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Shrouded in the darkness that swathed the Fold, Malyen Oretsev was not afraid. He was no Grisha, unable to summon storms or sun or flames, but he was a fighter. He would fight until his last breath for Alina, and in his mind, that was all that mattered today. The Darkling was prepared to sacrifice any number of Grisha for his cause - the least Mal could do was sacrifice himself. A small gesture, he knew, but a noble one. He doubted that the shadow saint would do the same.
Alina had insisted to him that his death was an impossible thing, that they were strong enough to win without spilling his blood on the sands. The others had seemed to believe her. They'd survived the massacre at the Little Palace, escaped the White Cathedral, and avoided death - albeit narrowly on Adrik's part - during the attack at the Spinning Wheel. They'd earned a right to feel unbeatable, and perhaps they were. The Grisha swore on their power, that it was skill and cunning and leadership that had let them escape with their lives so many times. But Mal had never had power, so he had to believe in luck.
Ever since Alina had shown her summoning, everything that had happened to Mal felt like fate. The stag wasn't power, wasn't skill. They'd stumbled upon it, fingers frostbitten and minds half-frozen. The sea whip wasn't skill, either. No human could track a mystical being under ice and through stormy seas. And that's what he was, wasn't it? Just a human. Normal. He certainly wasn't Grisha, a fact that the Darkling seemed to relish in. So hearing that he was the Firebird, that his bones contained the potential to complete the trio of Morozova's amplifiers just felt . . . wrong. There was nothing magical about him, there never had been. He'd worked for his tracking, used it to good use in the king's company, but it had never been magic, never been "Small Science". It was just him. It was just Mal.
He'd wanted to deny his power, deny his lineage. And he did, as much as he could. But there was a part of him that knew that Alina was right. That he was something special, too. Too bad that his version of special involved having to die first. Tamar had told him to carry her fabrikated blade, that he'd need to give it to Alina when the moment came - that was Tamar, always "when" and not "if" - and he'd taken it without complaint. He knew his duty. He'd lectured Alina about how he was ready to make that sacrifice, that she had to be ready, too, but he didn't mean it, not fully. He'd said the words, stressed them, even, but who is able to truly convince themselves that they're ready to die at eighteen? Actually, Tamar and Tolya probably could, but they were something else entirely.
Damn, where were the twins? The pale, violet glow of lumiya burning in the hull of the Darkling's skiffs was his only source of light, aside from the occasional streak of flame across the sky. One moment the Fold had been lit with the bright flare of Alina's power, but now they had been plunged into darkness. What had gone wrong on the skiff? Nichevo'ya seemed to surround it, a hovering mass of wings and claws and ruin. Tamar and Tolya were supposed to be with her, but clearly even their strength had been overpowered by the sheer number of men the Darkling had brought. It was impossible to succeed, they knew that, but couldn't the impossible be changed just this once?
Yes, yes it could. He made his way toward the skiff.
He watched as a figure burst through the cloud of nichevo'ya, falling into the darkness beyond the reach of the violet light. Alina. He made no sound, no scream of her name, just made his way toward her, the resolve of his act growing heavier in his heart. He knew what he had to do - she must, too - and he had to do it now. While he'd still convinced himself he could, that he was ready.
"Alina."
His voice did not waver, did not crack as he grabbed her arm, pulling her back. His fingers brushed something wet - blood, most likely - and he loosened his grip, moving his hand down to intertwine her fingers in his. His other hand moved to pull the knife from his belt, offering her the handle as she summoned a weak wash of light to illuminate them both. Her face was caked in dirt and blood, a cut along her hairline where it looked like she'd been hit with something blunt. Her white hair hung limply past her shoulders, streaked in brown and red. Tears ran down her face, cutting paths through the grime, her voice quivering with a mixture of exhaustion and fear.
"Mal, don't. This isn't over yet-"
"It is."
He forced the knife into her grip, closing her fingers around the hilt. Her tears stopped as the light around them grew brighter, a rush through her veins. Is this what Grisha power felt like? Like a breath of fresh air, the adrenaline rush before a fight, the feeling of something calling you to a world beyond. No, that last one was just for him.
"Don't let it all be for nothing, Alina." Her face crumpled again, and he brought his free hand up to cup her cheek, wiping away the tears with his thumb. "Don't let me live knowing I might have stopped this."
He hated saying those words, seeing the reaction it brought on her face. He was ready, even if she was not. But she had to be. He had to make her be.
"Save them," he begged her, moving to press his forehead against hers. "Let me carry you."
She took in a heaving breath, shaking her head. But he knew Alina, had always known her. The resolve was in her eyes, if not in her heart. I love you, he wanted to say, gazing into her eyes. But like a good soldier, he knew had to keep his emotions in check. She was so close. He wouldn't put himself first, not this time.
"End this."
And with his fingers guiding her, she drove the knife up into his chest.
He'd been hurt before, but this was nothing like he'd ever experienced. Not even close. The steel slid almost effortlessly between his ribs, as if it had been crafted to kill him. The momentum jerked Alina forward into him, and they both crashed to the ground, the knife slipping from their grip, falling softly onto the black sand. He could feel it now, as he fell, the searing pain in his side, the blood between his lips. He tried to gasp her name, but the pain was too great, the rush of adrenaline and blood loss and emotion making him feel woozy, slow, weak like never before. "Alina," he coughed, using the last of his strength to grip her hand in his, fingers grazing the bare skin on her wrist where she would place his bones.
So this is what dying was like. It was never how he'd pictured it, although he was sure no one imagined their demise coming at the hands of their lover driving a blade into their heart. It was faster than he'd expected, too. He could feel the life draining from him, flowing into her. He was too weak to speak, his chest heaving as his body tried to gasp for breath, to hold on just a minute longer. He'd take every second he had left with her, with her white hair framing her face and her hand in his and her power surrounding them. As his breath slowed and his vision blurred, he could still make out her shape against the black sky, illuminated in white. Fitting that the last thing he'd see of her was the thing he'd died for. Her love, her power.
Her light.
It took everything left in him to not slip into the black.
But in life and games of power, there is always a battle to be lost.