like rocks on a frozen lake, cracks forming under her feet as the water begins to seep in.

Aleksander, she thinks: a cry of grief, a curse. The taste of lies, revealed in the heavy shadows that wrap around Baghra’s fingers. Aleksander—Aleksander—Saints. What have you done? What would you do to me?

There is nothing for you here, Baghra tells her. Tells her that she must go west, leave Ravka, stay hidden and safe—

Alina hesitates at the junction of two tunnels, lamp held aloft. You’re wrong, she thinks. Hoofprints in the snow, breath fogging the air, a crystalline chime ringing through her soul. She resumes walking with renewed determination. There is something for me here. And I’m going to find it.

-

The tracker bursts into his office with the force of a hurricane. His guards follow at a run. Ivan looks as if he’s barely restraining the urge to commit murder and his partner—a trainee, Aleksander suspects, given her panicked expression—makes a last-ditch attempt to grab him, but Oretsev yanks himself out of her grip and storms forward.

“Where is she?” he demands. “She was supposed to be safe here—the safest place in the world for Grisha and they’re saying she’s disappeared—”

Ivan raises his hands and Oretsev’s muscles seize up, cutting him off abruptly. Aleksander sends Ivan a sharp look and he disengages, his point made. Oretsev staggers as he regains control of his body. One hand goes to his side and the other braces himself against the desk as he glares at Ivan. Ivan tenses, one twitch away from snuffing out their best chance of recovering Alina.

“Enough.” Aleksander’s voice slices through the room. “Grisha, back to your duties. I want the Palace secured before the fete ends. If the guards argue, tell them you act with my full authority. Understood?”

Ivan and his partner bow and leave. Aleksander turns to the tracker and gestures to the chair by his desk. “Have a seat.”

The boy doesn’t move. “Where’s Alina?”

The headache behind his eyes intensifies and Aleksander doesn’t bother to mask his annoyance. “If we knew that, things would be moving much faster, wouldn’t they?”

“If anything happens to her—”

“Threatening a superior officer will get you thrown in prison,” Aleksander says coldly. “Is that the best way to help your friend?”

Oretsev glowers at him but doesn’t make another move. Aleksander maintains eye contact for a moment to let the warning sink in, then motions towards the chair again. This time, Oretsev takes it, though he scowls ferociously the whole time.

“Have you tracked humans before?” Aleksander asks and Oretsev gives a short nod. “Good. We leave at sunrise tomorrow. You found the stag in three months—pray you find the Sun Summoner in less than that.”

“You want my help?”

“The king has sanctioned any actions necessary to retrieve the Sun Summoner. If that means recruiting from the First Army, then so be it.”

“Why?”

“Alongside the fact that she’s the best hope for reunification that Ravka has had in centuries?” Aleksander asks pointedly, and has the satisfaction of seeing him blink. The boy, in his anger, had seemingly forgotten why exactly Alina was at the Little Palace. The tracker covers any embarrassment with stubbornness, though, so Aleksander tries a different approach.

“Miss Starkov isn’t your sick friend who needs you to steal food for her, anymore. She is Grisha. And I do not abandon my soldiers.”

Oretsev eyes him warily. “Who said I stole food for her?”

“I have the privilege of being something of a mentor to Miss Starkov when I’m here. She was good enough to oblige my curiosity.” He lets a hint of amusement slip into his tone and sees how it throws the tracker off balance. “I must say, I was surprised when I heard the soldier who’d found our mythical stag was the very boy whose shoes Alina once put goose droppings in.”

The tracker flushes. It’s a good look on him, Aleksander admits. It makes him drop his eyes as his lashes catch the candlelight. The flicker-quick up-and-down and raised chin is a gesture he shares with Alina. Don’t think me weak, it says. It’s endearing on Alina, burned into his memory as the moment before she kissed him. On Mal, it’s a concession. All that remains is to see whether he can blend that embarrassment and stubbornness into something that will yield to him.

“She’s always gotten me into trouble,” Oretsev says. “But I keep following her. I’d follow her through anything.”

“And tomorrow will be no different,” Aleksander says. “Recovering Miss Starkov is of critical importance. Her disappearance goes beyond insult. It is nothing less than a threat to the future of this country.”

“She means a lot to you,” Oretsev says.

“The Sun Summoner is hope to many Grisha—”

“Not the Sun Summoner,” Oretsev interrupts. “Alina. You care about her.”

Aleksander considers lying. Childhood friend and protector though he may be, Oretsev has far overstepped his station. But when he looks, the tracker’s gaze is as fierce and certain as a flame. However he arrived at his conclusion, there will be no swaying him now. And in this case, the truth is more useful than empty platitudes.

“Perhaps,” Aleksander concedes.

“I’m glad,” Oretsev says, looking directly into his eyes. “Our officers didn’t care. Not before, and not once she was Grisha, even though twelve hours ago she’d been one of our own. If she has to be here, then I’m glad she has a superior officer who cares. I didn’t expect her to have that.”

“No? And what was it that you expected?” Oretsev shifts uncomfortably and Aleksander’s lips stretch into a cold smile. “A monster ruling his people with an iron fist? A general so callous that he’d sooner feed his own people to the volcra than admit defeat? I’m not unaware of the rumours.”

Oretsev juts his chin out challengingly. “Cold-hearted bastard is the most common one.”

The urge to laugh catches him off guard. The boy’s audacity is truly breathtaking. And he wears his emotions so openly, unknowing or uncaring of the target he makes of himself. It would be insultingly easy to stoke his wariness and jealousy into a fire that would consume him whole. A pity he needs the tracker on his side. Oretsev wears anger so well; he nearly glows from within. It would be a pleasure to watch him burn.

Nevertheless, only a fool discards that which may yet prove useful to him, and the tracker is a most useful tool, indeed. Uncouth though he may be, their purposes are already aligned. His distrust is nothing new, and Aleksander has withstood greater insults for far poorer prizes.

“Idle tongues bear ill will. I am a leader first, and I would not be one worth following if I didn’t look after my soldiers.”

“And I count as yours, do I?”

The words send an unexpected lick of fire up his spine. You will be, Aleksander thinks. Aloud, he says, “For now.”

He stands and Oretsev mirrors him with a grimace. Aleksander notes the stiffness of his stance and the way he favours one shoulder. His coat had been stained earlier, hadn’t it? A discoloured patch reminiscent of dried blood. Aleksander frowns minutely. With Alina on the line, they cannot afford to be so compromised.

“You’re dismissed, Tracker Oretsev. Stop by the infirmary tonight—a Healer will see to you before we leave.”

A wrinkle appears in Oretsev’s brow. “First Army doesn’t get Healers, sir.”

Aleksander holds back a sigh. Injured, angry, and doubtless exhausted, if the boy wants to be of any help at all, a Healer is exactly what he needs. He makes an effort to soften his tone. “I’m not one to be negligent with the tools at my disposal. It’s in both our interests for you to be as healthy as possible.”

Oretsev’s doubtful expression doesn’t change. Aleksander wonders if it’s the first time a superior has cared about his wellbeing. He wouldn’t be surprised; the First Army has always tended to treat its soldiers like cannon fodder.

Finally, Oretsev salutes and makes his way out the door, where a guard is ready to lead him away. There will be no more chances taken tonight.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Aleksander stares out the window and pulls the darkness around him like a cloak. Time is slipping through his fingers like sand. Centuries spent working towards this moment, and now their future is teetering on the precipice of ruination.

He can’t fail now. He won’t allow it.

Find his Summoner. Find the stag. And if anything has happened to jeopardize his plans—

He’ll rip the world in two.