Archive of Our Own

i.

A blizzard is coming. He can tell by the sting of the wind, the harsh whistle of its sound as it rattles the tops of the pine trees he trudges past. If he looks up, the storm-colored sky will be another reminder of the horrible weather about to strike. 

“Your name,” says his mother, pausing from their trek to brush away the clumps of snow sticking to her boots, “is Kiryn.”

He tries not to let his displeasure show but fails spectacularly, as he cannot help the grimace twisting onto his face when he follows suit. “Why Kiryn?”

She gives him that too-familiar look of disapproval, her dark eyes narrowing, her thin mouth pulled into a tight frown. “We’re to be from Vostochny,” she tells him. “You need a name with Shu influence.”

His grimace stays, unrelenting. “Can’t I pick a different name?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” his mother mimics. “Because I said so. Now brush those cones over your footprints—the way I showed you. You’ve been getting sloppy.”

He sighs. “Yes, madraya.”

Ever the obedient son, he does as he is bid, taking handfuls of fallen pine needles and sweeping it behind him, erasing the foot path once there. There is hardly any point, for the winds will erase it in due time, but he knows better than to complain. However begrudged it is, he understands. His mother is harsh because she needs to be, because they do what they must to survive. 

For such a young boy, he has lived so many lives. He cannot remember ever staying somewhere longer than a month. In fact, he counts himself lucky to stay anywhere longer than a week. 

Kiryn can spy the new place from where he stands on the small hillside, peeking past the thick copse of trees to get a good view of the village. It is small; he’s inclined to note only its size had his madraya not insist he observe every little detail “like his life depends on it,” or so she says.

(He supposes it does.)

Only eight cabins scatter around the clearing, though not all are full of people—Grisha. The wooden lodges are neither big nor small, easy to miss in the eyes of any passersby, with just enough space for a table set, a few cots, and a hearth to keep warm. Of the eight cabins, only four have a fire going. More than likely, it’s the lack of people, though he also suspects they limit the smoke rising out of chimneys to prevent discovery. 

He tells his mother as much when she asks. Once she deems his answer satisfactory, she grunts her approval, and his chin lifts with a little bit of pride. 

“What are you so smug about?” She harrumphs and trudges on, readjusting her pack. “Anyone with decent eyesight can tell me what you have,” she says. “When we get there, you’ll tell me more.”

A frown works its way onto his lips. “What more do you want to hear?”

“If I told you, you would learn nothing,” she snaps. “Pay close attention. You’ll find that people are just as easy to read as books, if you only knew to look.”

Again, Kiryn frowns, but still he says, “Yes, madraya.”

When at last they reach the village, he has a much better view of its layout. He counts the same number of cabins as before, but one looms larger than the rest, sitting in the center. The chief’s home, he supposes, or perhaps the dining hall; everyone seems familiar enough with each other to warrant group meals. As Kiryn and his mother make their way through, the people keep busy, chattering quietly in the background. Though he cannot hear the words coupled with it, Kiryn can feel the unease, the tension, as the chief emerges from the large wood cabin and heads in their direction. 

Their chief, the Ataman, is the first to greet them—at least Kiryn is sure it’s the chief. The man isn’t too tall, but he stands like he is, with his feet apart, chest out, chin high. He wears the same dull-colored furs of the others milling about, but Kiryn’s eyes fix on the pendant hanging from his neck: three black bear claws, gleaming under stray silver rays of the pale winter sun peeking through the trees. Not just anyone will be allowed to wear an amplifier, for such a thing is difficult to come by. 

(Still, Kiryn cannot help but feel like the bear claws are more talisman than amplifier, meant to ward instead of welcome.)

He watches as the Ataman talks with his mother, not quite listening to their conversation. Kiryn is much too focused on his expression, the strained smile on the Ataman’s face as he speaks, the too-stiff set of his shoulders. He is wary—and so are the others. Try as they might to go about their business, their eyes wander, sometimes staying on them a beat too long to possibly be casual. The children—only three of them, all about his age, if he has to guess—are even less subtle, blatantly staring until their mothers usher them away to gather kindling. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. He is used to the tinge of fear in their eyes. It has long since been a familiar sight.

(And yet, a pinprick of hurt still stings his chest. He cannot help but wish, with all his boyish hope, that he might someday belong.)

His attention rounds back to the Ataman in the nick of time. “So Kiryn,” he starts, “do you think you can be comfortable here?”

He is expected to smile, so he manages a small one, bowing his head in respect and saying, “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

“And we are grateful for your company,” returns the Ataman, though his voice strains from the effort. He gestures at the cabin on the outskirts of the little village. “We’ve already prepared your lodgings,” he continues. “Please feel at ease. You are both welcome to join us at my home for dinner.”

We might join them, thinks Kiryn, but we are far from welcome. 

Still, he bows his head in silent thanks, while his mother says instead, “We’ll see.”

That seems to be that, for she begins to walk in the direction of their cabin home without another word. When they are far enough from the others, Kiryn quietly asks, “How long are we staying?”

“Not long,” she replies. “Perhaps a few days or so, just enough to weather the storm.”

He wants to sigh, but he manages to rein his disappointment. What more can he expect? It ought to be enough, to have a roof over his head and a hot meal to warm his stomach, especially as they face an oncoming blizzard. 

(Still, his heart cannot help but ache for more than the life of a wanderer.)

Purging the thought from his mind, Kiryn shakes his head and tells his mother his biggest—well, second biggest—concern. It is risky, to talk in a different tongue, but he weighs the options in his mind before deciding to say, in Shu, “I don’t trust them—any of them. Especially their leader.”

She laughs. “Good. I don’t expect you to,” she says, a small smile of approval twitching at her lips. “What makes you say so?”

“Besides his bad acting?”

Another rare, approving smile from his mother. “Besides that,” she agrees. 

“The way he welcomed us,” Kiryn admits. “His arms were outstretched in welcome, but also in warning, like he means to shield everyone else behind him. And he made a point of showing his amplifier. I think that’s a warning, too.”

“You think? Or you know?”

He swallows back his uncertainty, musters as much confidence as he can, and squares his shoulders when he says, “I know.”

“Good.” Any trace of her smile is long gone now, but a hint of pride shines in her eyes. “It’s just as I tell you: People are as easy to read as books,” she says. “Now, what else?”

“Everyone here is wary of us.” He glances around discreetly, just enough to glance the cautious stares they seem to be collecting. “The Ataman only let us stay to see whether we were a threat. I doubt they’ll ever come to see us as allies.”

“And are we?”

Kiryn furrows his brow. “Allies?”

“No,” says his mother, a shadow crossing her face. “Are we a threat?”

“Aren’t we always?” If there is one thing she has always been adamant on teaching him, it’s that fear will always be an ally—perhaps the only ally—for people like them, but even so, she has also taught him to be cautious of feeding it too much, for fear is as much a weapon as the power they wield. His mother might have warned him it will be lonely—their existence, his existence—but he has only just begun to feel its weight, the burden of it, the ache of it.

“Madraya,” he says, softly now, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt. “I don’t want to stay longer than we should.”

The look on her face is fierce—he doesn’t think he’s seen any mother wear such an expression—but it is reassuring all the same. “We won’t,” she says firmly, taking his hand in hers and giving a tight squeeze. “We won’t.”

ii.

Another lesson takes place in the dead of night, far from the warm furs and the warm hearth. He stands a few paces away from his mother, in his ready position: feet slightly apart and planted firmly, hands at his side. 

He expects another instruction—a technique, another way to wield the shadow besides dark swathes of shapes to summon, but instead—

“Kill me.”

It isn’t what he expects her to say, so he startles, feeling his blood freeze. Maybe she’s joking, he thinks, though why his mother is joking about such a thing—or joke at all—is beyond him. Try as he might, he cannot seem to hide the tremble of his voice when he tentatively asks, “Madraya?”

“Are your ears too full of wax, boy?” She spreads her arms wider, and it’s all he can do to stand his ground, to not flinch under her gaze. “I told you to kill me.”

“I heard you,” he says, voice rising slightly in the panic he cannot yet hide so well. “I thought you might be joking.”

“The joke here is me, for having raised a little fool,” she chides. “You must not hesitate to strike. More than that, you must not hesitate to listen to me.”

“I know!” The words come out more desperately than he likes, so he rectifies it and says, a little more calmly, “I know that, madraya, I just—”

“Speak clearly, boy!” says his mother, her voice so dangerously close to the tone she uses when she’s about to knock him upside the head. “I don’t remember teaching you to stutter.”

He doesn’t flinch, but he snaps upright instead, eyes hardening with conviction. “You’re my mother,” he starts, as firmly as he can, “why would I ever hurt you?”

She stays silent for a fraction of a second, but the moment is enough for him to notice, to see the way her hard eyes soften in the slightest. “It doesn’t have to be me,” she says, almost sounding gentle. “You have years ahead of you. In those years, you’ll be forced to do worse—face worse.” She kneels in front of him now, cupping his face in her hands. There is something so sad in his madraya’s eyes. He cannot help hut wonder if her heart aches as his, if her heartache is worse, because of the years she has conquered before his birth. “The sooner you learn this lesson, the better,” she whispers. “The heart has no place in the eternity we’ve been given. The heart aches, the heart grieves. It stands in the way of what must be done.”

He gulps back his nerves. “And what do I need to do?”

His mother’s eyes remain fierce, though they soften ever slightly when she rubs her thumb across the apple of his cheeks. “You have no equal,” she tells him. “You are destined to bow before nothing and no one. You will come to realize what I have: Love is a fickle thing, fragile and raw, and nothing compared to power. A day will come when you cease relying on me, Aleksander.”

So rarely does he hear his mother call him by name. It’s a silent command to read between the lines: He will need to learn to stand on his own two feet. He will need to learn to be alone. “I hope that day never comes,” he whispers firmly. 

She stares at him a beat too long, her dark eyes inscrutable, before finally saying, “Now, do as I tell you.”

iii.

He endures her instruction for several long years before deciding it’s time: He wants to see the world untainted by her ancient eyes.

“I’m old enough to travel alone,” he reasons, shrugging on his pack. And besides, he doesn’t add aloud, we look more a brother and sister than a mother and son.

She gives him that too-familiar look of judgement, scathing enough to make him question his usual unwavering decision. “You think?” she asks. “Or you know?”

“I know.” Try as he might to keep his voice cool and indifferent, a little bit of his annoyance shines through. “The distance will do us some good.”

“Very well,” she amends at last. “Don’t come crying to me when your heart gets broken, boy.”

There is no amusement in his laugh. “You taught me well,” he tells her. “I have no heart to break.”

It is almost true. Try as he might to put all his conviction into those words, he recognizes his shortcomings, the experience he still lacks. In his heart of hearts, he still believes he will sway minds if only he has the means—the power—to do so.

“Go ahead,” his mother says, none the wiser. She shrugs on her pack and fixes her attire; she’s supposed to be a Suli fortuneteller. “You know where to find me.”

iv.

He doesn’t see his mother for decades. Instead he wanders, ever the nomad he was raised to be, until he stumbles upon Ognegriv, a little otkazat’sya town just east of where the Fire Falls are rumored to be. 

That’s why he’s here, isn’t he? To search for the truth of his grandfather’s words? To heed them as he remakes the world?

But the more time he spends in the small town, the more he finds himself wishing he had heeded his mother’s words instead. 

Her name is Iskra. A Grisha—a Corporalki. Saints, he has never met a mind as brilliant as hers, cannot help but feel drawn to the way she toes at the fine line between Healer and Heartrender, to be as skilled at mending flesh as tearing it. And despite having that finely honed power at her fingertips, he doesn’t remember meeting anyone more gentle and kind and compassionate. 

The first time he meets her is after he injures himself climbing the rocky cliff faces of Kvartsevaya Mountain Range in pursuit of the firebird. He knows enough aid on his own, but as he limps back to town, it is evident he needs a healer, however adamantly against them his mother might have been—might have taught him to be.

He doesn’t expect the local healer to work a miracle; she merely hovers a hand over his wound for a few minutes, and at once the familiar prickling sensation of tissue forming and twining and Healing spreads across his skin. He doesn’t jerk back in surprise, but he cannot keep it from his voice when he says, “You’re Grisha.”

There’s a knowing look sparking in her eyes, but she doesn’t give him a straightforward answer. “And if I am?” she asks. “So are you.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t be coy,” she says, standing to grab a roll of bandages. “It’s easy to tell. You already healed your minor injuries. You do a fine job of making them look like old scars, but you can’t fool me.”

More surprises. “I’ve met Healers who couldn’t tell,” he tells her. “Why can you?”

She flashes him a sly smile. “That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about, isn’t it?”

He does not yet know this girl, but the thought strikes him as he leaves.

I’d like to.

v.

He doesn’t go out of his way to see her. No—he ought to refrain from that, shouldn’t he? It’s one of the first things his mother had taught him: The heart has no place in the eternity we’ve been given. Even the slightest bit of interest is dangerous. 

They do not meet for another couple weeks—not until he injures himself again. 

This time, the Healer greets him with the same sly smile as before. She raises a brow. “Well,” she says, “at least you waited until your bones were strong enough before breaking them again.”

The smile is contagious. He returns it with one of his own and says, “Travelling has its risks.”

“What exactly do you do to injure yourself to this degree?”

“I’m a tracker,” he answers, shrugging. It’s not quite a lie.

Her brow raises higher. “And what sort of tracker needs this much medical attention every so often?”

“I hunt rare game.” Not a lie, either. “It’s a hard living but the pay is good.” 

(Now that is a lie, but the best ones are always mixed with a little bit of truth, no?)

“Is it worth breaking bones over?” The Healer girl clicks her tongue as she comes to sit beside him, hands hovering above his new wound. “You ought to consider a change in vocation.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

Her answer takes him by surprise. “Here,” she says. “Why not work here?”

“Here,” he repeats, tasting the idea of staying briefly on his tongue. It is bittersweet. “I’m afraid I’d make an inadequate Healer.”

“All you need is more training.” She stops suddenly, abruptly enough to warrant a good long look at her. He finds her amber eyes alive with excitement. “I can teach you!”

He manages a small smile. “Not enough Grisha in this town to torture with instruction?”

“Too much otkazat’sya,” she says, waving his suggestion away, “but I find that living among them is better than living in isolation all my life.”

“Aren’t you still?” he asks. “Isolated, I mean.”

She sighs. “In a way,” she admits a little sheepishly, “but it’s far better than being confined to abandoned towns or mines or springs deep in the mountains.”

“And more dangerous,” he adds. He stares at her a moment, studies her face, the furrow of her brow, the way she nervously chews on her lip. “Why put yourself in harm’s way?” he asks softly. “You run a clinic. And you’re a Healer. Are the risks not greater if you stay?”

“I want to help,” she says fiercely, hands clamping tightly round the bandages she hasn’t yet wrapped around his arm. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Grisha or otkazat’sya. I have a gift. I should use it.”

The corners of his lips quirk ever slightly. “A noble ambition.”

“Ambition,” she mimics, scoffing. She finishes Healing him now, adding the final touches before wrapping his arm in bandages. “Don’t you have dreams? I find it hard to believe a shoddy Healer like yourself wants to make a living from hunting rare game—even if the pay is so good.”

His smile grows. “I never said I was a Healer.”

“But—” Confusion draws her brows together. “You tend to your old injuries, so I thought… Well, if you’re not a Healer, are you a Heartrender?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about, isn’t it?” His grin is sly as he stands, making his way toward the door, stopping briefly to face her and say, “It was nice meeting you…”

“Iskra,” she says. He can see how badly she’s trying to keep the smile from her face, masking it with a poorly tempered anger. “My name is Iskra.”

“Iosef,” he lies smoothly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Iskra smiles then, something sincere and knowing and beautiful. It’s almost enough for him to feel guilty. “Try not to make it too often now, Iosef,” she teases. “And please be careful when you go about your tracking.”

He waves a hand, already halfway outside. “I make no such promises.”

vi.

When he visits Iskra again a week later, injured once again, she greets him, saying, “There are better ways to catch my attention, you know.”

He smiles then, the same smile he’s seen his mother wear a thousand times. “What better way to ensure I keep it?”

Iskra blushes scarlet but keeps her chin high. “Like I said,” she says, amber eyes darkening with desire. “there are better ways.”

vii.

It takes months for him to reveal the truth, bit by bit. He starts by telling her he can summon shadow. Then he tells her about the firebird. And finally, he tells her about merzost. 

Iskra doesn’t once look at him with fear. Instead, her eyes are alight with wonder, with curiosity, with the same insatiable thirst for knowledge that he has. 

Very rarely does he ever meet someone as fierce as she is curious. He decides then, what he wants for himself—for them. 

Consequences be damned.

“Meet me at the square tomorrow at noon,” he tells her. “I want to show you something.”

She smiles then, wide and brilliant and beautiful. “I look forward to it.”

viii.

Iskra is at the town square, but—

This isn’t what I had in mind.

He hides himself behind the crowd, peeking through to see where Iskra stands, tied to a stake, bundles of wood tossed at her feet. 

Somehow her gaze find his. She must have seen the anger that boiled in his veins, the urge to level the town to dust, because her eyes fill with concern. 

Live, she mouths. Live and make the world anew. In other words: Do not rescue me.

He is frozen in place, for he cannot help but understand and honor her wish, however much it pains his heart to do so.

For one long hour he watches as she burns, does not once look away from her eyes, even as he sees the light leave them. 

ix.

The next day, the entire town of Ognegriv is buried under ash. Some people say the fire burned for one long hour. 

All that stands is a wooden stake inscribed with the words:

Sankta Iskra of the Fireheart. Burned at the stake for healing otkazat’sya lives with her Grisha gifts. 

x.

Iskra is not the first, nor is she the last. With each death, his heart weighs heavy, a stone in his chest. With each year that passes, his grief and heartbreak become more and more tiring, less a testament to his humanity than it is a glaring reminder of his weakness.

The heart aches, the heart grieves, his mother told him. It stands in the way of what must be done.

And he has a lot of work to do.

xi.

Almost a century passes since Aleksander last sees his mother. He fills the time tracking rumors of little phenomenons happening across Ravka. Miracles, the people call them. Saints, they hail the cause. 

(In those days, most Saints are Grisha.)

He’s met them all, of course, and most of them are amplifiers, too: Elizabeta and her bees, Juris and his dragon, Grigori and his bear. None quite so ambitious as he, though he’s always thought Elizabeta was better suited to snake than bee.

(Then again, ever a queen bee, she has the uncanny ability to make others do her bidding without so much as lifting a finger. A clever Grisha, that one. Her undivided attention will be useful in the future.)

He is so close to doing what his grandfather has. He has already seen the white stag named after him, but he has yet to see the ice dragon or the firebird. 

First things first, he thinks, as he dons furs before shrugging on his pack, a visit to dear old mother. 

xii.

When at last he visits his mother, Aleksander is surprised to find her with child.

“It seems I came at an opportune time,” he says by way of greeting. “You need my help.”

She scowls. “I need nothing from you,” she says, rounding the dining table and helping herself to a glass of water. “I am pregnant, not helpless.”

“You need someone to look after you,” he reasons. His concern is not quite feigned. 

“And who looked after me when I was pregnant with you?” She takes a seat then, puts a hand atop the swell of her belly. If he isn’t mistaken, she must be due anytime now. “I have been through this before. I would have sent for you should I need your help,” she says, and as if the thought only strikes her now, she adds, “Perhaps it is you who needs my help.”

“Not help, but…” He glances at her belly and cannot help but wonder which poor, unfortunate soul had been subject to his mother’s charm and unknowingly sired such a rare and powerful gift. “I am curious.”

His mother snorts. “Of course you are.”

“And the father?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose it never does, when it comes to you.” He has never questioned who his father is, and he never will. He is dust, after all. 

Her dark eyes narrow, but she stays silent a beat longer before telling him, “We’ll see tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” 

“It’s a full moon,” she replies, moving her arm to the bottom of her stomach, as if to cradle the child within. “I have a feeling.”

xiii.

More than likely, she will ask him to look after his younger sibling—or rather watch. He doubts she will want him interfering more than he needs to. 

He leaves the next morning, quickly making arrangements and finding his way to the seer of Söndermane.  

For a charlatan, the old seer has such impressive quarters, with shelves lining every inch of its curved walls, full of wonders from every which way—jade jewelry and terracotta statues from Shu Han, gold-tipped arrows enchanted to never miss from Novyi Zem, and all manner of rare creatures, stuffed and glass-eyed, from Ravka, and that isn’t to mention all the treasures from its motherland of Fjerda. Though the seer is a mere farce, he ought to give the old man credit. It is a far better skill to tell kings what they want to hear, regardless of the truth their words carry. 

In perfect, unaccented Fjerdan, he tells the seer he wishes to be his apprentice—and because such a job is rarely sought after, the old man agrees, shows him to his room and gives him a tour of the grounds. 

When at last Aleksander wends his way back to his mother, who awaits him on the northern shores, she snaps, “And where have you been?”

(She hasn’t lost her touch; though her back is turned to him, she still senses his presence easily.)

“I have some arrangements I needed to see to,” he tells her smoothly. “And besides, I thought you didn’t need my help.”

“Now is not the time to get smart with me, boy.” She turns, points to the satchel laying a few feet away from her. “Fetch the bell in my bag—and don’t let it ring.”

Imperious as ever, his madraya. Still the dutiful son, Aleksander does as she asks and hands her the bell. He startles when she faces him at last, not at his mother, but—

“A sildroher,” he breathes. His eyes are fixed on the silver tail flicking out of the swaddle of cloth. “Is that even pos—”

“She will be powerful,” she says quickly, clearly sensing and avoiding the question he was about to ask. “A sildroher who took her first breath on land will be destined for great things.”

He realizes now what she’s about to do, but all the same, he can do nothing but watch and memorize all he can of his sibling—a girl, he sees at last, with a shock of thick black hair and jet-colored eyes like his mother’s. He will remember her, even as their mother walks toward the sea and kneels into its waters, holding the silver bell beneath the waves and ringing it twice. A moment later, a sildroher comes forth, his tail just like that of his sibling’s—a silver sickle like the moon on any other night but this one, where its fullness casts glimmering specks on the sea before them. 

When the sildroher at last speaks, Aleksander can hear his disdain. “The child will be spurned,” says the sildroher, voice heavy with the drawl of the sea. “It is clear she is neither sildroher nor mortal.”

No, Aleksander thinks. She is both. She is better. 

The bitter edge to his mother’s voice is palpable. “I am not entirely mortal,” she replies, “but I don’t possess the power to give her legs.” He doubts the sildroher notices the sad turn of her voice then, especially as she hands over the swaddled babe in her arms. A part of him wonders if it is because his mother will never see the fruit of her labor or because she has some semblance of attachment to the child she bore for nine long months. 

(Does it matter? His mother has never been one for sentiment anyway, and it’s doubtful she will tell him, even if that is the reason. She has her secrets, and he has his.)

When the sildroher has hold of the child, his sea-colored eyes flicker behind his former lover, to where Aleksander stands. “And the boy?”

His only answer is a sly, dangerous smile, even as his mother says, on his behalf, “My son. Not quite mortal either.” Her voice becomes steel when she tells—no, orders, “Take her.”

It appears his mother’s uncanny ability to sway even the unwilling to do her bidding is universal, for the sildroher spares her one last glance—mixed awe and remorse and other words he cannot bring himself to say—before diving beneath the waves and disappearing into the sea. 

Silence lingers now, more deafening than the roar of the seasound. When at last he brings himself to speak, he asks his mother, “What exactly do you hope to accomplish with a daughter born of the sea?”

She shrugs. “Power is power,” she tells him, not quite an answer. “In time, she will know this, too. Such is our nature.” Finally, she turns to him, her voice grave as she continues, “She will return to the shore one day. When the time comes, tell her the truth. Let her decide, then.”

“Is that an order?” It doesn’t matter whether or not it is; he will keep an eye on his sister anyway, if only out of curiosity rather than obligation.

His mother sounds so weary when she says, “Do as you wish.”

Aleksander wonders then, if she had hoped he would say something otherwise. 

xiv.

He tells his sister the truth many years later, when she has come to the surface, just as their mother said she would. 

Though her denial is strong, he hears of what she has done only after he reaches the shores of mainland Fjerda. 

The whole northern island has been cleaved in two by the wrath of the northern sea, turned bitter, black, and cold with a requiem of betrayal. 

Söndermane has fallen to the sea, taking with it the vast amounts of treasures and secrets of the sildroher.

It is fine, Aleksander supposes, for he has already gotten what he needs.

(He reminds himself to someday pay his sister a visit, though he hears she drives a hard bargain nowadays.)

xv.

He has not been in Ravka for ages, but today, he finds himself just a ways from the Tula Valley and the town it keeps to the Chudo Forest behind, said to be the very site where Sankt Feliks was pierced by apple boughs. 

(Elizabeta’s doing, no doubt, though he would surely hear the story sooner or later.)

Now he stands at the center of a grove of apple trees and thornwood, the kind those silly otkazat’sya use to purify themselves before entering the priesthood. 

(For just a moment, Aleksander wonders whether he should call on his old friends to bear witness to what he’s about to do, but he has never been one for an audience.)

At last he sets before him the elusive white panther he had sedated and hauled all the way from the jungles of central Shu Han. The poor creature is barely hanging by a thread, its pulse but a faint whisper in the wind. 

Still, the creature is alive, and that is what matters. 

Aleksander gathers thornwood, pulls them from their place and wraps them round the panther as the priests might have done for themselves—as a sacrifice. Before the panther can lose its last drop of blood, he claps his hands together—

And begins. 

Darkness rises to his summons, filling the clearing and drowning the light. He orders the darkness to become, to fill and combine with the bare thread of life the panther still clings to, to be both life and death all at once.

He watches in triumph as the darkness coils around the poor creature, seeping into its skin and wrapping around its still beating heart. 

Almost. He is almost there when—

Piercing pain strikes him then, almost as if he can feel the thorns digging into the panther.

It’s not right, he thinks, and for the first time in a long while, dread pits in his stomach. How could I make a mistake?  

Try as he might to rectify it, the pain keeps coming and coming, and the shadows he wields slip from his grasp, filling the field and forest with darkness and more darkness. Everywhere he looks, black gloom spreads farther and wider, a silent explosion of death. 

His power is stretched so thin now, but the air is not quiet; it slowly fills with the screams of the nearby town. 

It never seems to end.

The screaming never halts, only turning into shrieking—the shrieks of something mad and monstrous, a reminder that he has not created but destroyed.

I have to leave, he thinks. I have to leave now.

With his remaining strength he rids the evidence of his mistake, calling on black flame to destroy the panther, the thorns. 

It is an effort to make his way out, for the shrieks come closer, and wind beats at his ears as the creatures, once people, snap their teeth at his shoulders, his arms, his legs, even as he weaves through the endless dark.

He swears he can hear them cry, feel their anguish and sorrow beating a rhythm louder than the drum of his frantic heartbeat.

After he makes it out, he can do nothing but stare at the stretch of black before him, a shadow not entirely his.

What have I done?

xvi.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, but he always finds a way. Hours have passed—or is it days? It doesn’t matter. The stretch of white snow is a welcome sight compared to the sea of shadow he had made.

Faintly, he can see the look of horror on his mother’s face, the sound of terror in her voice as she asks, “What have you done?”

He summons what little remains of his conviction to say, “What I had to.” 

And then he coughs, sees blood spray from his mouth and stain the snow. Black dots swim in his vision now, and he has never felt more weak or helpless. 

(And worse, he cannot even muster enough feeling to be angry at himself for even thinking those two words might ever describe him.)

“Madraya,” he says softly, and it is a plea that he cannot help, because exhaustion has shackled his bones, his soul, and—

Before he knows it, all he sees is black.

xvii.

He drifts in and out of sleep, in and out of dreams—or nightmares, whichever one it is. 

(At this point, he doesn’t know the difference.)

Sometimes, he sees his mother’s face, deep with concern, with fierce determination. Sometimes, he sees the creatures that plague his creation, hears the beat of their wings or the snap of their teeth. 

Most of the time, he is searching for what he ought to do to rectify what he’s done.

Perhaps there is more to creating an amplifier fit for an amplifier to bear—there is something missing in his equation, something that doesn’t quite balance.

Balance. 

He clings to the word, to what it will mean when he recovers, when he can at last journey again and start his preparations. 

Just like that, he starts to rise, but his mother stops him with a look—a glare.

“What on earth made you think you were beyond the consequences of merzost?” she demands. She doesn’t even give him a chance to answer as she holds a glass of water to his lips. “Please tell me you’ve given up this foolish pursuit.”

“I made a mistake,” he chokes out. “It simply needs I need to know more before—”

“Before trying again? Is it not enough that you’ve plunged part of the world in your darkness? End this madness before you—”

“Why are you trying to stop me?” Anger burns through him, fills him with life once more. “Is this not what you taught me to be? All the years of traveling, the lessons you said to heed. It amounts to this.” He summons forth what little shadow he could recreate from the dark gloom that now cleaves Ravka, an inky black pool in the palm of his hand. 

Perhaps he is wrong to think of the sea of shadow as a mistake—it might be a gift in disguise, for it has given him more knowledge of the very thread that holds the world together, a thread he has begun to unspool. Why stop now?

“This is my birthright,” he says, “and so is this world. Is this not what you raised me to be?”

He knows now why she is so ardent on keeping a heart made of stone. Love has no place in the eternity he will breed. Even his mother’s love is a means to an end, tainted by the fear of what true power means. How the mighty have fallen. He can hardly believe this is the same woman who taught him all he knows. Still, he has her to thank for the lessons he now holds dear.

After all, it is his mother who taught him that the world shows no mercy to people like them.