Chapter Text
Six Months Ago:
Ruby’s birthday is really the only reason that Alina is even at a club on a friday night. It’s not that she’s a snob, or a prude, or even that she’s especially shy. Nightclubs just aren’t her thing. They’re expensive and loud and people tend to forget personal space is a thing while inside them. She has never been quite so aware of this as she is right now, pinned against a wall with a stranger’s hot breath on her neck.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he’s mumbling into her neck.
Alina already has one hand pressed against his chest, but he’s much bigger than her, and it’s not doing any good.
“Nope, loud is good,” she mutters, pushing and receiving absolutely no indication that he notices, “Is that why you didn’t hear me say no repeatedly for the last ten minutes?”
No response. He’s… oh dear, he’s practically nuzzling her neck now.
He has a paw up her shirt, and Alina is considering how much trouble she’d get in for stabbing a man with a stiletto - of the footwear variety - when he says something that makes her snap.
“C’mon babe, I don’t got a conscription date.”
Shock freezes her in place. “What did you just say?”
“The Rubes told me ‘bout your army boy. Left you all alone, needing a man in the big city…” he leans a little closer, clearly insinuating that he is very interested in being that man.
“I said I’m not interested.” Her words come out stiff, cold, and apparently unheard, because he only leans closer, hand creeping up her shirt, the other circling her arm and effectively pinning her to the wall. Alina is going to seriously reconsider friendship with someone who goes by the nickname “The Rubes” and tells complete strangers her deepest and most painful secrets. Just as soon as she gets out of… whatever this is.
“No one will ever know.” He whispers.
And that’s the truth of it, she thinks. From what she’s gathered from his drunken mumbles, he’s one of Ruby’s rich boyfriend’s friends, and she’s just another nameless nearly-broke student from lower Os Alta. He’ll take, she’ll give, and tomorrow morning he’ll leave without remembering her name. And he’ll do it again and again and again. And frankly, Alina is sort of tired of people taking from her and leaving.
She’s definitely not thinking of Mal as she shoves the idiot away, sunlight exploding from her fingertips.
…
The memories get hazy after that. A bouncer chases her down, predictably, while not-conscripted-creep stumbles onto the dance floor. Alina catches a glimpse of him pawing up a poor blonde as she’s tossed out the door.
And then she’s standing on the pavement, dazed and regretting that third drink, because she’s pretty sure that she just shot sunlight out of her fingertips, and that’s just not possible.
Maybe she is a little tipsier than she thought though, because she snaps two fingers expectantly. Nothing happens.
Of course nothing happens. She’s a barista, an orphan with four years worth of student debt, barely avoiding conscription herself. She’s not Grisha. She’s not powerful.
And now she’s not powerful, slightly tipsy, and alone outside at night.
With a sigh, Alina files away whatever freak accident just happened as something sober Alina will have to deal with tomorrow morning, clutches her purse to her side, and begins the long walk home.
…
She wakes up with a headache and sore feet, the usual black circles glaring back at her from under her eyes in the bathroom mirror as she brushes her teeth. She sticks out her tongue at the tired looking girl and puts on her uniform for work. One perk of working at a coffee shop is that she doesn’t have to make the stuff at home. She’s almost out the door, kicking aside the shoes she’d dropped haphazardly over the threadbare carpet, when her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s a message from Ruby, devoid of emoticons, which is unusual.
Why didn’t you tell me you were Grisha?
She’s attached a link at the bottom, which takes Alina to youtube with a single swipe.
Her shoulder bag drops to the floor with a thud, and it’s not until she’s watched the video through for the third time that Alina realizes that at some point she sat down with her back pressed against the wall and her feet straight out in front of her like a little kid, or someone in shock. She lowers the phone with some effort, ripping her eyes away from the screen that confirms the weird fuzzy dream from last night was not actually a dream.
SUN SUMMONER FREAKS OUT AT CLUB reads the caption. It has over six thousand views, and it only went up an hour ago.
Alina presses play for the fourth time and watches her life fall to pieces around her.
…
Alina’s passed her twentieth viewing when someone knocks on the door, the noise startling her eyes away from the screen. She hadn’t realized how on edge she is until she’s jumping up on shaking legs, phone clattering to the floor, and pointing a shoe in front of her like a weapon at the closed door.
Which, of course, still has the key in the lock, and is most definitely not locked. Just as she contemplates yelling “I’m not home!” and seeing how far that gets her, the door swings open to reveal a man in a black suit.
He’s beautiful, that’s the first place her clearly irrational brain goes, with slate grey eyes and pale features that look like they might have been carved from marble. He also looks like he might be repressing a smirk.
“Hello Alina,” he says, voice as smooth as velvet, “may we come in?”
It must be have been a rhetorical question, because when she doesn’t speak he waltzes on in like he owns the place, bringing a host of grey clad men in behind him. They swarm past her like beetles, dress shoes clacking against the floor, vanishing down into all three rooms of her slightly pathetic flat.
“All clear!” she hears one of them yell.
The man in black closes the door behind him with a click, turning the lock and pocketing her keys. Alina doesn’t realize she’s still holding the shoe in front of her until gentle fingers curl around her wrist. She swallows and allows him to lower her arm, taking the heel from her grasp and placing it carefully on the floor.
“I didn’t… I’m not whatever they’re saying I am.” She says. Her voice comes out about an octave higher than she’d intended.
The man in black smiles, hand still wrapped around her wrist, eyes holding her own.
“I just want to talk.” He says, “do you have somewhere we can sit?”
And that’s how she finds herself sitting across from the man who calls himself Alexander Morozova, as one of the other suits - Ivan - pours tea. He does not look like someone accustomed to making, drinking, or serving the beverage, and when he rifles through her cabinets for sugar, Alina catches a glimpse of a holster at his waist.
Being served tea by someone carrying a gun is by far the least ludicrous thing that has happened to her in the last twenty four hours, but Alina finds herself suddenly suppressing the uncontrollable urge to laugh. When Ivan presents them with a pile of napkins, the tiniest smidgeon of a giggle manages to weasel it’s way through her sealed lips. They’re paper, printed in a pink floral pattern. Something Ana Kuya left behind after her one and only visit, and Ivan tosses them onto the table as if they’re a personal affront. With that single gesture the giggle turns into a full fledged laugh, and refuses to end, until she’s hiccuping, and using one of the aforementioned napkins to wipe away hysterical tears.
Ivan and the Morozova both look at her as if she’s quite lost her mind.
“Sorry,” she gasps, wondering why she’s apologizing to men who essentially broke into her flat, “It’s just… been a really weird day.”
Morozova’s lips are turning up in a smirk again, even as Ivan storms off, and he smiles at her like they share a secret. “Oh Alina,” he says, “you have absolutely no idea.”
He looks a little too smug, and if this were any other day, and his eyes were not quite so compelling, Alina would probably have pulled away and lost interest in him right then. But he’s looking at her like she’s something miraculous, like she’s the start of something, and Alina suddenly would very much like to measure up to whatever expectation he’s placing on her.
“The whole world out there is blowing up over a very badly filmed, possibly edited, video.” He says, perfectly calm. “Now, I’d like to think I would know, if a sun summoner was living within a few miles of my very own palace, but the world is a tricky place.”
He’s some sort of Grisha then. Alina had suspected it, should have known it from the start, but the mention of the little palace - the Grisha training grounds - only a short tube ride away from her flat, all but confirmed it. But before she can properly dig into that, he’s placed a hand over hers on the table, fingertips brushing her own, and Alina’s breath catches in her throat.
“You can trust me Alina.”
Alina is keenly aware of his touch, his fingers trailing over her wrist now, searching for something she doesn’t even have a name for yet. It’s electric, the pull between his skin and her own. She tightens her other hand into a fist in her lap and concentrates on the bite of nails into skin.
“I don’t know what happened. Honest.” Her voice comes out steady this time.
“I believe you,” he says, “but I need to find out.”
And then the room goes dark.
She’s blind, but all she can focus on is the feel of his fingers around her wrist. It’s a vice grip now, and she can feel something searching her, reaching inside and pulling, calling to her. Deep inside, something of her own answers. Not quite knowing why, Alina scrambles to push it back down. Whatever it is, it will tear her apart if it gets free, and knows instinctively that putting it in this man’s hands is a very very bad idea.
The pull goes dead, and she exhales. A sigh of relief.
“Not quite so fast.” That velvety voice again, pressing something into her arm.
Something cold. Steel.
It’s cutting into her by the time she realizes it’s a knife. And as the pain slices into her skin, the thing resurfaces from deep within her.
And before she can stop it, the room is exploding in a flurry of light.
When she opens her eyes Aleksander Morozova is wiping off his knife with one of the horrible napkins, and the room has fallen completely silent. The suits who had all previously been actively invisible appeared stunned, staring with open mouths, hands frozen in their tasks.
Even Ivan, still holding the teapot, looks startled. If she weren’t so completely terrified, she might take some pleasure in that.
So the dream was real. Real as the blood dripping down her arm onto the tablecloth, and the last remnants of sunlight skittering across the floor and ceiling.
She has the sudden realization that she’s cold. She’s always been cold, always been cold and never known it, except for that moment last night, and a few seconds ago. Now the sensation is painfully obvious, and she fights the urge to gather the light in her hands again, to feel it wash over her skin in a wave of heat.
She stares down at her hands, expectant. Nothing happens. Beneath them, blood is slowly staining the yellowed tablecloth
“Here,” Morozova picks up a napkin and presses it to the wound, “hold that there.”
Numbly, she applies the required pressure. He lets go of her wrist when he stands up, and Alina feels the sudden absence like a blow. The surety she’d felt only the moment before, the sudden burst of power and security, all gone, leaving her an empty shell.
“How long do we have until the first assassin gets through the door?” Morozova asks the room.
One of the suits looks up from the laptop he’s commandeered. “Five minutes,” he says.
“Ivan, get her out.” Morozova says. He doesn’t raise his voice at all, but it’s clearly an order, and before Alina knows what’s happening, she’s being hauled up out of her chair by the other man.
He doesn’t seem so funny now that he’s manhandling her towards the door.
“Let go of me!” she says, mind racing to catch up. The word assassin was just used way too casually for her comfort.
He doesn’t, so she twists as violently as she can, breaking his hold and dropping the bloody napkin in the process.“You can’t just come into my home and…”
Her voice cuts off, her body freezing in place as something clamps around her lungs, cutting off her air. Ivan’s fist is curled idly by his side, but the glitter in his eye says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s a Heartrender.
“Be gentle Ivan,” comes a chiding voice. Across the room Morozova raises an eyebrow, a warning in his tone, “she’s Grisha now.”
The Heartrender drops his hand and Alina’s breath returns in a painful gust.
Ivan’s hand is still twitching, like he’s ready for a second try. Alina takes a few steps backwards, putting distance between herself and the Grisha. He scowls at her, and she scowls back.
Across the room, she can almost hear Morozova’s frustration as her blood begins to drip on the floor. They’re wasting time.
Morozova sighs, “Just be careful then,” he says, “and get her out of here.”
Before she can turn and run Ivan’s hand is up again, and it’s almost blissfully painless this time, as she slips into the dark.