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Chapter Text

When the letter comes telling him of his mother’s death, Aleksander hasn’t seen Baghra in fifteen years.

He isn’t exactly broken up by the news. They never got on, always at odds, and while he didn’t wish death on her, he certainly can’t bring himself to really mourn her.

The letter that brings the news is from her solicitor. Brief condolences at the beginning, but quite cold and formal for the most part. A copy of his mother’s Will is enclosed, leaving a generous legacy of £200,000 to one Alina Starkova and the rest of the estate to Aleksander – it’s almost a surprise because he always half-expected his mother to leave him nothing at all just to spite him, but she probably just wanted to ensure her home (which was built by his great-great grandfather and has belonged to Morozovs for nearly three centuries) stayed in the family.

More interesting than the letter by far is the note tucked into the envelope, one the solicitors inform they have been asked to pass onto him.

Dear Mr Morozov,

It seems strange to address you formally when I have heard so much about you, but I doubt you would appreciate a stranger being so familiar.

This is especially likely to be the case when all the stories your mother shared are, I am sure, to be taken with a pinch of salt – she always did enjoy nothing more than complaining about everyone and everything.

She had a number of names for you. Aleksandr, rarely. Sasha, a few times, when she was in a good mood. Sashenka, only once, after a great deal of wine. Mostly, though, you were simply ‘the boy’.

At the beginning, I thought maybe Baghra was hiding a soft centre beneath that hard shell of hers. Over time, I realised that, if such a softness existed, she wasn’t likely to reveal it to me.

It might make you feel better to know she referred to me almost exclusively as ‘girl’. Sometimes, when I hadn’t seen anyone else in a while, I swear I began to forget my own name.

It’s Alina, by the way, Alina Starkova. I’ve been your mother’s live-in carer for the last five years, not that I was ever actually allowed to use the word carer around her – an independent spirit, your mother, and all to quick to whack a person on the shins with her cane when they irritated her.

I did like her, though, in a way. She was abrasive and rude and prone to telling the most depressing stories, but there’s no denying that she was a character.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss. And I know it’s been some time since you saw the house but there’s a company that helps keeps the building in good repair and gardeners for the grounds too, so you needn’t worry that it’s become a ruin. I’m not much of a gardener myself – cacti are about the only things I can keep alive – but painting is my hobby and so I enclose a quick study I did of the patch of blue irises that you can see from the back bedrooms.

They are such beautiful flowers. I admit they’re my favourites and I freely confess to persuading the gardener to plant them when he wanted to go with roses instead. I suppose you might have them removed if you don’t like them, but I’ll stand up for them and ask that you leave them be – I promise their scent is quite lovely.

The funeral is on the 29th of this month. It’ll be a small service as your mother preferred blunt honesty and that didn’t endear her to many of the locals. There’s no need to RSVP but please do come, if only to appease my curiosity (your mother has no recent photographs of you and I – impertinently inquisitive young woman that I am – really would love to see how much like the old photographs you are).

With best wishes.

Alina

Aleksander takes out the small hand-painted card.

Miss Starkova refers to painting as a hobby, but he wonders why she does not pursue it as a career rather than working for such an unpleasant person as his mother – after all, she clearly has talent in the area.

Truthfully, he had not planned to make the trip to the countryside for the funeral.

Now, though, he finds himself as curious about Alina Starkova as she apparently is about him.

Perhaps he will go, for a few days.

Just to see if the irises are as beautiful as they look in Miss Starkova’s painting.

Chapter Text

Alina hated her husband.

She’d never wanted to marry Malyen, but her ambitious, social-climbing parents considered him the closest they could get to the throne.

Malyen’s uncle Aleksandr, having spent two decades rising through the military ranks, had engineered a successful coup three years previously and made himself king. His wife had yet to produce any child and the country considered Malyen the natural heir.

Alina rather thought there would be another coup should her idiot of a husband ever actually assume the throne – he was lazy, arrogant without talent to back it up, ignorant of the intricacies of government and preferred to spend his time hunting rather than attending to his duties.

He was also a lacklustre and selfish lover – even Alina, who had never known the touch of another man, could tell that.

Unhappy as she was, Alina was not quite sure of the best way to change her situation, until she one day went for a walk and stumbled across the king bathing in a stream that ran through the woods near the palace.

He didn’t see her, but she certainly saw all of him.

And that was the beginning, the initial attraction that sparked an interest in her mind.

After that, she watched him more carefully. King Aleksandr was not necessarily a kind man, but he was a strong, just ruler, intelligent and charismatic, with an excellent grasp of military matters, domestic policy and foreign diplomacy.

Alina didn’t seek power, but her ideal husband did look just like the king. It started as an errant thought – a daydream, because she was married and so was he – until Alina started to think that maybe good things didn’t just happen, perhaps she had to make them happen.

The queen was a foreign princess chosen by the king for diplomatic reasons. It was well-known at court that there was no love between them and that the king’s reluctance to bed her often was probably the reason there was no sign of an heir despite three years of marriage.

It was almost ridiculous, how easy it was to slip an obscure poison to the queen. Of course, her food was all tasted by the servants, but no one ever thought to test the rouge and kohl that she used.

The court went into official mourning on the death of the queen, but Alina knew she’d need to act promptly because the grasping nobles of court would not waste much time before dangling their eligible female relatives under the king’s nose.

Alina knew the king’s habit of spending ten minutes or so on the balcony of his suite most evenings, just as the light began to fade, a brief respite from the chaos and demands of his position

As luck would have it, Malyen and Alina’s own suite in the palace was in a section of the palace directly across from the king’s balcony. And now, at the height of summer, many ladies of the court spent time out on their own balconies, enjoying the warmth.

Alina had a rather more daring plan in mind.

“Are you sure, my lady?” asked one of her maids with a frown.

“It was all the fashion in Shu Han,” Alina smiled blithely, “and it really is so wretchedly hot that I’d like the chance to feel a little bit of a breeze while I bathe.”

She timed it all perfectly. By the time the king usually made his way out onto his balcony, her light, thin dress was pooled at her waist, her long dark hair tumbling down her back and her breasts on full display.

Alina never looked over to where she knew the king stood. She wasn’t playing coy, she was playing innocent, a young woman unwittingly spotted in an intimate moment.

There was some risk in it, and no guarantee it would work.

But Alina knew the king. She had seen the flash of interest in his obsidian eyes when Malyen had introduced her as his new bride. She knew his disdain for his nephew but had sensed that he would not tar her with the same brush as her fool of a husband. With a wife of his own, the king would have hesitated to act, but now, with only Malyen standing in the way, she thought he might take the bait.

Alina bathed in such a way – outside, on display – every few days for the next two weeks, until cooler weather drove her back inside.

And then she waited.

When she received the summons to the main palace for dinner with the king, Alina just smiled widely in satisfaction.

She wore her best dress, ostensibly demure but actually rather provocative, if you looked closely.

And the king certainly looked closely.

“I believe I have been remiss,” he said to her, reaching out to pat her arm, his hand lingering, “you must be lonely with Malyen away at the Fjerdan front?”

“It is quiet,” she admitted, “and I am very grateful for your notice, Your Majesty. Still, I must confess that I do not miss my husband much.”

He said nothing to this, but she saw the understanding in his eyes. If there was anyone who knew how inadequate Malyen was better than Alina did, then it was certainly the king.

“Such a shame,” he murmured, thumb rubbing circles on her bare skin, “that you do not have a husband more to your tastes.”

“A shame indeed,” she agreed.

Later, when he kissed her goodnight, it felt anything but platonic.

Two weeks – and seven dinners – later, Alina received the news of Malyen’s death in battle.

In front of the court, she wore a heavy black veil and feigned sorrowful mourning, as was right and proper.

In private, the king offered her his own version of comfort.

And she wore a new ring on a chain around her neck, eagerly waiting for the day he would slip it onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

Chapter Text

“Now, is anyone familiar with this painting?” Genya asks.

The image flashes up on screen and she sighs as some students titter – there’s always a few.

“Yes, his hand is over her chest, but the more mature of you will notice that he’s hardly groping her – in fact, it is more a sign of tender affection. Now, come on, tell me what you see.”

“Oil on canvas, 17th century … Gerasim?”

“Very good, Marie. This work is dated to around 1665 and it is one of Gerasim’s, currently in the permanent collection of The Ketterdam Museum and Art Gallery in Kerch. Does anyone know its name?”

No one answers but Genya only shrugs, “that’s alright, it isn’t one of his most well-known works. It gained its current name in the early 19th century – A Gift for the Bride. This name came from art collector Pekka Rollins, who identified the painting’s subjects as a father bestowing a necklace upon his daughter on her wedding day.”

A loud snort comes from one of the girls on the left side of the room and Genya turns to look at her, “do you have something to say, Nina?”

“There’s no way that is a father and daughter. They’re, like, totally in love.”

Genya grins, “well done, Nina. That is exactly why Rollins’ interpretation was soundly debunked barely two decades after he proposed it, although the painting’s name stuck. I think we can all agree that this pair certainly do not look at each other in a familial fashion … at least if you aren’t a Targaryen or Borgia.”

That line gets a bigger cheer than usual, probably thanks to the recent show dominating so many Twitter conversations.

“While their expressions give away that the subjects of this painting are a couple,” Genya continues, “it is true that the obvious age difference might have led a very casual observer to think them to be father and daughter.”

“Yeah, but you can’t blame her – he’s a total DILF,” Nina shouts, and most of the class hoot their approval of her words.

Genya won’t argue. The man is obviously about two decades the woman’s senior, but he is still strikingly handsome, the silver streaks in his dark hair and beard just adding to his allure.

“Who are they?” asks Nadia.

“Ah, now that has been a subject of much speculation throughout the years. Some argued they are Gerasim’s son and his wife, while others say the couple are the military commander Juris and his lover Elizaveta. For some time, it was also considered that they might be a Biblical couple like Abraham and Sarah, or Isaac and Rebekah. The truth was only uncovered about ten years ago … and that is your assignment for our next seminar, to research this painting and its subjects and write at least two pages for me.”

As the class packs up and leaves, Genya finds herself examining the picture on her laptop screen.

It’s one of her favourite paintings, not only just because of the obvious love between the subjects, but also thanks to the story behind it.

It had been Ivan and Fedyor Kaminsky who, ten years ago, had stumbled across the answer to the mystery. They’d been invited to visit Morozov Castle by Leonid Morozov, the current Duke of Keramzin, and view the family’s extensive private art collection, which contained many pieces that hadn’t ever been displayed in any exhibition or gallery.

There, they had found dozens of paintings of generations of the Morozov family. And it had been Ivan who realised that the first duke Aleksandr and his wife Alina looked rather familiar.

Genya clicks into a folder on her laptop to find a video interview that Ivan and Fedyor had done with Leonid Morozov.

“We were always aware of Gerasim’s painting and who it was of, but my family liked the idea of leaving it a mystery, letting people guess. Of course, when Rollins posited his interpretation, there was great amusement – apparently my great-great-great grandfather thought it a very amusing joke.”

“But now you’ve decided to share your collection, and the mystery has been solved.”

“Well, it’s rather selfish of me to keep all these paintings to myself. And I think it will be nice, to finally have the true names attached to the painting.”

“So, Gerasim painted the first duke. Was it a commission?”

“No, it was actually something of a favour to Gerasim. He was just starting out at the time, and Aleksandr agreed that he and his wife – Alina was her name – would sit for him. Of the many paintings done of him and Alina over the years, that was the only one they didn’t keep.”

With Ivan and Fedyor’s discovery had come a wealth of information.

Despite the lack of portraits of Aleksandr Morozov or his wife to be found in the public domain, their names were already well-known in certain academic circles – none of their own correspondence or diaries has ever been found (Genya suspects such documents, if they exist, remain with the Morozov family, unrevealed to the general public), but they feature heavily in 17th Ravkan society diaries and letters, quite infamous for a number of reasons including their speedy courtship and marriage (Alina had been engaged to the duke’s nephew Malyen Oretsev, only to break it off when she met Morozov himself and they fell in love), public displays of affection, tendency to be extremely loud houseguests, penchant for sneaking off to dark corners and empty rooms together, and inordinate number of offspring.

Genya thinks she would do a great deal to access the diaries and letters Aleksandr and Alina may have left behind. She’s sure they’d be a fascinating goldmine of information.

Still, even working with only the publicly available documents, it is very clear that the first Duke and Duchess of Keramzin were disgustingly in love and quite the shameless exhibitionists.

Genya is certain she’ll have some interesting essays to read next week.

Chapter Text

Alina is disappointed, when they come to study Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott, to discover that Mal, the object of her affections, has little interest in poetry.

She concedes that the poem isn’t for everyone, no matter how beautiful and moving she finds it, but it’s quite rude that he yawns his way through the passage she recites in one of their lessons.

Even worse when Aleks– … some of the others are extremely attentive and admiring.

Still, she tries to overlook this unfortunate deficiency in Mal’s character and she doesn’t let the disappointment ruin her mood or dampen her enthusiasm for the plan she had conceived the moment their teacher mentioned The Lady of Shalott.

“Ah, to have been born in Camelot!” she sighs as they walk down the bank towards the pond.

“There were an awful lot of wars,” Marie frowns, “and no proper doctors.”

Alina sighs. Marie can be rather too practical sometimes and, though Alina loves her dearly, it does tend to darken the mood a little sometimes.

“It was so romantic and exciting,” she insists, “and this is such a sad, lovely story.”

“Well, you must be Elaine,” Genya says, “if I ruin my new coat then my father will be furious.”

Marie and Nadia, both a little afraid, agree with Genya that Alina should be the one to play Elaine.

“Well, if you insist,” she grins.

She knows their reluctance is born more out of a desire to stay on dry land than belief that Alina is necessarily the most accurate Elaine, but she won’t complain when it is such a deliciously exciting opportunity.

Nadia, Genya and Marie take roles of King Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot, and Genya procures a black shawl to line the flat and give the effect of a funeral barge.

Alina lays down on the bottom of the flat, eyes closed and hands folded across her chest.

Marie nervously exclaims that she looks truly dead, and Alina is obliged to open her eyes and remind her that she is supposed to be Lancelot and ought not be so skittish.

She closes her eyes again, trying not to smile as the other girls rise to the occasion, placing into her hands the bouquet of blue irises that Alina had gathered on their way down the bank.

“Sister, farewell forever,” they chant, kissing her forehead and then pushing the flat off so she drifts away.

For a few minutes, the whole thing is quite beautiful and romantic. Alina recalls the words of the poem as she enjoys the peace and tranquility of her journey.

And then, without warning, disaster strikes.

The flat begins to leak.

Dramatically wrenched out of her fantasy of Camelot, Alina tries to keep the flat afloat.

But with every handful of water that she tosses back into the pond, a great deal more enters through whatever hole they must have missed as they prepared earlier.

In the end, her dress soaked, Alina has no other choice but to grab onto the wooden posts holding up the bridge and let the flat sink to the bottom of the pond.

And it’s fine, really. Her friends will come looking when she doesn’t appear in good time, and they’ll find help. Until then, she’ll just have to hang onto the bridge.

To keep herself distracted while she waits, Alina begins to plan out the picture she’ll paint to commemorate this occasion. Obviously, it will be of the initial moments – her in the flat, her friends solemnly seeing her off – before disaster struck and she hopes it will turn out well.

When she hears another boat gliding through the water, she glances backwards excitedly until she realises who it is. Oh, why must he always appear right when she is in a scrape?

As Aleksander stops his boat alongside her, she turns away, trying for all the world to look like she is exactly where she wishes to be.

“Alina Starkova, what in the name of the saints are you doing?”

“Mr Morozov,” she gives him a curt nod, refusing to let him think anything is wrong.

“You can just call me Aleksander, you know,” he tells her, boyishly exasperated, as she climbs into his boat, “or even Sasha. And what happened?”

“If you must know, we were acting out The Lady of Shalott. I was Elaine, but the flat sprung a leak and sank. Now, if you’d be kind enough to row me to the landing –”

“Ah” he grins, and she won’t admit how it makes him look even more handsome than he already is, “so … I rescued you?”

She harumphs, “I’m sure I would have managed quite well on my own. In any event, help is certainly on the way.”

When he pulls up at the landing, she clamours out of his boat as quickly as possible.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters.

“I am grateful for your assistance, Mr Morozov,” she says archly, “although it was not required. Now, please excuse me, I must find my friends.”

“Alina, wait!” he reaches out to grab her wrist, “won’t you forgive me for insulting you that day? It was a joke, I didn’t mean anything by it, honest. Can’t we be friends?”

She huffs, “the fact that you rescued me – unnecessarily, I might add – doesn’t make up for what you said.”

“It was two years ago.”

It’s true that she might be a little too adept at holding a grudge, but it’s better to keep Aleksander at arm’s length. If she lets him any closer then she’s a little afraid her heart might suffer for it – he’s a doctor’s son, after all, and she’s an orphanage girl.

“I have to go,” she tells him, before he somehow talks her into putting aside their differences for good, “my friends will be looking for me.”

And then she flees across the fields before he can say another word.

Alina likes to think she’s brave, but sometimes a strategic retreat is in order.

Chapter Text

When Alina is seventeen, two of the girls at her school invite her to hang out.

She is a little struck by this sudden friendliness on their part, especially because Ruby and Eva are popular and Alina is decidedly not.

It’s stupid, really, to go with them into the woods, but Alina is lonely – the only friend she has is Mal, and he is so popular that he rarely has time for her anymore.

Ruby asks a lot of questions about Mal as they walk through the woods, wanting to know all his favourite things.

“And do you like him?”

“Of course, I like him, he’s my best friend.”

“No, silly, do you like him.”

“Oh, I … I …”

Alina has never spoken of her crush out loud, but her blush is answer enough.

Ruby, who’s been sugary sweet until this point, suddenly turns poisonous.

Apparently, Alina is a freak who is holding Mal back, an embarrassment who should keep herself hidden, pathetic for thinking that her art might be her ticket out of this town.

The words hurt, but Alina has thick skin and she would have moved past it, learnt her lesson about blindly believing a show of friendship and worked harder than ever to get away from Keramzin.

But words are not enough for Ruby. Instead, she shoves Alina hard enough that she falls backwards into the pond they’re standing next to. She probably simply means for Alina to end up soaked and embarrassed, but what actually happens is that she hits her head on a rock and sinks below the water.

Ruby and Eva flee in panic, leaving Alina to her fate.

Death, wreathed in shadows, hovers nearby, waiting.

When a hiker passes by and happens to spot the girl in the water, she is very nearly gone.

So close to Death that he can leave a little something – an extension of himself – behind, even when the hiker’s CPR efforts bring Alina back to the land of the living.

Hello, Alinochka

Hello, who are you?

I have many names, but you can call me Sasha.

What happened, Sasha? I … I was with Ruby and Eva and then Ruby … she pushed me. Why would she do that?

She’s a silly girl, Alinochka. Spiteful and jealous. Don’t worry, though, she won’t get away with it.

When she wakes up in the hospital, Alina claims to have been walking through the woods when she tripped and fell.

She makes no mention of Ruby and Eva.

After all, Ruby’s dad is the Chief of Police and Eva’s is a judge – there’s no way that Keramzin, with all its narrow-mindedness and casual racism, will see true justice done.

But that’s alright, because Sasha has promised he’ll help her.

She still isn’t entirely sure who (or what) Sasha is, but she trusts him.

He is always with her, in the back of her mind, whispering to her.

It is Sasha who makes her realise that Mal is just a stupid boy, not worthy of her affection. She doesn’t need him anymore, not when she has Sasha.

It is Sasha who promises that he knows just how to get back at Ruby and Eva for what they did.

The two popular girls have been avoiding her, refusing to make eye-contact, skittish and unsure whenever Alina passes by.

She can’t deny that she enjoys the rush of power she feels at how fearful they are.

They probably know they’d get away with it all, their word winning out against hers, but she thinks she might be scaring them with how uncowed she is by the whole experience.

She walks tall now, Sasha boosting her confidence with a near-constant stream of praise, telling her how clever and talented and pretty she is.

Late at night, when she is alone, Sasha appears to her.

He is a shadowy figure, never quite solid, but her skin tingles whenever he runs his insubstantial fingers up and down her arm.

“Don’t fret, Alinochka,” he murmurs when she worries over his lack of a proper form, “these things take time. And you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she nods eagerly, “and can you tell me another story.”

Sasha knows all the fantastical tales of how the universe began and the different immortal forces that keep the world turning. He insists she has an important role to play – she’s not so sure, but when his shadows wrap around her wrist and her whole body seems to glow in response, she finds herself inclined to believe him.

“You have been marked by death, Alinochka,” Sasha tells her, “so there is death in your touch, should you wish it.”

She frowns for a moment before she discerns his meaning.

At first, it seems quite appalling. True, Ruby had pushed her, and both she and Eva had left Alina to die, but to kill them in response …

“It is balance, my Alinochka. They almost stole your life, so you must take theirs. And by exercising such power, you will aid me in moving one step closer to being truly free.”

The shadows caress her, cool and gentle, “you want me to be free, don’t you? Then we can be together for eternity, Alinochka, just as it is meant to be.”

It’s all Alina desires, to have Sasha with her forever.

As it is, Alina finds it easy enough in the end.

Both Ruby and Eva have reverted to their old behaviour, now that a month has passed since the incident and neither one of them have suffered any consequences.

When they crowd her, mouths curled into sneers, insults falling from their lips, it is instinct to reach out – full of righteous anger, Sasha whispering encouragement – and will the shadows to do their work.

Alina is far away by the time the darkness begins to crawl through Ruby and Eva’s veins.

She is nowhere near them as they scream and thrash in pain.

There is nothing at all that can link their painful deaths with quiet little Alina Starkova, who prefers to spend her free periods in the library or the art room.

“My clever girl,” Sasha coos later that night, more solid than ever, “you were glorious.”

“Yes,” Alina smiles, her irises now more black than muddy brown, “and you will soon be free.”

This is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Alina Starkova has a gift.

Sunlight spills from her hands, illuminating the darkest places, bathing her in a radiant glow.

Such a power, in a small village like Keramzin, exhibited by an orphan girl of dubious origin, gives rise to rather a great deal of jealousy among the other young ladies, especially when the minor god Malyen, passing through, takes a fancy to Alina.

Initially, Alina is smitten.

He entices her with talk of eternal love and everlasting devotion, and she is too innocent and sheltered to see that his are empty promises.

In reality, he hopes to take revenge on his uncle – who, with his power over the shadows, would consider Alina a perfect balance and match – for refusing to give him the duties he believes are fitting to his station.

Playing the chivalrous suitor ready to take her away from the spiteful glares and sneers of her fellow villagers, Malyen persuades her that he loves her and has the west wind carry Alina off to a castle by the sea.

For six months, Malyen woos Alina, and by the end of that time he firmly believes he has her heart.

Truth be told, Alina sees through him in a matter of days, but she is reluctant to leave, enchanted by the castle itself, the grounds surrounding it and the view of the sea from her bedroom window.

It is the kind of castle she day-dreamed about back in Keramzin, full of beautiful things and interesting books and delightful views, imbued with magic. Best of all are the tendrils of shadows that seem ever-present – they open doors to interesting rooms, guide her if she gets lost, wrap around her wrist to correct her hand movements as she tries to learn how to properly summon her light, and her to hide her from view if Malyen is looking for her and she doesn’t particularly want to speak with him.

It is strange, she thinks, that the castle – which is clearly sentient – does not seem to like Malyen. It refuses to allow him access to many rooms and causes countless little inconveniences for him. Alina herself, though, never experiences such difficulties.

Something about the castle feels like home to her, even if Malyen himself is not her ideal companion – she is a little naïve but not a fool, after all, and the shine entirely wears off her suitor soon enough.

When, one bright morning, Malyen suggests they go for a picnic, Alina does not see the harm in it.

He is a self-centred companion, never happier than when he is talking about himself, but the natural picnic spot is a picturesque little meadow by a river and she doesn’t mind visiting even if it must be in his company.

“Just don’t run off,” he tells her as they leave, “you won’t get back into the castle without me.”

She understands his game when he vanishes barely moments after they reach the river. He has grown bored and means to abandon her out here so she is forced to return home.

Alina has no intention of going back to Keramzin, though, or of being shut out of the place she loves.

Besides, she has a feeling that the castle prefers her to Malyen, and that his little scheme might not work out the way he hopes.

So, she begins the journey back, enjoying the sun on her face and the cool sea breeze that stops her from overheating.

When she reaches the castle, it is just in time to see the doors swing open and Malyen stumble out, tendrils of shadow pushing him away.

He doesn’t see her, just storms off in a huff, and Alina walks right back in the front door, the shadows curling around her to welcome her home.

In the marble-floored entrance room, there stands a man.

Tall and pale, with dark hair and glittering obsidian eyes.

“Hello, Alina,” he smiles, twisting his wrist to call the shadows to him, “I am Aleksandr.”

She has never seen him before in her life and yet she knows him. He is the shadows that have been her companion for the last six months, and the way the castle seems to vibrate with joy makes it clear that the castle is his true home, not Malyen’s.

She steps into his embrace, glowing brightly as his arms wrap around her.

Shadows and sunlight dance together, celebrating this destined first meeting.

Alina and Aleksandr, written in the stars, are finally together.

Centuries later, the story will be twisted.

People will speak of Malyen and Alina as the everlasting romance and Aleksandr won’t be mentioned at all.

Still, Alina and Aleksandr do not care for the stories mortals tell. After all, Malyen has long since faded away, as all minor gods do after a time, but Alina and Aleksandr remain, light and dark, together for eternity.

Chapter Text

“Sasha.”

“Yes, my darling.”

“Can I have a swing?”

He lifts his head from his newspaper and becomes momentarily distracted by the sight of his wife in her new pink dress, before recalling her question, “a swing, Alina?”

“There’s the perfect spot for it by the cherub statues in the western part of the garden. And I promise it won’t be expensive at all – we just need some strong rope and a plank of wood.”

“My darling, the expense does not concern me. I simply wondered over the reason.”

“Oh,” she blushes slightly, “it’s only ... I remember some friends talking of swings when I was a child. They sounded like such good fun – I thought of asking papa if the gardener could construct one for me, but papa … well, he had too many troubles and preferred for me to stay quiet and not be a bother.”

Aleksander frowns at the mention of his late, unlamented father-in-law.

It had been something of a scandal, one of the finest families in England reduced to ruin by Anton Starkov’s mismanagement and gambling addiction. Alina’s season, just after her father had managed to drink himself to death, had only been undertaken with the financial support of Aleksander’s cousin Genya.

He still remembers the first time he met Alina and the troubles that had clouded her expression despite her attempt at a smile.

It had only taken an hour for him to realise she was the woman he wished to marry. From that moment, he had vowed to himself that he would do whatever possible to ensure Alina had a genuine smile on her face for the rest of her life.

“If you wish for a swing, my darling,” he tells her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her palm, “then you shall have one. I’ll have Ivan source the materials.”

Ivan would think it ridiculous, and sigh over Aleksander’s tendency to indulge all his wife’s whims, but he would also ensure the swing was well-constructed and safe.

“Oh, thank you, Sasha!” she beams at him, peppering his face with sweet kisses, before finishing her eggs with a most unladylike alacrity (not that he would dream of scolding her for it) and rushing for the door, “I must write to Genya and tell her all about it.”

The swing is duly constructed and, once Aleksander has had half a dozen men test its sturdiness, it is deemed acceptable for use by the young Duchess.

Alina is in high spirits, so giddy that Ivan – who is never, ever ill – complains of a headache and insists he must go and lie down.

She sits on the cushioned bench – “you needn’t have included it, Sasha, I would have been fine with the wooden seat” – and then pauses, a little unsure.

“How … how does one go about using a swing?” she asks, a little timidly.

Alexei, one of the gardeners, rushes to explain the process – that you can set the swing going yourself, or have someone assist by pulling the ropes.

The young man – always starry-eyed around Alina, but too shy and innocent for Aleksander to scold him about it – offers to assist, “and then Your Grace can decide if you wish to try it yourself.”

Most of the other servants disperse, leaving Aleksander and Fedyor to observe as Alexei pulls on the ropes and then lets go so that the swing is set in motion.

Alina’s expression is all rapturous delight. He can’t quite see the appeal himself, but if it makes his wife happy then Aleksander will have nothing negative said about it.

He’s pleased, anyway, to see her giggle and laugh so freely. Even now, her future secured as his wife, she still sometimes retains a shadow of her old worries, the sad by-product of her family’s circumstances forcing her to grow up too early. He has made it his mission, in the months since they married, to ensure that, alongside her duties as his duchess, she has the time and means to enjoy the diversions she was deprived of for the first eighteen years of her life.

“Well,” says Fedyor with a cheerful smile, “I think, Your Grace, that this can be considered a –”

He is cut off as Alexei yells out for them both to duck. They drop to the ground and Aleksander looks up to see one of Alina’s shoes – delicate things, but with wicked little heels – fly over his head.

“Oops,” his wife ducks her head sheepishly.

“No need to worry, my darling,” he assures her, “but perhaps next time you should take off your shoes.”

Alexei grabs the ropes so that the swing comes to a halt, while Fedyor obligingly fetches the errant shoe.

Alina hops off the swing with graceful agility and then – with a lack of decorum he finds charmingly endearing, throws herself into his arms.

Any nearby servants, now quite used to such effusive displays from their new duchess, quietly leave the scene.

“Thank you, Sasha!” she kisses him thoroughly, and of course he must oblige her in return, so they are both rather dishevelled by the time they break apart.

“You are the very best of husbands,” she sighs happily.

“Only the best for my darling wife,” he wraps an arm around her waist, pleased that they are at home and can be more openly affectionate than is considered proper in a more public setting.

“You know,” she says as they walk through the garden, “I believe these swings can be made so two people can sit side by side.”

“I am an old man, my darling,” he laughs.

“You are not yet forty,” she reminds him indignantly.

“Very well, my darling. I shall have Ivan arrange it all.”

He rather thinks the man will have a heart attack at the idea of Aleksander on a swing, but there’s no help for it, really.

If it makes his wife happy, then it makes Aleksander happy too.

Chapter Text

“My lady,” Genya hovers worriedly in the doorway, “you really should get some rest.”

“Just a little longer,” Alina says, unable to take her eyes away from the baby sleeping in the cradle, her beautiful little girl.

“My lady, please,” Genya insists, “you lost a great deal of blood during your delivery and the doctor said you should sleep as much as possible.”

“I just …”

I just need to keep watch over her. I have to be sure that she really is alright.

Alina only looks up from her child a few minutes later, at the sound of a distant commotion.

Heavy footsteps get louder and louder until Genya steps to the side and her husband, wild-eyed and more dishevelled than she has ever seen him, stumbles into the room.

Alina clamours to her feet, trying not to wince at the twinges of pain, “my lord,” she dips into a brief curtsey.

He doesn’t respond, only looks back and forth between her and the cradle.

And then, a few moments later, he surges forward to clasp her hands in his own, “you are well, Alina?”

“The doctor says I am out of danger,” she tells him, “but we did not expect you back until next week.”

“The servants sent a note, telling me of the complications with your labour,” he pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to her.

It is in a sorry state, wrinkled and a little torn, as if it has been read and re-read dozens of times. The ink is smudged, almost as if the paper is tear-stained, but she cannot imagine Aleksander ever indulging in such overtly emotional behaviour.

“You look pale,” he frowns, “should I help you to bed so that you can rest?”

“No, no,” she shakes her head, “I should like to stay here a little longer, but first I will ask the servants to see to your chambers.”

“I can take care of it all, my lady,” Genya promises, vanishing down the corridor, likely in search of Ivan or Fedyor.

When Alina looks back at her husband, she finds him by the cradle, staring down with wonder in his dark eyes.

“I hope you are not too disappointed,” she tells him, twisting her hands together, nervous about his reaction.

“Why should I be disappointed?” he asks curiously, eyes still fixed on the baby.

“I … I know men like to have sons … but the doctor … the doctor says I shall be well enough to try again soon, and the maybe the next –”

“She’s perfect,” Aleksander murmurs, reaching down to stroke their daughter’s soft, downy cheek, “what’s her name?”

“Oh,” Alina stammers, surprised by how unbothered he seems to be at his first-born being a girl rather than a boy, “I thought you might want to name her for your mother.”

“Heavens, no,” he snorts derisively, “I wouldn’t inflict anything of my mother’s on my darling daughter. Did you have a name you liked, Alina?”

“Well, I am quite partial to Irina, I suppose. But, of course, you must choose.”

“Irina it is,” he says decisively, “Irina Morozova. And … and she is well too?”

“Yes,” she nods emphatically.

Alina can’t put into words the relief she had felt when the doctor had pronounced Irina to be healthy following the dramatics of her birth. She still can’t quite believe it, which is why she has been spending most of her time in the nursery, keeping watch over the cradle.

It’s a little disconcerting, to see her husband so emotional.

Aleksander has never been cruel to her, has in fact been very kind and generous. It’s only … she’d fallen so hard and fast for him when they met, while he had been, and still remains, rather aloof. She’s come to think his proposal came solely from the desire to find a wife he could tolerate, a belief that had only been strengthened when he had stopped visiting her bed as soon as her pregnancy was confirmed.

Now, however, he is hovering over both her and Irina with a tender solicitousness that suggests emotions she had been sure he did not feel for her.

When the wetnurse comes in, Aleksander manages to persuade Alina to return to bed so that she might sleep for a few hours.

She expects him to walk her to her room and then leave, but he stands there a little awkwardly, boyishly unsure.

“Perhaps … perhaps I could stay with you?” he suggests.

She blushes bright red, “I am afraid I’m not quite ready to resume marital relations, my lord. The doctor believes –”

“I did not …” he cuts in, also blushing slightly, “I simply thought that perhaps it would be nice if we shared the bed, just to sleep.”

“Oh,” she gapes a little, “it’s only, we have not shared the bed since …”

“I did not wish to impose upon you when you were with child,” he mutters, “I believed you would not like it.”

Thinking back, Alina remembers that Aleksander had stayed regularly in her bed in the early days of their marriage, even when they had not engaged in marital relations that night, and it had only ceased when she fell pregnant and he suddenly seemed to believe she was made of glass.

She senses perhaps there is some misunderstanding between them. Alina would have welcomed her husband into her bed while she was pregnant – at certain points, she’d been nearly desperate for him. It seems that his absence was less a lack of feeling and more a belief that she did not want him there.

Now is not the right time for such conversations, though. She is sleep-deprived, achy and very much desperate to curl up in bed with her husband beside her.

She takes Aleksander’s hand and tugs him towards the bed, telling him he can have the left side.

They can talk properly tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Out on the True Sea, as Sturmhond, Nikolai is slow to receive news. By the time he gets word of the Darkling’s coup, the infamous Shadow Summoner has been sitting on the throne for almost two months and the Fold has moved, leaving a passageway from Kribirsk to Novokribirsk and stretching out to engulf parts of both Fjerda and Shu Han.

His parents, brother and many nobles are dead. And, with the newly-discovered Sun Summoner at his side, the Darkling’s power seems absolute.

Still, some remain loyal to Nikolai’s family, a fledgling rebellion.

Their stories are horrifying. They say the Darkling has shadow monsters who rip his enemies apart, that his Grisha and oprichniki make dissenters disappear, that he is brutal and tyrannical.

Worst of all are the rumours about the Sun Summoner. They tell him she is an innocent barely out of girlhood and cowed by the Darkling, who keeps her like a pleasure slave and takes her whenever he wishes, regardless of her protests.

“The Sun Summoner is the only one who might stand against him,” Colonel Raevsky tells him, “if only someone could get close enough to shake his hold over her.”

“I’ll go,” Nikolai says after some thought.

“Your Majesty must not,” Raevsky protests, “if you are caught then the rebellion will fail.”

“She will be confused and suspicious, Colonel. She’s not likely to trust a messenger.”

Raevsky sighs, “very well, Your Majesty.”

It is another six months before Nikolai, tailored by Tolya, finds a way into the Grand Palace with the visiting Fjerdan delegation.

There, in the Throne Room, he gets his first glimpse of the Sun Summoner.

She is as young as the reports suggest, probably not even twenty years old, dressed in insubstantial wisps of black and gold silk. She wears the oddest collar made of antler bone (rumoured to be an amplifier forced upon her by the Black Tsar to control her power). She has no throne of her own, but sits astride the Black Tsar, face buried into the crook of his neck, whimpering.

It takes all of Nikolai’s self-control not to show his disgust at this demeaning abuse of the Sun Summoner in front of the whole court. He clenches his fist and keeps his mouth shut, though, because he cannot ruin this mission before it has even begun.

The Summoner doesn’t say a word throughout the whole audience. The only sounds that fall from her mouth are stuttering cries as the Black Tsar treats her like a doll for his pleasure rather than the miracle she is.

After that, he rarely sees her at all, for only the Black Tsar’s most trusted are allowed regular access to the Sun Summoner. He hears the whispers, though – the Grisha and oprichniki never gossip, but other foreign delegations and the nobles who remain talk in hushed tones about how loudly the young woman weeps at night when the Black Tsar goes to her bed, and the bruises and marks that her Tailor is not allowed to remove, and how she is kept isolated from anyone who might offer her kindness.

Nikolai remembers that some of his soldiers had expressed doubt about whether the Sun Summoner would turn on the Black Tsar, worried that whatever conditioning he had subjected her to might be too difficult to work around. With what he has seen and heard, though, Nikolai cannot believe that the Sun Summoner would miss the chance to destroy the monster who has ruined her life.

The perfect opportunity comes three months into Nikolai’s stay at court, when all anyone can talk of is the capture of the Sun Summoner’s old friend Malyen Oretsev, who has been on the run and trying to liberate the Sun Summoner ever since the coup.

Now, however, Oretsev’s luck has run out and he is to be publicly executed.

It is the perfect moment. The Sun Summoner must be devastated to hear of her friend’s impending death and will surely be even more receptive than usual to Nikolai’s offer to assist in overthrowing the Black Tsar’s tyrannical reign.

He lets Tolya’s tailoring fade away before he goes to the Sun Summoner’s suite, a few loyal men helping him sneak inside.

Light flares at her fingertips, but she freezes when she sees him, “you should not be here.”

“I take it you know my face?”

“I’ve seen the portraits, although they are all burned now,” she glances nervously at the door, “you’re a fool to come here.”

“I wish to help you and your friend.”

“Mal is lost,” she whispers, ducking her head, “and there is nowhere I can go that the tsar will not find me.”

“You have more power than you realise,” Nikolai insists, “I can get a message to my associates for them to sneak in the day your friend is to be executed. If you are ready, then we can take Ravka back and destroy the Darkling.”

She looks at him, wide-eyed and hopeful, “is it really possible?”

He nods and she glows with excitement. In that moment, Nikolai can see why so many worship her.

“I will be ready,” she promises fervently.”

Of course, Nikolai cannot trust that the Black Tsar has not succeeded in twisting the Sun Summoner’s mind beyond repair.

A week passes, though, without soldiers storming in to arrest him, and Nikolai relaxes, putting in place all the preparations for the day set for Oretsev’s execution.

The first sign that something is wrong is when everyone gathers to find the Sun Summoner perched on the Black Tsar’s knee, giggling and whispering into his ear, the grin on her face very clearly genuine rather than forced.

“Quiet,” the Black Tsar murmurs, and the throne room falls silent, “my wife wishes to speak.”

The Sun Summoner stands gracefully and saunters down the marble steps of the dais, clearly delighted by everyone’s attention.

With a poisonous little smile, she points straight at Nikolai, “the bastard prince, husband.”

Tolya moves, together with Tamar, Raevsky and their other allies scattered throughout the room. It is too late, though, and it is clear the Black Tsar has anticipated them.

Nikolai clutches at his chest as a surly Heartrender sneers at him.

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the Sun Summoner now curled up on the Black Tsar’s lap, his fingers carding gently through her hair.

And Nikolai realises he never stood a chance.

Chapter Text

The struggle is all Aleksander has ever known.

To remain alive. To stay safe. To build a haven for the Grisha and see them recognised as equal citizens.

He has travelled only to keep himself hidden whenever he fakes his death or when he is sent in his capacity as Second Army General. He is incredibly well-read, but little of it is for pleasure. He has hobbies, but only a few, and they have all fallen to the wayside over the years as he dedicates all his time to ensuring the Grisha have a place in Ravka, that they are useful enough that the current tsar will not turn into another Anastas.

The struggle is all Aleksander has ever known. He’s not sure what he would do without it.

And then Alina Starkova arrives into his life with a searing burst of light.

The Sun Summoner he has waited centuries for, finally here.

His equal. His balance. His eternal partner.

They work together to build a better Ravka, strong and unified, at peace for the first time in centuries. They see Nikolai and Zoya crowned together, beloved rulers finally giving the country the leaders they deserve.

Aleksander assumes they will stay. There will always be problems to overcome, after all, and one day Ravka might need them.

It is Alina who packs their bags, who insists it is time to go.

“They have to stand on their own two feet, Sasha. That’s how people grow the way they were meant to.”

“But I –”

He trails off, not sure how to put it into words.

The struggle is all he has ever known. Aleksander does not know how to live without it.

“You’ve done it, Sasha,” she murmurs, “it isn’t perfect and it may not last forever, but that’s alright, that is the nature of things. And sometimes, we have to let go.”

“I don’t … I don’t know how,” he admits.

The Grisha and Ravka are in his blood, in his heart, in his soul. How can he be expected to just abandon them this way?

“It isn’t abandonment,” Alina reminds him, “you have given and sacrificed so much so that Ravka can have this opportunity. All you have done is to give them choices and options and peace. And now you deserve to find your own path.”

“Our path,” he insists, because while he is incredibly out of his depth, the one thing he knows for sure is that he wants Alina by his side.

“Our path,” she agrees with a smile.

They spread a map out over the table, trying to decide where to go.

“Do you know what I always wondered, back when I was a cartographer?” Alina asks.

“Why does Ketterdam have a university and Ravka doesn’t? What was the True Sea called before the Fold existed? The answer, in fact, is that it didn’t have a name, we simply called it the sea.”

Alina elbows him, “what I wondered,” she says, “is what is east of Ravka?”

“Oh, that … that’s a good question.”

It pains him to leave the Little Palace behind, to say goodbye to Ivan and Fedyor, Genya and David, Zoya and Nikolai, with no idea when (or if) he will ever see them again.

But then Alina slips her hand into his and he is reminded of how lucky he is to have her by his side.

They travel east first by coach, until they reach the unnamed mountains that can be seen from Os Alta. Then, they climb.

It is a steep, rather treacherous journey, but they are both fit and healthy and they reach the top without any serious injury.

Aleksander stands upon a rocky precipice.

If he looks behind him, he can see Os Alta and many other Ravkan cities and towns. They are so high up that he can even make out Shu Han in the distance.

Looking forward, all he can see is several other rocky ridges, forests and more mountains far away.

Anything else is covered in the fog that seems to stretch out indefinitely.

It is a mystery, what awaits them when they climb down the mountain.

They are powerful and they are, barring any unfortunate event, eternal. But they are not indestructible and there is no telling what they might find beyond the known world.

Alina clamours up to stand next to him and takes his hand, “are you ready?” she asks.

He pauses for a moment. Glances back again at Ravka, familiar and comfortable, a place full of memories.

Now, he looks forward, though, into the unknown.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he squeezes her hand gently.

Their next great adventure awaits them.

Chapter Text

“You weren’t followed, were you?”

“No, Sasha.”

“You’re absolutely sure.”

“I’m not an amateur, Sasha. And what about you, were you followed.”

“I won’t even dignify that with a response, Alinochka.”

Their server appears and Sasha orders for them both in perfect French.

Alina allows it. He knows all her favourites and it’ll stop him criticising her French accent.

She sighs happily as she leans back in her chair and looks up at the stars in the night sky, pleased to see the lack of clouds makes it a clear and beautiful evening.

“I heard about Munich,” he murmurs as he pours the wine, “very … explosive.”

She shrugs, “sometimes subtlety doesn’t work.”

“It does draw a lot of attention, though.”

“And your recent jaunt to Moscow didn’t. Remind me, how many soldiers it was you killed there, because I could have sworn the papers reported forty-three.”

“Forty-five, actually, but two of them ended up in an incinerator so I’m not sure they’ll count them in all the chaos.”

“Oh, yes, and that’s just the perfect example of subtlety.”

“I didn’t want to argue, Alinochka.”

“And yet here you are, nitpicking.”

They bicker back and forth until their food arrives, at which point they are quite distracted.

This place has the best chocolate souffles they’ve ever tasted, after all, and such a treat deserves to be savoured.

“Have they assigned you a new partner?” Sasha asks, “after Oretsev’s tragic accident.”

Alina sighs. Mal had been her best friend once, but the trust had faltered between them when he had discovered that she met regularly with Sasha. She hadn’t exactly wanted to kill him, but it had been necessary to keep both herself and Sasha safe.

“They had me work with Nikolai a few times, but he’s always better with Zoya. For now, they have me on one-person assignments.”

She doesn’t bother to ask Sasha about his own assignments. She knows he works alone, has done ever since his first (and only) partner Luda had been killed fifteen years ago in an incident that she knows Sasha suspects his own handlers had arranged out of fear that he was becoming distracted.

If only they could see us now, she thinks, although of course that would spell absolute disaster for her and Sasha both.

The two of them know better than to meet like this. It’s such attachments that get operatives put down. But they just can’t help it, drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

In their line of work, it’s expected that you won’t live to see your hair turn fully grey. Is it any wonder, then, that they want to grab happiness while they can?

A few minutes later, when only crumbs remain on their plates and their glasses are empty, a trio of fiddlers set up opposite the café and begin to play.

“Shall we?” Sasha asks.

Alina really should go. These trysts of theirs are always short and sweet to limit the danger of being caught.

Still, she can’t resist the chance for one dance, for a few minutes of feeling like a normal couple.

“Yes,” she smiles and takes his hand, “we shall.”

Chapter Text

General,

My mother bade me write to you to express once again our honour at having the pleasure of your company last week.

I do not quite know why she asked me to write when she usually prefers to deal with such correspondence herself, but I always do as I am asked (my brother Mal would say that is a heinous lie, but he is a fool and you ought not mark a word he says – I certainly do as I am asked, for the most part, when it is not an undesirable task).

I am afraid I do not know what else to say, save that I quite disagreed with you about Plato, although I think we are united in our thoughts on Socrates.

With best wishes for your health,

Alina Starkova

General,

Mama was quite horrified to discover I had sent my previous letter to you without her approval. She would like me to assure you that I am not usually so impertinent and to please forgive my rudeness.

Your opinions are, mama insists, absolutely correct, and it was wrong of me to imply otherwise.

I would be entirely delighted if you would come to dinner again when you are next passing by our estate and I assure you that I would never dream of contradicting you about Plato.

With sincerest apologies,

Alina Starkova

Lady Alina,

I acknowledge receipt of your letters. I find the first truer to your character than the second.

Your opinions on Socrates are well-formed and intelligent for a girl of your age, although your gross misunderstanding of Plato makes me wonder at the haphazard nature of your education. I enclose a list of texts that might expand your knowledge.

Yours respectfully,

General Aleksandr Morozov

General,

I thank you for your list. Mama was quite horrified at the idea of my studying even more – she thinks I have too many opinions – but she will not dare say a word against your recommendations.

Papa promises he will purchase any of the volumes that our library does not already contain. He is a most estimable father.

As a gesture of thanks, I enclose my sketch of our gardens, since you so admired them during your visit, together with my own list of texts that I think you may wish to read.

With best wishes,

Alina Starkova

Lady Alina,

I do not believe I have ever been given such an eclectic reading list. Your taste in literature is … varied.

Thank you for your sketch. It shows a great deal of talent. In return, I send a dried blue iris, as I believe this is a favourite flower of yours.

I shall be passing through in a month or so and your father has kindly offered to host me.

Yours respectfully,

General Aleksandr Morozov

General,

Mama was quite furious with me for giving unsolicited reading recommendations to such a distinguished man as yourself, but she quite forgot her anger when papa confirmed you will be visiting us once more – she says I am to have a new dress.

Thank you for the flower, it is beautiful and indeed a favourite bloom of mine.

With best wishes,

Alina Starkova

Lady Alina,

I must apologise sincerely for my behaviour during my visit. I fear the excess of good wine addled my mind and caused an overflowing of sentiment that is very out of character.

You did indeed look exceptionally pretty, but it was most unbecoming of me to express this in such a bold fashion while we were stargazing on the balcony.

I assure you that I shall not behave in such a manner again.

Yours respectfully,

General Aleksandr Morozov

Aleksandr,

I am sure you would say it is quite wrong of me to address you so familiarly but, as you must now know, I often do as I like.

I do not accept your apologies, for I am aware of nothing that you should regret.

Your sentiments were very pleasing to me, as was our too brief kiss.

Do come again as soon as you are able. I should very much like to discuss Ovid with you, and perhaps we might stargaze again.

With warm wishes,

Alina

Dearest Alina,

I will hope to visit in a week or two.

Please inform your father that I have an important matter to discuss with him.

Aleksandr

Chapter Text

Alina is in the right place at the right time, that’s all.

When she overhears two men discussing a plot to kill the tsar, she simply reports it to the stern-looking Heartrender when he visits.

 She expects to hear nothing else. It’s unlikely such a plot would have succeeded anyway, considering how formidable and powerful the Black Tsar is.

And yet, barely a day later, Alina finds herself being escorted down the palace corridors and into a magnificent suite like nothing she has ever seen.

A stunning red-head in a red and blue kefta marches in with five maids trailing after her, stops right in front of Alina, tilts her head and then nods, “a good base to work with.”

For the next five hours, Alina is washed, scrubbed, massaged and perfumed. The red-head – Genya, she introduces herself as – then produces an incredible kit and proceeds to work miracles.

“I’m a Tailor,” she explains when Alina’s eyes go wide at the way old scars are smoothed away and dark shadows under her eyes disappear, “I can fix surface wounds, and I can also modify, although the effects will fade away.”

Alina is rather glad to hear it. She looks more striking than she ever has in her life, but can’t help but feel it’s something of an illusion to remove all trace of the frail, sickly young woman she is in reality.

“What’s all this for?” she dares to ask when the rest of the maids have been sent away and only Genya is left, helping her into a magnificent pale gold gown.

Genya’s brow furrows, “they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Incompetent fools,” she rolls her eyes, “this is for the tsar. He’s asked to see you.”

Alina’s eyes widen in panic, “what! Why? I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”

Genya laugh is like tinkling bells, “nothing to worry about, darling. He simply wishes to meet the woman who saved his life.”

“I didn’t –”

“We’ll never know, thanks to your warning, but those two men were more prepared than any of the assassins we’ve encountered in recent years. You put a stop to a great deal of trouble, and allowed us to catch them off guard and keep them alive for interrogation.”

Alina fights the urge to shudder. Everyone in Ravka knows the rumours of what happens during the Black Tsar’s interrogations.

Truthfully, Alina would think it more of a kindness for them to simply leave her in peace rather than present her to the tsar.

It is true, of course, that she is a member of his harem (growing up on the border with Shu Han, Alina had been taken by Shu soldiers as a child, and later given to the tsar with half a dozen other girls as a diplomatic gift) and belongs to him, but in the three years she has been here, Alina only seen the tsar from a distance and has never been summoned by him. She is one of over five hundred women and men (all otkazat’sya as the Black Tsar, for reasons known only to himself, almost never takes Grisha to his bed) in the harem and has never caught his eye.

“Do you think,” Alina whispers, a little nervously, “that maybe … perhaps … the tsar might be persuaded not to see me.”

Genya pats her shoulder sympathetically, “I’m afraid that is quite impossible, darling, but you needn’t be afraid – he is not quite the monster he is made out to be.”

Alina appreciates Genya’s attempt at comfort, but she suspects it’s rather different for the red-head, being both Grisha and clearly having some authority within the palace. Alina is nobody at all, and if the tsar is displeased with her, no one is going to stop him from having her punished or killed.

Still, she holds her head high as she is shown into the tsar’s suite, determined not to show any fear.

It is difficult not to gasp when she gets her first proper look at the Shadow Summoner who has ruled Ravka for centuries.

Dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, distractingly handsome, dressed in his customary black, intense obsidian eyes focused entirely on her.

“Ah, the little heroine,” he pats the space next to him on the divan, “thank you, Genya, you may go.”

Alina wishes she could ask for the Tailor to stay, but nobody disobeys the tsar’s orders, and so Alina simply tries not to tremble as she is left alone with the most powerful man in the country.

“Now,” he murmurs, “why haven’t I seen you before, Alinochka?”

“Oh … I don’t … all this,” she points at her face, “it’s Genya’s work, really. I’m not anything special.”

“Genya’s Small Science can only do so much. It enhances what is already there, and anything more simply looks unnatural.”

She only nods, unsure of what to say.

“I must thank you,” he smiles, bright white teeth flashing, “for your exposure of my would-be assassins. That deserves a reward, I should think.”

“Oh, you don’t have to –” Alina begins, not entirely sure the tsar’s version of reward tallies with her own.

“I quite insist,” he grins, and when he runs his fingers down her bare arm, the tingle Alina feels is not just a mix of arousal and trepidation, but something else, sparking under her skin.

“You’ll let me, won’t you, Alinochka,” he coos at her as his thumb brushes her lips.

She can’t deny she’s attracted to him, but it doesn’t matter either way – there is no denying the Black Tsar.

His kiss is surprisingly soft at first, almost featherlight, and Alina sighs into it, eyes fluttering shut.

There’s that feeling again, power surging through her veins, stronger and stronger as the kiss turns heated.

She doesn’t open her eyes again until the tsar lets out a low growl and tugs her onto his lap. And then she sees it.

The room is bathed in light and her skin is glowing.

Her gasp gets the tsar’s attention. He lifts his head and freezes at the sight before him. Then, his lips curve into a pleased smile, his dark eyes glittering with possessive lust.

“Solntse,” he touches her glowing skin reverently, “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

Chapter Text

Aleksander Kirigan Morozov, 6th Duke of Balakirev

Born: 14 December 1748

Died: 29 July 1831 (age 82)

Spouses: Lady Elizaveta Golubeva (m. 1772; died 1803)

               Lady Alina Oretseva nee Starkova (b. 1763; m. 1804)

Children: Lukyan Aleksander Morozov (born Oretsev), 7th Duke of Balakirev (rumoured)

               Irina Alina Safina (born Oretseva, nee Morozova), Duchess of Os Alta (rumoured)

Parents: Aleksander Ilya Morozov, 5th Duke of Balakirev

              Lady Baghra Lena Morozova

Excerpt from the Wikipedia page of Aleksander Kirigan Morozov, 6th Duke of Balakirev

The 6th Duke’s first marriage was an unhappy and childless union and the two had chambers on opposite sides of Morozov House, their country residence. In the absence of issue, it was assumed that the Duke’s title would pass to his cousin and closest male relative, Lord Malyen Oretsev. In 1783, the Duke invited Oretsev and his wife Alina to stay in his home, which society at large considered a sign that he considered Oretsev his heir.

During the course of their time at Morozov House, Lady Alina gave birth to two children, a son in 1786 and a daughter in 1789. The childless Duke doted on both children and, with Oretsev’s financial circumstances strained by a love for gambling (and poor luck at the same), took on financial responsibility for their education and maintenance.

Oretsev died in 1799 after accidentally falling into the Sokol River while drunk. His widow and her two children remained at Morozov House and both children were adopted by the Duke, taking his name, with Lukyan considered the heir to the Dukedom.

Elizaveta died in 1803 after a short illness. One year later, the Duke married Lady Alina. Their twenty-seven year marriage, in contrast to the first unions of both parties, was said to be an extremely warm, happy and loving one.

Excerpt from the Wikipedia page of Aleksander Kirigan Morozov, 6th Duke of Balakirev

Rumours abounded about the state of affairs at Morozov House from the day that Lord Malyen and Lady Alina moved in at the 6th Duke’s invitation.

The Duke’s relations with his then-wife Elizaveta were poor indeed, while the situation between the Oretsevs was scarcely much better – it is said to have begun as a supposed love match, but one that quickly soured with Lord Malyen’s predilection for gambling and actresses.

It was clear to all who visited Morozov House, however, that the Duke and Lady Alina were incredibly close. He is said to have planned the redesign of Morozov House’s extensive gardens specifically around her own preferences, including a hidden grove filled with her favourite flowers; their bedchambers were as near as propriety would allow; they were regularly found playing music (the Duke on the violin and Lady Alina on the piano), reading, riding and walking together; and the Duke was said to be one of Lady Alina’s favourite subject when it came to her artistic endeavours (she was an accomplished painter, although most of her works remain in the Morozov family’s private collection).

With such evidence before their eyes, it is no wonder that society whispered about the paternity of Lady Alina’s two children. While Lukyan was very much his mother’s son in looks, Irina bore a striking resemblance to the Duke.

Whatever they might have thought privately, neither the Duke’s first wife nor Oretsev ever publicly challenged their spouses about the children. Even after Oretsev’s death, when the Duke gave both children his last name, Elizaveta did not seek to fight her husband, likely realizing the futility of such action.

Excerpt from the article ‘A Paternity Mystery’ in Ravkan History

The Swing

Artist: Fedyor Kaminsky

Year: c. 1787

Medium: Oil on canvas

Dimensions: 81cm x 64.2cm

Location: Morozov House, Balakirev, Ravka

The painting depicts an elegantly dressed young woman (now known to be Alina Morozova, Duchess of Balakirev; at the time of painting Lady Alina Oretseva) on a swing in a garden (confirmed to be a small grove within the grounds of Morozov House, personally designed by the 6th Duke of Balakirev).

According to the diaries of the artist, Fedyor Kaminsky, the painting was commissioned by the 6th Duke of Balakirev in the mid-1780s. The Duke was present while Kaminsky sketched the scene and was apparently “most affectionate indeed” with Lady Alina. Kaminsky’s diaries say nothing further than this on the subject of the relationship between the Duke and Lady Alina, but it should be noted that the painting – one of a rather flirtatious nature – hung in the Duke’s study, a room in which he spent a great deal of time.

The Swing has been used as one of many pieces of evidence that the Duke’s relationship with Lady Alina began not after his wife’s death in 1803, but decades before, on her arrival with her husband at Morozov House, and that both of her children were fathered by the Duke and not Oretsev. It was by no means the only painting of Lady Alina commissioned by the Duke, but it is the most playful and intimate, showing a location that contemporary reports indicate was considered a spot private to the Duke and Lady Alina alone.

Excerpt from the Wikipedia page of The Swing (Kaminsky)

Chapter Text

Mal is out hunting when Dubrov and Mikhael pull him aside for a quiet word.

“Rumour is,” Dubrov whispers, “your uncle is planning to marry.”

Mal’s first instinct is to laugh. Everyone knows that the Black Tsar hasn’t contemplated marriage since his youthful entanglement with Lady Luda ended in tragedy, sparking the civil war that lasted nearly fifteen years and put a crown on his uncle’s head.

Mal is the tsar’s heir, and it’s a role that suits him very well.

“It’s true,” Dubrov insists, “my sister heard Duke Kaminsky talking of it like it was a settled thing.”

Mal frowns. If his uncle marries, that means children, most likely sons. And that means Mal will lose his title as heir and, along with it, the status and regard that comes with it.

This is unacceptable. It’s appalling of his uncle to contemplate marriage when he has Mal as his heir already. True, nothing has ever been officially announced but, as the tsar’s closest male relative, Mal is his natural heir.

“The bloody cheek of it,” he mutters.

Dubrov and Mikhael nod vigorously in agreement.

“It’s like stealing, isn’t it?” Mikhael says.

And that makes Mal think. His uncle is a usurper, isn’t he? No one would dare say it to his face, but his throne was won through bloody conquest, not natural inheritance. Really, it could be argued that the throne should go to royal blood.

And while the former royal family is extinct in the male line, royal blood does remain in Os Alta.

Mal grins. He knows who he needs.

Grand Duchess Alina is the sole surviving member of her family, the only one to escape the Black Tsar’s purge that had claimed the lives of her father, half-brothers and other relatives.

Kept at court by the Black Tsar, she retains her title and is, if anything, better off now than she had been during the last years of the civil war – she had never been close to her family, while Mal’s uncle quite dotes on her.

Though female, Alina has royal blood – from her father, but also her mother, who was a minor Shu princess – and her husband could make a claim for the throne in either her name or that of their future son.

It’s the perfect plan.

His uncle will have to die, of course, but it’s his own fault for seeking to marry so late in life (he is forty, after all) and upset the succession.

Deciding there is no time like the present, Mal seeks out Alina as soon as he’s finished hunting.

He finds her in the studio where she likes to paint, a half-finished portrait of the tsar on an easel.

When Mal shares the news, Alina seems unaffected, only expressing her hope that it will be a happy and fruitful union.

“But don’t you feel pushed aside? You have royal blood on both sides and my uncle none at all.”

“Royal blood doesn’t make a better ruler, Mal. My family were not good people.”

“You have a stronger claim to the Ravkan throne than anyone, though.”

For a few seconds, Alina stares so intently that Mal worries he’s gone too far and she’ll call for his arrest.

She only laughs, however, “oh, I don’t have the head for that kind of thing.”

“Of course not,” Mal agrees, “women aren’t made to rule. But your husband could do all the hard work, you know.”

“Do you know something I don’t? Has the tsar arranged my marriage?”

Mal waves dismissively, “you are the last of your royal line. You shouldn’t need permission to marry. You should be making the rules, not my uncle.”

Her eyes widen, “Mal, I don’t think –”

“Marry me, Alina,” he grabs her hands, “marry me and you’ll be tsarina.”

“I … do you really think I can?”

Mal smiles. He’s persuaded her.

Two weeks pass and a Mal concocts a plan. It won’t be easy, but it’ll certainly be worth it.

He needs to be married to Alina as soon as possible, before his uncle can announce his own marriage. Only then will they be able to take power.

Mal has started to lay the groundwork by talking to his friends, giving no details but ensuring they understand change is on the horizon.

Alina’s birthday is the perfect opportunity. The tsar is throwing a grand dinner and, when he asks Alina what she desires as a gift, she’ll ask to marry Mal as soon as possible.

“Of course,” Alina smiles when he explains, “I know exactly what I’ll say.”

Really, Mal thinks, he can’t understand how the civil war lasted so long. Coups are simple.

“Lord Malyen Oretsev.”

Determined not to cause a fuss and risk irritating his uncle, Mal refrains from scowling. It’s a sore point that he has such a minor title, but he supposes it doesn’t matter – he’ll have the ultimate title soon enough.

“Today we celebrate the Grand Duchess’ birthday,” the tsar announces, “come, Alina, and request your gift.”

“I desire nothing more than you already so generously give me,” she smiles sweetly.

The tsar lets out a low rumble of laughter and chucks her under the chin affectionately, “come now, Alinochka, I’m sure there is something.”

And this is the moment. Mal sits up straighter, waiting, already imagining the looks of respect he will get when people see he will be marrying the Grand Duchess.

“I have all I wish,” Alina’s smile turns oddly sinister and Mal feels the stirrings of worry, “but I should like to give you a gift, moi tsar. The gift of a traitor’s name.”

The room erupts into panicked whispers. Mal looks around, but there’s no way he can get out of the room unnoticed.

“Speak their name, my Alina,” his uncle murmurs.

“You own nephew, Malyen,” she turns to point right at him, “he covets your throne and plots against you.”

“No!” Mal shouts, even as the oprichniki descend and pull him from his seat.

Alina only shrugs and settles down into the tsar’s lap, his hands carding through her hair.

“Uncle,” he pleads.

“There is no mercy for traitors, Malyen, you know this.”

As the oprichniki drag him from the throne room, Mal sees the tsar raise a glass to signal a toast.

“To the Grand Duchess Alina, my future bride and your future tsarina.”

Looking at the glint in Alina’s eyes, Mal realises he was a dead man walking the minute he confided his plan to her.

Chapter Text

“Married!” Fedyor exclaims after Ivan passes him Aleksander’s letter, “but he’s not been courting anyone.”

“A sudden thing, apparently,” Ivan frowns at his friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

“Sounds romantic.”

“It sounds like trouble,” Ivan grumbles, sure that the girl, whoever she is, must be a fortune hunter or pregnant, possibly both.

“You’re so cynical, Vanya.”

“And you are too kindhearted, Fedya.”

“Well, he invites us both to visit, so you’ll simply have to go and see for yourself. I have a commission that needs completing, but I’ll join you as soon as possible.”

“Hmm, it’s such a new thing that perhaps I can persuade him to give her up. It shouldn’t be too hard to undo, as long as she’s not with child.”

“Vanya! Give the poor girl the benefit of the doubt. Sasha is no fool, and I’m sure his new bride is delightful.”

“We’ll see,” Ivan murmurs ominously.

After all, men who marry in haste often regret it.

“I’m afraid they’re not in the house right now, sir. They’ve gone for a picnic – you’ll find them by the pond.”

“Right, thank you, Antonov.”

“Oh, and sir …”

“Yes, Antonov.”

“Mrs Morozova is –”

“A fortune hunter?”

“No, sir. It’s certainly a love match on both sides.”

“With child?”

“Not when they married, although she is likely to be soon, if not already.”

“She’s not touched in the head, is she?”

Antonov pauses just a moment too long.

“She’s a very clever young woman,” he rushes to say when he sees the dawning horror on Ivan’s face, “kind and generous too. It’s only, she has a few strange ideas.”

Ivan fairly tears across the lawn and into the woodland attached to Aleksander’s manor. His friend has always been a sensible man, but Ivan truly fears that he might have married a lunatic.

The first person he spots at the pond is an unfamiliar maid paddling in the pond. Then, he sees Aleksander, in his usual all-black, sitting on a blanket next to a pretty, dark-haired young woman who must be at least fifteen years his junior.

It would be a perfectly normal scene, if not for one thing.

Aleksander’s new wife is naked.

The woman in question looks up at Ivan and waves gaily, apparently entirely unconcerned by her nudity and ignorant of his own horrified thoughts.

“Sasha,” Ivan mutters through gritted teeth, hoping his tone makes his questions clear.

Where did you meet her? Why did you marry so quickly? Why is she naked?

“Vanya,” Aleksander sounds disturbingly cheerful, although that’s not surprising considering there is a beautiful and naked young woman at his side with absolutely everything on display – the female form is not to Ivan’s taste, but he can understand why Aleksander might look so pleased with himself.

“I’m Alina,” Aleksander’s new wife springs gracefully to her feet, and Ivan nearly chokes when, instead of grabbing her dress (which is pooled at her feet), she simply offers her hand for him to shake, “Sasha’s told me so much about you, and Fedyor too.”

“Really? Because we heard nothing of you until his invitation arrived.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’ve been mightily distracting, which is quite beastly of me. But you’ll forgive me, I’m sure – love is quite the most delicious emotion and I simply have to revel in it. Now, you must sit and tell me absolutely everything about yourself – you’re so important to Sasha and I want us to be the very best of friends.”

Alina is sweet and charming, Ivan admits, refreshingly honest and quite free of artifice. And, if the way she looks at Aleksander is any indication, she’s very much in love with her husband.

Still, she is also naked.

Ivan does sit down, though, trying not to show his awkwardness.

Alina is a pleasant conversationalist, although she does have a tendency to jump from one topic to another so fast that he can scarcely keep up.

True to her word, she insists on hearing all about his home, hobbies, travels and, most of all, Fedyor. Since Fedyor is the subject on which Ivan is most animated, they pass a rather pleasant hour talking.

“And now I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes,” she announces during a lull in the conversation, “I’m sure you want to catch up.”

She leans over to kiss Aleksander – no brief peck, but so passionate that Ivan’s cheeks redden and he averts his eyes – and then wanders off towards the pond.

“Marie and I are going to swim,” she calls back, “so feel free to gossip to your heart’s content.”

Aleksander stares after her for a good thirty seconds, until Ivan elbows him in the ribs.

“Isn’t she wonderful,” Aleksander sighs with a disgustingly dopey grin.

“A delight,” Ivan grudgingly admits, “but Sasha, really, why is she naked?”

“Oh, that,” his friend says, as if it’s nothing at all.”

“Yes, that.”

“She says clothes make her skin itch. She’ll wear them most of the time, but she likes it when she can just feel free and be herself.”

“Well,” Ivan grumbles, “as long as she puts something on for dinner, I suppose it’s fine. And I imagine Fedyor will adore her.”

“And you, Vanya?”

Aleksander has been like a brother to him for decades. Ivan can overlook Alina’s peculiarities for his sake.

“She’s intelligent and charming, so I’ll get used to her more eccentric behaviour.”

Aleksander smiles, looking more relaxed than Ivan has ever seen, “thank you, Vanya. I understand Alina’s not quite what you’d expect, but it turns out she’s just what I’ve been waiting all my life for.”

“Sasha, Ivan, come and join us!” Alina shouts over to them.

“I’m not getting naked,” Ivan warns as they stand, “and you better not either – I don’t trust the two of you.”

“I would never!” Aleksander protests.

There’s a look in his eyes, however, that suggests he absolutely would if he thought he’d get away with it.

Antonov is right, Ivan thinks, if Alina’s not pregnant already, she soon will be.

Chapter Text

The city is burning.

People are fleeing or fighting, shouting and screaming and begging.

The soldiers outside Alina’s cell pray fervently to their gods, pleading for intercession that will never come. After all, the gods they worship are not real, but the shadow army tearing through their city certainly is.

She feels no pity, only vindication.

He is coming for her. Sasha is coming.

Alina is eight the first time she summons light.

She keeps it a secret, not knowing whether her family would consider it a blessing or a curse, sure either way that it will change her life forever.

Sasha comes to her soon after. No one else ever sees him, but he appears from the shadows at night, tells her what a special gift she has, whispers that he has been waiting a very long time for her.

Her parents become concerned about the lack of reverence Alina shows to the household gods.

It would be easier if she could simply tell them that those gods don’t exist, that the real power is held by the shadow man who visits her. Unfortunately, Sasha insists she must not share her power with anyone.

“One day,” he whispers, “the whole world will see your power, solnyshko. While you are still young and untrained, though, it is safer to keep it hidden.”

For eight years he visits her, teaching her how to summon her light and helping her sneak out into the nearby woods so that she can practice more extensively as her mastery of the light grows.

He talks to her too, tells her all about the world outside the city that she has never been outside of.

Impressive monuments, sparkling seas, lush countryside, sandy deserts, snow-tipped mountains, bustling cities, ancient wonders.

Alina wants to see it all, and Sasha swears to her that, when she’s grown, he will take her all around the known world and then beyond, to the places that have not yet been mapped by mortals.

She is sixteen when her parents catch her practicing with her light.

Although Alina tries to convince them that they are just seeing things, they are all too eager to drag her before the Apparat, the city’s spiritual leader, in the hope of obtaining status or wealth.

She has never believed Sasha when he’d told her that even her own family would not hesitate to use her and her power for their own gain, but now she must face the unhappy truth that he has always been right.

She tries to hide her light in front of the Apparat, hoping he will simply dismiss her parents as overzealous and eager for reward.

Unfortunately, the Apparat – despite his wild eyes, heavy smell of incense and unkempt appearance – appears to have an eye for power. When Alina refuses to demonstrate willingly, he employs several tactics to encourage her.

It’s not torture, they tell her, because she’s not a prisoner or suspected of any crime. No, it’s just gentle persuasion for her to display the gift that the gods have given her.

Alina has enough sense not to say that she believes in no gods but Sasha. Still, she thinks the Apparat must sense her lack of piety, because he pushes and prods and hurts her just a little more than before, until she can’t bear it, until the light comes.

After that, her life is not her own.

Now, a year after her parents took her to the temple and handed her over to the Apparat, the city burns.

Alina wishes she could be out there herself, playing her part. Some might say it is only the Apparat and his acolytes who deserve to suffer, but Alina has no mercy left in her. Besides, she has been paraded countless times before the citizens, forced into blessing crowds for days on end with scarcely a moment to breathe or eat or sleep, received public corrections for forgetting her blessed destiny … all while pleading for assistance and warning of disaster if they do not let her go. The people in this city have had enough chances and they’ve squandered every one of them.

So, she waits.

Her cell is small, her hands kept apart by the elaborate metal cuffs that leave the skin of her wrists red and raw.

The soldiers watch her now, some worried, others contemplative. She knows they’re wondering if they can protect themselves by setting her free. They don’t realise that there is no saving them now and it’s far too late to make amends.

Just as a group of soldiers start debating about whether to let her go and beg for mercy, the darkness comes.

Sasha’s shadows slither along the floor and creep up the walls, dousing the candles and lanterns, leaving the soldiers trembling and tense as they wait for an attack.

When that attack comes, though, it is not what they expected.

Not men in armour, but shadow monsters from the very depths of hell.

This is nothing they can fight against, nothing they can hope to beat.

This is their end and it is glorious in Alina’s eyes.

Their screams are music to her ears, and when they finally fall silent and the darkness fades away, Alina sees Sasha standing opposite her.

There is carnage all around, but she only has eyes for him.

“Solnyshko, I am sorry it took me so long,” he murmurs, as he flicks his fingers and his shadows unlock her cuffs, “they laid a trap for me, as ambitious mortals are wont to do every century or two. It took some time to extricate myself and raze their settlement to the ground.”

“You are here now,” she beams at him, throwing herself into his arms, “and that is all that matters, Sasha.”

He offers his arm and they stroll out of the temple and into the streets.

All around them, chaos reigns.

But with Sasha at her side, Alina can only be happy and excited for their future together.

Chapter Text

Taking advantage of the one-year membership to The Met that some of her friends had given her for her birthday, Alina spends as much time as possible wandering through the different wings and exhibitions.

She marvels at the works, looks for inspiration for her own artistic endeavours and re-visits her favourites.

But the collection she always ends up coming back to, over and over again, is the Enchanted Castle Collection.

Painted by an anonymous artist in the mid-1600s, the collection contains ten different paintings.

The largest is a landscape depicting the eponymous castle, with mountains and woodland to the left and the sea to the right. In the foreground of the painting, a young woman sits alone.

Eight of the paintings depict scenes from within the castle, each with a magical element. There is a kitchen where glasses float through the air and the soup is being stirred by invisible hands. In the courtyard garden, fairies dart about among the flowers right along with bees and birds. Out on one of the ramparts, two gargoyles have a serious conversation.

The final painting is of the castle’s resident, a man dressed all in black and cloaked in shadows. Something about him seems familiar, and Alina finds herself drawn to him, staring so long at his captivating obsidian eyes that she’s been known to simply stand there, lost in a painted gaze that feels so real, until someone comes along to nudge her back into reality.

The collection tells a story, but Alina wants to know more.

She throws herself into researching the paintings, wondering if she can find some clue about the anonymous artist that will lead her to more information about the paintings. The man seems almost too perfect to have been modelled from a real, living person rather than simply being the product of the artist’s imagination, but she still wonders if perhaps he is based on someone real – if so, she is desperate to know who could have inspired such a bewitching, almost ethereal painting.

However, despite the collection’s popularity, it seems very little is known about the artist. Most of what Alina finds are rumours and speculation – some say the painter was a woman, others a man; many seem to think they were French or English, but there are also arguments put forth that they hail from one of the other European countries; it has been suggested that the paintings were meant to illustrate a book that was never published, or that the artist wished to entertain children or grandchildren with them.

What is clearer is that the owners of the collection have shared many strange stories.

There are reports of extremely vivid dreams, of thinking that the paintings seem almost alive (the soup steaming, the fairies fluttering around, the waves crashing against the rocks, the trees swaying in the breeze, the mysterious man’s eyes tracking the owner as they cross the room. Still, nothing of the sort appears to have occurred since the collection was gifted to The Met almost two decades ago.

Maybe it’s all just a way to generate hype, to make the collection seem more interesting? Somehow, though, Alina doubts it.

She keeps visiting, lingering for longer at the Enchanted Castle Collection every time she’s there.

And then the dreams begin.

Of living in that magical, wonderful castle. Of swimming in the sun-warmed sea. Of picnicking on the grassy hill. Of being held in the arms of the mysterious man, dancing with him, kissing him …

She wakes all warm and flustered. It’s confusing, because it’s only a painting, even if the subject is handsome and alluring.

It is only a painting … isn’t it?

“Alina, my Alina.”

In her dreams, he says her name. Over and over, whispered against her lips and her skin.

“Come to me, Alina.”

For a week, she stays away from The Met, but a week is all she can manage.

She takes advantage of the late-night opening hours, finds herself in the wing housing the Enchanted Castle Exhibition, the room empty apart from her and a security guard yawning and looking in the other direction.

Something is different when she finds herself in front of his painting.

His stance has changed, his hand reached out, as if to beckon her forward.

And there is nothing Alina can do. It is as if she is in a trance, bound to obey.

She moves closer and closer, her own arm outstretched, and when their hands meet, his feels like warm flesh and blood rather than simply a painted canvas.

He smiles down at her, and suddenly it all makes sense. This is Aleksandr, but he will be Sasha to her.

“Finally,” he murmurs, as he helps her climb up and through the painting’s frame, “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

The next day, chaos reigns at The Met.

Two of the Enchanted Castle exhibition paintings have changed.

No longer is the woman in the castle landscape alone. Now she has a gentleman with her, and the two of them are laughing together. That gentleman looks astonishingly like the mysterious man in one of the other paintings, which now shows simply an empty room, no figure in sight.

A prank, they all tell themselves, some kind of secret switch to send everyone into a panic.

They’ll find the original paintings hidden somewhere soon enough.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Aleksander has had many lovers over the centuries.

Women and men, Grisha and otkazat’sya, rich and poor, noble and peasant.

He sees something in all of them, but none are ever what he truly desires.

None of them are the Sun Summoner.

It does not matter how clever or talented or powerful or beautiful any of his lovers are, they will all be dust in the end.

He wishes for an equal, for someone who will be with him forever.

But they never come.

By the time he has passed seven hundred years, Aleksander starts to wonder if the Sun Summoner is simply a myth to give people hope.

To give him hope.

He cannot accept that, though, will not allow himself to dwell on the thought that he might be alone (save for his mother, who is no real company) for eternity.

Aleksander has picked up many skills throughout his lifetime.

The violin. Too many languages to count. Dozens of codes to keep important correspondence safe. His own personal shorthand so his private notes cannot be read by anyone else. The ability to tame even the wildest of horses. Countless other talents.

And sculpting.

He could make a living with it if he really wanted to but, while it is occasionally tempting to live a modest and quiet life, he has too many responsibilities and plans for that.

Now, though, he dusts off his skills and sets to work.

The statue he wants to sculpt is an ideal, a dream.

But he cannot work on it as he wishes. He is still General of the Second Army, still the Shadow Summoner required to travel throughout Ravka, still an integral part of the tsar’s court.

Five years pass and he is surrounded by the broken pieces of works that are beautiful but not quite right, not exactly what he wants.

And then the time comes for him to fake his death once more, to hide away for a decade or two until he can return to court.

Finally, he has the time he needs to truly dedicate himself to his task.

The statute takes shape under his hands, a work that he tries not to focus too hard on, letting his instincts guide him instead.

A woman, petite and lovely, formed from golden marble.

He starts to call her Alina, meaning bright or light, a fitting name for a Sun Summoner.

Alina becomes his obsession.

Aleksander works night and day, determined to get her features exactly right.

He builds an image in his mind. A young woman with dark hair and warm brown eyes, with freckles across her nose and cheeks, with a mischievous smile.

Every movement of his hammer and chisel is made with affection and care, and with every precaution in place.

She is no longer a statute. She is simply Alina.

On the day he finishes, the sun streams in through the windows and Aleksander sighs over her beauty.

Carefully, he takes a lit candle to balance on her hands, which he has sculpted to be cupped in front of her.

When he summons his shadows, the candle is the only light in the room and, if he doesn’t look to closely, it almost appears as if Alina has summoned the sun.

He stands there, watching, until the candle burns itself out.

Aleksander visits Alina every day.

He likes to talk to her about what he’s been doing or reading. Sometimes he asks questions and imagines her responses.

His hands trail across the marble – the curve of her waist and breasts, her elegant neck, her cheeks, her lips – as he speaks, and every now and then he can pretend it is skin beneath his fingers rather than cool marble.

It is almost unconscious, the way he touches her, and he doesn’t even realise exactly what he’s doing.

The thing about merzost is that it is unpredictable. It is also largely a mystery and the diaries of Ilya Morozov, the man whose experiments gave him more insight into merzost than anyone else has ever managed, are largely incomprehensible, even to someone like Aleksander who has studied them for centuries.

Every caress, every wish and hope and dream, every moment he looks upon Alina and sees a woman rather than a statue … it all leaves a trace.

And so it comes to be that one day, when Aleksander’s hand caresses Alina’s cheek, her skin is no longer cold, hard marble, but golden and warm and soft to the touch. Her now dark hair is escaping from its previously perfect chignon. Her chestnut-brown eyes are blinking almost sleepily. Her lips are parting and she gasps with the shock of new life.

She breathes and her heart beats and blood runs through her veins.

Alina is a statue no more, but a living woman.

Aleksander wraps a hand around her waist as she stumbles off her pedestal, and he offers her a robe even though he wishes he could look at her in all her glory forever.

“Alina,” he sighs her name reverently.

She nods, almost hesitantly, “Aleksander?”

“Yes, milaya, but you can call me Sasha.”

She repeats the name, testing it out, and then she smiles beatifically at him.

He was obsessed before. Now he is enraptured, entranced, devoted, in love.

And when she cups her hands and bright, blinding sunlight spills across the room, Aleksander knows one thing for sure.

Alina is everything.