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Nikolai never sees Mal at breakfast.

Neither of them seem to have much of an appetite, but Nikolai makes a point to trek to the Little Palace and be present in the Hall of the Golden Dome each morning, making conversation with whoever decides to show up — sometimes Zoya to complain about the training prospects of the Second Army, sometimes David to grab a piece of bread and mumble a distracted greeting, sometimes the kitchen staff to inform him that they’re low on sugar and could Nikolai please do something about the sluggish pace of imports. He’ll answer with a smile and as many assurances as he can manage, but never once does Mal show up even when Nikolai knows he’s recovered enough to venture out on his own again. Mal pointedly avoids him, and that pointedly bothers Nikolai.

Leave him alone, is what he thinks to himself most days. He’s grieving.

They all are. Nikolai still pens letters to Alina’s ghost, the pages tucked away in a drawer in his sitting room, pages full of unspoken secrets that could jeopardize the entire kingdom, but he’s still arrogant enough to believe that he can handle this as he’s handled every other ugly thing life has given him. Alina was the only one who could understand the darkness that’s made a home beneath his skin, and without her… well. Without her, there’s no one.

It came to him suddenly, while he was stripping his gloves off one night and pretending not to examine the blackened scars spread jaggedly over his fingers, that there was someone. There was someone that Alina trusted more than anyone else, someone who loved her enough to die for her, someone for whom loyalty wasn’t just a word but a sworn promise, and so the next morning Nikolai skips breakfast but shows up to the Little Palace an hour after he normally leaves, and there, he finds him.

Mal sits alone with a gilded mug before him, his bright blue eyes pointed to the vibrant leaves outside the window, courtesy of the immaculate palace gardeners. The pale bandages looped across his chest peek through his open collar, and he turns his head as soon as Nikolai approaches, the expression on his face telling him all he needs to know about how he feels.

They haven’t spoken since the Fold. Since Nikolai fell from the sky. Since Alina drove a knife through Mal’s heart.

Even now, Mal clearly doesn’t want to speak to him. Nikolai is surprised that he remained at the palace at all, but he allows that question to go unanswered for now.

“You look better,” Nikolai begins, though perhaps that’s not exactly true. There are shadows beneath his eyes, dark stubble on his chin. The healthy pink flush beneath his tawny skin has disappeared, replaced with a dull, colorless exhaustion that could be attributed to either of the ways his heart has suffered.

Mal just looks at him, and for a moment Nikolai thinks he might not respond at all.

“So do you,” he finally grumbles. “More human.”

Nikolai’s mouth quirks into a brief smile. So that’s how this will go.

“Funny,” he says, despite not finding it funny at all. “I’m not sure what your intentions are, but I do know what I hope they could be.”

“Don’t,” Mal cuts in, his brow furrowing as he grips his mug of what now looks like lukewarm coffee. “Don’t talk to me in fucking riddles, Lantsov. What do you want?”

It’s almost refreshing to hear the irate tone in which Mal addresses him. Not Your Majesty, Your Highness, Moi Tsar. Just Lantsov, said like someone who wants to see his face ground into the dirt. It reminds him of his days in the infantry. That, he does find funny.

“I have a proposition for you. Really — a job, I suppose.”

Mal gives him that stare again, this time accompanied by a loud slurp of his drink. Nikolai holds back a grimace as he imagines cold coffee hitting his tongue, continuing on despite how awkward Mal is apparently determined to make this.

“Not much will change. You’ve essentially been doing this all along, just not for my personal benefit.” Nikolai holds his gaze, because if he wants a staring contest, he’ll always win. “I want you to head my personal guard.”

Something passes across Mal’s face, something raw and painful, then a storm cloud that could rival Zoya’s own disposition. His scuffed knuckles tighten around the mug, his voice pitched low when he speaks.

“Not much will change?” Mal’s eyes narrow, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Did you really just say that?”

“Your duties won’t.”

“My duty was to Alina,” Mal snaps, his tone bitter. “Not to you.”

“I’m asking you because of her.” Nikolai remains steady even as a rosebud of sudden grief unfurls in his chest. He sees her face split into a wide smile. You’re a scoundrel, Nikolai, even if you dress your words up as flowers.

But do you like flowers, Alina? Are they working?

“She trusted you completely,” he continues, blinking away the memory of his fingers combing through long, pale hair. “I’m in desperately short supply of people I can trust, and I’d like to believe it means something that you haven’t left yet.”

Mal looks away, a short huff of air escaping his mouth. Nikolai half expects him to actually leave now, just to spitefully prove how wrong he is, but the seconds drag on, the air between them profoundly silent.

Nikolai breaks the quiet first. “Can you still do it?”

“What?”

“I don’t expect you to give me an answer right away. But can you still do it? Can you fit back into this role after everything that’s happened? I’m not asking this lightly.”

Nikolai’s eyes drop to Mal’s bandages, and Mal scoffs when he glances down.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“If you want me to hit you a couple times to prove it, I’m game, as long as you promise not to have me executed for raising a hand against the king.”

Nikolai grins, lifting a brow at him. “That wouldn’t exactly be to my benefit now, would it? Having you executed, I mean.”

“It’s too soon for me to die again,” Mal mutters, although Nikolai can’t tell if he’s stating a fact or trying to convince himself of it.

“Two days, Oretsev. Then I need an answer.” Nikolai turns to leave, exhaling softly. Maybe he’ll say yes. He hasn’t yet thought ahead to if he says no. It has to be Mal. “This isn’t me giving you an ultimatum. You’re welcome to stay regardless of what you choose to do.”

Because Keramzin is gone, and so is Alina, and although he’s seen the uncanny way Mal can swiftly adapt to his surroundings, this is different.

Mal says nothing, exactly the response that Nikolai expects from him.

My dearest Alina,

I wish I could have said goodbye to you. No — I wish I never had to say goodbye to you at all, but it’s been especially difficult to contend with the fact that I wasn’t myself the last time you saw me. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t hold you. I’m sorry if I frightened you — which you handled brilliantly, by the way, but I would expect nothing less from you. You would have made an excellent queen, my dear, but worth even more than that, you made an excellent friend.

I wish you were here. Not to get metaphysical with you, but I’m afraid the Darkling isn’t done with me yet.

Yours,
Nikolai

Mal says yes.

That very same night Nikolai breaks through his window and flies thirteen miles away to a neighboring farm, where he tears open the stomach of a cow and scatters its innards in a trail leading toward a solitary dirt road. He comes back to his own consciousness with a shuddering gasp, lifting a trembling hand to his eyes before Mal appears out of the shadows and snatches his wrist.

Not the shadows. He’s on the floor of a coach, his coach, with Mal’s blurry form perched on the seat above him, his gaze piercing even in the darkness. His eyes look like hazy bits of ocean. Saints, what he wouldn’t give to be back on the Volkvolny right now.

Nikolai discovers he’s too weak to pull his hand away, but then sees why Mal is holding fast to him: his fingers look like they’ve been dipped in blood, crimson traveling messily past his wrist. His stomach turns, his throat too tight to speak.

“Nikolai.” Mal’s voice carries above the steady thrum of wooden wheels over the uneven roads. “Nikolai —”

Pressing his eyes shut, he draws in another ragged breath and tries to push back against the walls that threaten to close in and block out the light. The darkness is absolute, flooding into his mouth, his eyes, his lungs — he can’t see or breathe or think and bloody Saints, he wishes Alina was here —

“Nikolai!”

A desperate breath of air pushes out of him as he finally finds his voice.

“I can hear you,” Nikolai rasps, blinking away the cloudy haze filming his vision. Mal comes into focus like a shattered sculpture pieced together again, his expression fixed into a frustrated frown. Is that concern? Nikolai ponders on the tightness of Mal’s jaw, the way that tiny muscle jumps each time he clenches harder. Saints, how does he manage to brood so much and not grind his teeth perfectly flat?

Mal releases his wrist. “Bloody hell, Lantsov. When the fuck were you gonna tell me this was still happening?”

A valid question, though his admittance to that is grudgingly reluctant. He was hoping to never have to tell him — or anyone — because now that he has to face this with his eyes wide open, the reality feels as though it might crush him.

“It seems like I didn’t have to tell you at all.” Gingerly sitting up, he braces against the side of the empty seat, still shivering all over like the cold has been injected directly into his veins — a detail he hopes Mal will overlook. “Why am I on the floor? You could’ve put me in a seat.”

“Sorry. Didn’t want anyone to see their precious Ravkan King turning into a fucking monster and murdering cows. I threw you in here as soon as I found you.”

“Is that what this is?” Nikolai curls his bloody hand into a loose fist, trying to dispel the tension in his voice. “Cow’s blood?”

“As far as I can tell, yeah.” Mal slowly sits back, keeping his gaze trained on him. “There wasn’t anything else but the cow. In pieces, by the way.”

“Well. We’ll have to gift them a new one, then. Maybe several new ones. Perhaps we’ll donate to all of the surrounding farms to make it as inconspicuous as possible.”

The snort that comes out of Mal is edged with disbelief. “Inconspicuous? There’s nothing inconspicuous about this. Are you gonna do this every night?”

“I hope not.”

“You hope not?”

“Yes. Fervently.”

Mal throws up his hands. “That’s it? Hope? Where’s your big plan to stop this?”

Another valid question, and this one in particular smarts. Where is his plan? It’s difficult to create a solution to a problem that he doesn’t fully understand, but it’s never been more apparent than in this moment that he needs answers. He needs more than hope.

He runs his forearm over his eyes, sighing to himself. “I’ll make one. A plan. In the meantime, keep this to yourself.”

Immediately — “I told Zoya,” Mal says.

Nikolai finally looks at him properly, his brow pinched and eyes gritty with exhaustion. “You told Zoya.”

“She’s the one that helped me find you. Then she went back to make sure no one else saw you.” His expression dims slightly, eyes turning to the window as he nudges the curtain back for a peek outside. “You were hard to track in the sky.”

Nikolai says nothing, the unspoken meaning already hanging loudly between them. Mal’s uncanny gift for tracking disappeared when he died, another part of his identity he’s struggling with the loss of. As if Mal without Alina wasn’t enough. Who is he, Nikolai wants to ask, without all of this?

Who is he with all this darkness roiling just beneath his skin?

With his hands more or less steady, he reaches for the flask of water resting atop the folded clothes on the seat. Perhaps Zoya was the right call after all, because he doubts Mal is the one who remembered to bring a change of clothes. The blood has mostly dried now, and he rinses it off as well as he can before he pulls his trousers on, keeping his voice casual.

“Would you have said no if you knew?” Nikolai slips his shirt over his shoulders, busying himself with the buttons even as he sees Mal shift from the corner of his eye.

“No to what?” Mal mutters, idly watching him dress.

“My offer. Being the captain of my guard.” He glances up, trying for a smile. “Do you feel as though I’ve tricked you into this?”

“Everything about you feels like a trick, but at least you’ve been consistent.”

“I’ll take the praise.”

Mal scoffs. “There wasn’t any.”

Now clothed, Nikolai rises to sit across from Mal, flexing his stiff fingers. He wishes Zoya remembered the gloves. Or Mal. Or anyone. The remnants of blood aside, the spidery black scarring along his hands seems to appear worse. Mal’s gaze feels like concentrated sunlight illuminating every scar.

No. That’s not Mal. That’s just the pang in his chest.

My dearest Alina,

I excel in public spaces. I easily hold the rapt attention of an audience. I am the center of attention everywhere I go, and I prefer it this way, but tonight I don’t feel like entertaining. I don’t feel like doing any of this. I wouldn’t dare say it aloud — that’s hardly good form for a king — but to be perfectly frank, I just want to stay in bed. I want to sip hot cider and watch the stars with you. I want to hear you laugh again.

I have yet to hear Mal laugh. I have doubts that he’s capable of it at all, but I’m sure in all the years that you’ve known him, you’ve managed to coax one or two out of him. Perhaps they’re reserved just for you, and now that you’re not here, maybe they don’t have anywhere else to go. I know I’m quite funny, but my charm doesn’t seem to work on him.

I don’t always mind it, though. It’s nice sometimes. The silence. The other day he brought me a cup of tea. I think he saw me nodding off and made an attempt to spare my face from hitting the table. He didn’t say a word. Just grunted when I thanked him.

Your ghost is everywhere, but I see it so much in Mal. So much that I find myself struck with jealousy that he knew you better than anyone else. A foolish notion, isn’t it? To be jealous of someone else’s pain.

Pyxis is in the sky tonight. I hope you can see it.

Yours,
Nikolai

In theory, dinner parties should be enjoyable. There should be dancing and laughing and bottomless cups, and though all of these and more are present, Nikolai can’t shake the sour taste in his mouth that manifests each time he smiles at a diplomat and greets an ambassador. He takes more care with the members of the Merchant Council, because Ravka is in desperate need of their coin. Ravka is in desperate need of quite a lot of things, and it’s taken all of his energy to keep her from dragging him underwater to drown with her.

A servant materializes beside him when he casts a glance around the garden, offering him his favorite brandy on a gilded tray. He takes it with a murmur of thanks, swallowing down a gulp too large to be refined. The spark of moonlight that reflects from the platter as the servant departs sends an unwelcome thought through his head.

This would be far more entertaining if Alina was here.

He turns and nearly walks straight into Zoya, accompanied by Mal at her elbow.

“There are girls here. You’re not talking to any of them,” she says, disapproval shot through her tone.

“My apologies, Nazyalensky. I’ve been a bit busy begging for money for our empty coffers. Do you think the girls will fill them instead?”

“A marriage can fill them. An alliance with a wealthy, well-connected family.”

“And when he eats them in their bed?” Mal remarks, and both eyes turn to him.

“Did you just make a joke?” Nikolai asks, a grin spreading over his face. “Not in the least bit funny, by the way, but I applaud the principle of the thing.”

“Yes, Ravka’s precarious future is just hilarious.” Zoya’s mouth twists into a scowl. “You need a wife. You need an heir. This isn’t exactly a peasant party. You have options here.”

“What if I want a peasant?” Nikolai asks, noticing the way Mal’s jaw tightens.

“You can have whoever you want. After you marry someone respectably rich first. Isn’t that one of the perks of being a king?”

Nikolai brings his cup to his lips once more. “I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to become my father, Zoya.”

“You won’t be anything if you don’t secure the throne.” Zoya’s tone, to an untrained ear, might sound as scathing as ever, but Nikolai can tell that she’s softened her blow just slightly, a grace she doesn’t dole out often. “We all miss her, Nikolai. But we all still have to keep moving.”

That’s all I’ve been doing, he wants to say, but instead — “And move we shall. Will you dance with me under the stars, my dear Zoya?”

“No. People might start to believe that you’re taken.”

“Or they’ll begin to see you as competition. Perhaps the girls will come forward and court me instead. I do love gifts and people vying for my attention.”

“I’m going.” She snatches two glasses of champagne from a passing servant, giving one to Mal and allowing her fingers to brush his hand. “Make him talk to potential brides.”

Nikolai watches her go, her shining hair flowing like a dark waterfall behind her. Several of the guests do the same, their eyes lingering on her departing form.

“No girl would ever dare speak with me if I danced with Zoya. That was sort of the point,” Nikolai says around another swallow. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Mal takes a sip from his flute, swallowing with a grimace.

“I didn’t take you for a champagne man.” Nikolai grins and plucks the flute from Mal’s grip, giving him his brandy instead. “And you know what I mean. The sparks flying between you and Nazyalensky. I was nearly blinded from close proximity alone. Go on, drink it. I assume my affliction isn’t contagious.”

Mal almost looks like he’s going to reject the drink, but after a moment takes a careful sip, something like grudging appreciation passing over his face.

“There aren’t any sparks,” Mal says, glancing over the guests in what looks like casual indifference, but Nikolai knows he’s as vigilant as ever. He is working tonight. “Zoya and I are friends.”

“What? I thought I was her only friend. This is devastating. I feel cheated.”

“You can take that up with her, but I’m pretty sure we both know she won’t give a damn.”

“Too true.”

Zoya’s merciless stance on nearly everything is largely why he appointed her as his general. That, and her being in the small circle of people entrusted with his secret. If Mal and Zoya want to get close — well. There’s little he could do about it and even less that he would.

The moonlight briefly catches the scar across Mal’s jaw, Nikolai’s gaze lingering for a moment too long. Sometimes he wants to ask about the Darkling and the way Mal suffered at his hands, maybe out of mutual commiseration or in the hopes of gaining some sort of insight that might help his own affliction, but there’s still something haunted in Mal’s eyes when he looks at him in a certain light. Perhaps something mirrored in his own gaze.

“Do you think Alina would’ve said yes to your proposal?” Mal’s question comes abruptly, so much so that even Nikolai is thrown for a second too long.

They haven’t spoken about Alina since — before.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.” A rare confession. Nikolai studies the bubbles in his glass, then looks to Mal. “I think you would know better than I would.”

Mal’s chest rises as he draws in a slow breath, as if bracing himself for some unknown horror, and Nikolai says nothing, in part because he knows the feeling. The knife’s edge of disaster. Not the palace being stormed or Os Alta coming under siege, but the kind of disaster that lives right in the middle of his ribcage, kind enough most days to be still but ready to burst under pressure at any moment.

And at the beginning he thought they were so different. Nikolai doesn’t see it the same way now.

“Which one are you going to talk to?” Mal clears his throat awkwardly, gesturing with his glass, and Nikolai looks over at his multitude of guests, fighting the urge to laugh because he thinks it might not come out the way he intends it to.

“None of them.” He drains his flute in one swallow. “You know as well as I do that I can’t court a bride when I may very well kill them. Accidentally, of course. Zoya thinks that my charm will somehow be enough to make them overlook my monstrous circumstances.”

“You manage to charm everyone else.”

“Do I?” Nikolai returns his gaze to Mal, a far more interesting sight than the whole of his lavish garden party. “Have I charmed you yet? Because I was just thinking earlier that I can’t even make you laugh.”

Mal’s brow crooks suspiciously. “Why do you want to make me laugh?”

Why, indeed. Nikolai thinks carefully over his next words. Mal can be unpredictable at times, and this is one of those moments that Nikolai isn’t sure will go over well.

“Because it’s what Alina would have wanted.”

A servant appears at his side with fresh glasses. Thank the Saints and all their suffering. Nikolai exchanges his flute for another and then risks a glance at Mal, who’s standing completely still, his expression stony except for the way his mouth gives the tiniest, nearly imperceptible quiver.

Nikolai opens his mouth to speak, but Mal cuts him off immediately.

“Don’t.” Mal releases a breath, then swallows.

“Don’t what?” Nikolai asks.

“Don’t talk like you know what she would’ve wanted,” Mal grinds out, his words scathing. “You barely knew her. You just wanted to use her just like the Darkling did. It’s like Zoya said — you need a powerful alliance to keep the throne, and what’s more powerful than making the Sun Summoner your queen?”

Nikolai pins Mal with his hardening gaze, holding steady precisely because he feels anything but. He feels weak. He feels like he’s going to shatter. His mind supplies all the things that Mal doesn’t say, that his claim to the throne is so dangerously tenuous because he’s a bastard who just happens to have the Lantsov name. That no matter what he’s done in the course of his life, it will never be enough. All that matters is securing an heir.

Does he think that’s all Alina was to him?

Mal looks away first, and still Nikolai doesn’t feel like he’s won. It’s like watching a drowning man trying to come up for air.

“Mal,” Nikolai says, his tone devoid of his usual humor. “I suggest you find somewhere else to place your anger.”

“My apologies,” he replies, the bright blue of his eyes boring into him again. “Your Majesty.”

A too-sharp grin splits Nikolai’s face, his gloved hands tightening. He forces them to relax for fear that he might snap the stem of his flute in half.

“Get everyone out of the garden. I haven’t been sleeping well, so I think I’ll have an early night.” Nikolai leans in a bit closer, his eyes steely, but grudgingly delighted that Mal doesn’t give an inch. “Enjoy the brandy.”

The most absurd thought plagues him as he walks away. He would have liked to show Mal Pyxis.

My dearest Alina,

I’ve lost someone I loved before. I never told you about him, but he was like Mal to you. We grew up together. Faced everything together. We went to war together. And then he died on the battlefield and there was nothing I could do to stop it. That helpless feeling, knowing it didn’t matter that I was a prince, a Lantsov, a royal that people would bend over backwards for — I despised that feeling. In that moment I was nothing. Perhaps less than nothing. Dominik died in my arms and I had no control over it going any other way.

I feel that now, Alina. I feel helplessly out of control. I haven’t told anyone. I think they all know, in theory, that this is bad, but I can’t have them lose faith in me, so I don’t show them just how bad. I don’t see a way out of this. Not yet. I just keep telling myself that there is a way. Somewhere. Somehow.

I miss him. I miss you. It came as something of a surprise to realize just how alone I am.

Mal can’t stand me, I think. I suppose this isn’t news. Ordering him to leave Os Alta would probably be a mercy at this point, but I want him here. Perhaps it’s selfish, but being with him is the only time I don’t feel quite so alone. We’re both hurting in the same way. When I focus on his pain, it gives me something of a reprieve from my own. He’s not a project, I promise. To be completely frank, I don’t quite know what he is.

He doesn’t know I loved you. I don’t think you knew, either. In my defense, by the time I realized it, it was already too late.

Yours,
Nikolai

For the next three days, he and Mal don’t speak beyond customary greetings to keep up civil appearances. Nikolai finds it positively absurd — what appearances matter, and who is even keeping track? They don’t leave the palace. It goes unspoken that Nikolai’s current circumstances will not make travel easy, but as the days pass and he stays human, he thinks perhaps there is some hope after all.

Maybe it was a one-off side effect of the Darkling’s curse. Maybe it will never happen again.

If things could only be so easy.

The next time it happens, Nikolai ends up twenty miles away and wakes with blood smeared across his mouth. He turns over and retches beside the torn limb of a goat, its fur matted with dark red, and before he can do anything else a coat drops around his quaking shoulders as Mal appears before his blurry gaze. The sight sends an alarming amount of relief through him.

“Oretsev,” he rasps out, closing his eyes as his strength gives out. Expecting to hit the packed dirt of the forest floor, he ends up in Mal’s arms instead.

It’s nearly daybreak by the time his coach ends up back at the palace and he returns to his quarters, washing quickly to scrub away every bit of blood left on his skin, and then finding Mal in his bedchambers, arms crossed, leaning uncomfortably against a dark wooden chest. Nikolai doesn’t want to fight, exhaustion clinging to him like a second, third, and fourth skin.

“I’ll be out in an hour.” One hour of sleep is all he has time for. He drops his towel on the back of a chair, his golden hair still damp and curling slightly around his ears.

Mal hesitates, and then — “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Oretsev. You found me before I made a meal out of one of my adoring citizens.” The thought of killing and eating another person leaves him cold. He doesn’t think about how he must have already done it, back when the Darkling first turned him. Back when Alina was alive. Saints, it’s a blessing he doesn’t remember all of it at the beginning. What he does remember is already too much.

“I don’t mean about that.” Mal’s brow knits together, looking away as he rubs the scar at his jaw. “I mean about — about what I said. About Alina.”

“Ah.” Nikolai sits on his bed, instinctively curling his hands into the sheets as he leans back. He might’ve worn his gloves if he knew Mal was going to be waiting for him here, but it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. “About how I wanted to use her.”

Mal sighs audibly, his shoulders falling. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“I did want to use her.” Nikolai rolls his stiff shoulders, tilting his head until he hears a crack from his neck. “The Sun Summoner would have been an excellent choice in queens for Ravka.”

“That’s not —” Mal huffs out another breath. “I’m trying to apologize, Nikolai.”

“Don’t. I deserved some of that.”

“Yeah, you did, but you cared about her, too.”

Nikolai glances over at that, surprise coloring his features. Mal looks as tired as he feels, his dark hair disheveled and his uniform smudged with dirt from tracking him for miles through the woods. He came from a sense of duty, Nikolai thinks, even if there’s a part of him that wants to believe otherwise. They’ve barely spoken for days.

“I did care for her,” Nikolai says, thinking of the desk in his sitting room, a mere door away, the drawer full of his letters. Confessions that he can’t bring himself to say aloud. Even this one sends an ache through his heart. “More than you likely realize.”

Mal doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t bristle in the way Nikolai expects him to, either. The silence that stretches between them isn’t filled with tension as much as quiet fatigue.

“I asked David to fashion some restraints that will hold the monster.” Nikolai says it as casually as asking for his morning tea. “Would you do me the honors of chaining me to my bed tomorrow night?”

“That’s your plan?” Mal sounds thoroughly unimpressed.

“Presently. I have high hopes that a more permanent solution will present itself. At least this way you won’t have to go traipsing along the countryside in the middle of the night in search of your intrepid and handsome king.” Nikolai pauses before adding — “I’m not the only one that hasn’t been sleeping well.”

“I’m fine,” Mal counters immediately — and predictably.

“As am I. Fine is all relative, Oretsev.”

“You’re not fine. I’m not the one turning into a monster here.”

Nikolai laughs, lifting a scarred hand to rub at one eye. “Careful now. I might start to believe that you’re concerned about my well-being. I’m only just recovering from learning that Nazyalensky has more than one friend. I’m afraid my heart can’t take another shocking revelation right now.”

The sound that comes out of Mal makes Nikolai’s grin widen. A chuckle. A chortle. A snort. Something distinctly related to the family of laughter. Something tentatively like progress.

“You said you were going to bed.” Mal straightens, letting his arms drop. “I’m supposed to meet Zoya at sunrise to spar.”

“A dangerous decision to make on no sleep,” Nikolai remarks, ignoring the prickle of disappointment that edges into his smile. There’s no reason for it. Mal and Zoya are friends and likely on the path to something more. It’s no business of his. “Tell her the king expressly forbids her from permanently maiming you. It’s very important that you’re well enough to glower at me from across the room at all hours of the day. I need the attention.”

“Careful. She might start to believe you’re concerned about my well-being.” The corner of Mal’s mouth quirks up in a smirk before he turns and heads to the door.

“And what if I am?” Nikolai asks, then winces to himself, glad that his back is to Mal. He hears his footsteps stop. “You’re extremely hardy, I’ll give you that. Even I’ve heard about your reckless forays in the fighting rings. You’ve built quite a fanbase, actually. An impressive one for someone who’s not grisha.”

“It’s to keep myself in top form,” Mal says. “It doesn’t affect any of this.”

“Is it? We both know exactly how it started, Mal. And how long it’s been.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Mal pauses, the silence suddenly tense. “Tell me to stop. I won’t have a choice if it’s coming from the king.”

For Saints’ sake, Nikolai.

“You’re welcome to do as you like.” He shuts his eyes with a quietly frustrated exhale. Why start this when everything sounded righter than it has in days? He forces levity into his tone. “Don’t leave Nazyalensky waiting now. You’ll only give her more of an excuse to hit you with a thunderbolt.”

“Right,” Mal says, but there’s something off in his voice that Nikolai regrets putting there. “You should sleep for more than just an hour. You’re not fooling anyone here. I know this takes a lot out of you. It’s starting to show on your face.”

Nikolai’s eyes widen, feigning alarm as he twists to face Mal. “Are you saying that I’m less handsome today than I was yesterday?”

“You’re —” But Mal stops himself, even as Nikolai’s breath catches for a brief moment. It’s a joke, nothing more, but a sudden jab of insecurity needles its way into his side. He doesn’t feel like himself on these days when his body and mind turn on him so traitorously, but it feels equally foolish to look to Mal for comfort. What does he expect him to say? That he’s twice as handsome as the day before? Mal looks like he’s been caught in a trap, and Nikolai knows he needs to let him go.

“Don’t worry.” Nikolai turns up the corners of his mouth into a grin. “I’ll find my compliments elsewhere. Perhaps I’ll go riding in the city tomorrow and count how many fair maidens swoon at the sight of me mounted on my great white horse.”

But the tension doesn’t dissipate in the way he expects it to. He gets the oddest sensation that there’s something weighing on Mal’s mind, something pressed to the tip of his tongue that he’s reluctant to say. Nikolai almost doesn’t want to pursue it. What if he says he wants to leave?

“Out with it, Oretsev,” Nikolai says finally, ignoring the way his chest tightens. Mal’s gaze sharpens, like he’s just coming back to himself, and Nikolai feels Mal’s eyes traveling over the planes of his face, as tangible as a caress. His chest pulls tighter.

“It’s just…” Mal shakes his head. “You have a lot of people looking to you. Someone’s gotta tell you to take care of yourself.”

“Then thank the Saints I have you.” Nikolai holds his gaze for a moment longer, until his breath threatens to grow unsteady. He turns back around. “I’m touched, Oretsev.”

Mal snorts, opening the door, but his parting words are soft. “Sweet dreams.”

The room falls silent as Mal lets himself out, leaving Nikolai in the unpleasant company of his own thoughts. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth as if he can still taste the blood there, his heart beating entirely too fast while he runs his tongue along the edges of his teeth just to feel that they’re normal and not needle-sharp fangs. His cheeks feel too warm, and when he settles against the pillows he drags his hand down his face with a deep sigh, a frustrated groan filling the quiet.

He’s never been uncomfortable sleeping alone, and yet now he wishes absurdly that Mal would have stayed. Losing his trust in himself shakes him to his very foundation, but there’s something steady in Mal, something fixed and secure, and there was something in his gaze just now that has his scarred fingers wandering over his mouth, eyes closing, his chest falling around a troubled breath.

He doubts sleep will come.

My dearest Alina,

I wish you could talk back to me. Writing to you helps, it does, but I wish you could be the voice in my head, a guiding light in the dark, something, so there’s more than just the ache of my own thoughts and the pull of the shadows that never relents. It’s getting harder not to let it show that something’s wrong. Mal was right, but maybe he’s just spending too much time with me.

He comes to me every night now. I’ve all but memorized the way the shadows bounce across his face from the firelight in my sitting room, but that’s an odd thing to notice, isn’t it? Is it odd that every time I look into his eyes I feel like I’m being swept away to sea? I don’t know how to describe it. It’s almost like drowning, but a part of me is happy to do it.

And every night now, he chains me to my bed. Can you believe that it’s come to this? That I’m so much of a monster now that I can’t be trusted in the dark? I don’t tell him how much it frightens me. I don’t tell him that being restrained and left alone in my thoughts gets harder and harder to abide as the days pass. I think he knows, because he’ll sit and talk with me those nights — about nothing, really, just the events of the day or how his training with Zoya is going — he fancies her, I know it — but sometimes he’ll do things that just take me by surprise. Like examine the scars on my hand in the lamplight.

He was holding my hand when he asked me what makes me happy, and I didn’t know what to say. What makes me happy? You. Seeing Mal’s smile. Thinking of being on the sea. Not being in chains. But I didn’t say any of that to him. I said, “The way you’re looking at my hands right now and you don’t look repulsed makes me happy.” And then he looked at me like a rabbit caught in a snare, and I felt that same feeling from before. The one where I couldn’t breathe. Like the room was too small. In that moment I swear that I could hear Mal’s heartbeat, and it sounded so strong and so passionate, just as he is, but it also sounded so terribly sad.

I can still feel his hands. The way his fingers traced over every thread of darkness that I fear is getting worse by the day. It felt like a pledge. A promise. But for what, I don’t know.

Saints. I should burn this one.

Yours,
Nikolai

Maybe it’s the fatigue blooming beneath his eyes or the two different teacups accidentally dropped and broken on the floor this week. Maybe it’s the unspoken line of tension running taut along his spine and spreading across his shoulders, climbing higher and higher until his jaw locks and the space behind his eyes aches. Whatever pitiful manifestation of Nikolai’s frayed edges it is, it earns Mal’s notice.

“You need to get away,” Mal says as Nikolai slouches in a decidedly unkingly manner on his golden throne.

“Finally considering running off with me?” Nikolai flashes a tired smile, having attentively listened to speeches and graciously accepted gifts for the past two hours. The throne room is finally empty, though still overheated from the amount of bodies previously occupying the space.

“Depends. Would abdication mean you’d still be rich?”

“Is my money all that you’re concerned with? Have some care for your poor king’s heart, Oretsev.”

Mal grins faintly at him, and Nikolai pretends his heart doesn’t jump at the sight, tugging instead at the collar of his military jacket. Those fleeting smiles are more frequent now, but still feel like the first time every time.

“You’re free tonight,” Mal points out. “I know your schedule.”

“Indeed you do, but I wouldn’t say having to sign two-hundred best wishes cards constitutes as free.”

“Do them over dinner. I’ll keep you company. I’ll even sign some for you.”

“Forgery? Think of the scandal. Anyway, your penmanship is awful.”

“Whatever gets it done the quickest.”

Nikolai arches a skeptical brow, leaning back and plopping his cheek into one hand. “Just what are your plans, exactly?”

Mal hesitates for the briefest moment before — “Come with me to the fighting pits.”

“Saints.” He barks out a laugh, then pauses. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, I am. I think you need a night to relax.” Mal regards him critically. “And maybe I have some aggression I need to let out, too. How can you stand this all the time? Those speeches were slow torture, and why do people always give away valuable gifts to the ones who need them the least? Have they ever looked in the vague direction of an orphanage? Your throne is literally made of gold.”

“Tsibeyan gold, yes. It’s extremely uncomfortable, and you’re unfortunately right on the money.” Nikolai rubs his eyes as he talks. “You know I tire of these outdated traditions, but change takes time. It’s all a game of giving and taking, and sometimes you have to accept something you don’t want in order to get something else that you do.”

Mal shakes his head. “If I were you, I’d tell all these people to fuck off. And then I’d probably go crazy.”

“Who says I haven’t? The trick is in never letting it show.”

“Your tricks are slipping a bit, then.”

“Do I seem crazy?” Nikolai tilts his gaze at him. “A bit monstrous, maybe?”

The sunlight glints off the double eagle affixed to the top of the throne, and Nikolai watches Mal’s eyes glance at the reflection. He means it to be a joke, or at least he wishes it could be one, but it’s too close to the truth. Mal’s silence tells him that he knows that much as well.

“You don’t seem crazy,” Mal says finally, his voice a bit quieter. “You’re not crazy. But you do seem like you could use a night off from being a king.”

Nothing sounds better. His gloved fingers drum against the gleaming armrest, already far too attached to this idea than he should be. It’s a bad one, to be sure — his favorite kind.

“And who should I be?” Nikolai exhales softly and smiles. “As invigorating as it sounds, I’m not getting in the ring with you in front of such an ardent audience.”

“Don’t.” Mal’s grin returns, a slow bloom. “Just watch me.”

Arguing with Mal when he’s clearly made up his mind seems about as silly as arguing with himself. Especially when watching Mal is something that already takes up a fair amount of his interest.

He thinks that Mal thinks he has something to prove to him, but Nikolai is grateful enough for the reprieve that he couldn’t care less about any possible ulterior motives. Later, he’ll ponder them. Now, he simply wants to pretend for a few short hours that he isn’t caving under the pressure of being some sort of ghastly, monstrous king.

Genya tailors his hair a burnt red color and muddies the bright hazel of his eyes, though Nikolai still wears a gaudy hat and dresses like the common folk, but with a little extra tastelessness thrown in. It feels good to not be himself, like a chance to breathe again, like donning Sturmhond’s wild persona and the freedom that comes with it.

“I’m not your king tonight, Oretsev,” Nikolai says when Mal holds open the door of the coach for him. “Go on.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to respect you anymore?” Mal grins as he hoists himself inside, and Nikolai follows, drawing the door shut.

“Are you saying you respected me before? You have a dreadful way of showing it.”

The nondescript coach rumbles over the glittering streets of the capitol, their surroundings shifting the further away they get from the Grand Palace. The night still bustles with a flurry of activity, stalls and carts hawking their goods, aromatic smells wafting through the air. Mal taps the roof of the coach, the wheels coming to a stop outside of a particularly dingy side street still populated with revelers — these a bit more of the drunken, battered variety.

“Just follow me.” Mal pats Nikolai’s thigh with a flash of a smile as he ducks past him, springing open the door of the coach. Nikolai takes a deep, exaggerated breath once they’re on the street.

“I’ve missed this smell. It’s atrocious. Is that defecation?”

“If you don’t look at it, then it’s almost like it’s not there.” Mal beckons him along, and they pass through the alley to a deep set door furthest from the street. As soon as it opens Nikolai can hear the thrum of manic energy and the dull roar of a bloodthirsty audience. Mal exchanges a brief word with the doorman before stepping inside, and Nikolai tips his hat with a cheery smile as he passes.

“So this is where you sneak off to at night,” Nikolai muses, arching his brow at the animated crowd and busy ring that come into view as they descend a long flight of uneven stairs. “Shackle your king and then punch someone bloody. Your methods of relaxation are a bit crude, but I’ll dole out a bit of grudging approval.”

“Zoya comes too, sometimes. We tag team a lot.”

Nikolai can’t help his grimace. “That’s a bit unfair for everyone else, isn’t it? You’re both my top two, though I have to be honest and say she does outclass you.”

“Zoya outclasses everyone.” Mal grins fondly as they approach the bar, where he leans over to retrieve a bottle of something that smells like cheap, watered down vodka, speaking quickly to the bartender as he points to one of the shelves. “No grisha power allowed, though. That helps.”

“Sounds limiting,” Nikolai remarks.

“Sounds like a better chance of not dying.”

“For you? Yes.”

Mal turns, four shot glasses balanced on a scarred tray. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Just drink it.”

Nikolai lifts the glass to his lips, giving Mal a sidelong look. “You’ll miss me if I die.”

“Fuck,” Mal says, his brow knitting as he lifts his own glass. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Mmm.” Nikolai shrugs, knocking back the shot and welcoming the warm burn down his throat, cheap as it might be. Mal immediately hands him another, and Nikolai takes this one with less appreciation for the acrid taste. “Are you hazing me?”

“I’m drinking the same thing.” Mal claps a hand to his shoulder and steers him away from the bar, the bottle and two cups clutched precariously in his other hand. Nikolai reaches for a cup and has Mal pour him a bit to taste, grimacing around the swallow as they snag a tiny table with no chairs by the wall.

“I don’t know if I should be offended or not that you waited this long to include me in your apparent festivities. This is possibly the worst drink I’ve ever had. Worse than the shots by far.”

Mal follows suit with his drink. “I told you. You looked like your head was gonna explode. This will relax you.”

“I sincerely hope I look better than that now.”

“You do,” Mal answers almost reflexively. “Way better.”

Nikolai trains his eyes on him, ignoring the irritating flutter in his chest, and Mal glances up and seems to backtrack.

“I mean —” Mal snags his cup, taking a quick gulp. “Your hair looks stupid and I don’t like your eyes like that. But you look calmer.”

He laughs abruptly, savoring the feeling. “I see. So you like me better as a blond. I’m honestly shocked you even noticed my eyes.”

“They’re pretty distinctive,” Mal mumbles. “You can’t really see the gold in them now.”

“A shame. The world weeps when I have to disguise my beauty.”

“It comes out more with the fire. The gold parts.” Mal pauses, then reaches over to tip up the brim of Nikolai’s wide hat, lifting the shadows from his tailored eyes. “Genya did a good job. They look empty. It’s almost creepy.”

He blinks, his gaze focused on Mal while his thoughts wander along the implications of his statement. It comes out more with the fire. Does he watch him, too? Does he memorize the lines of his face when they share their company in his sitting room? Does he think it odd as well? Nikolai brings his drink to his mouth, swallowing without tasting a thing.

“I assure you, behind the tailoring, all of my natural shimmer and wit still twinkle somewhere in that lost gold.” With a smile, he holds his glass to Mal. “To my eyes.”

Mal grins back with a slight roll of his own eyes, knocking his glass to his. “To the real ones.”

“You can admire them in the morning when you unchain me.”

“Should I recite poetry to them, too?”

“What an excellent suggestion, Oretsev.” Nikolai beams. “Something Kaelish, I hope? I love to feel indigestion early in the morning.”

It’s easy to blend in when the drinks are cheap but plentiful, although Mal indulges a bit too much, to the point that Nikolai begins to doubt how he’ll fare in the ring. He pushes his cup to Mal for more, watching as he tips in the abominable vodka with a clumsy slosh, a few drops sliding down the side of the glass. Nikolai doesn’t move to help. If he spills it all over the table it’ll likely be better for him in the morning and he doubts anyone will notice or care.

Still, he finds that he is enjoying the moment, despite the bad alcohol and the unsavory smells. Mal was right. Getting away from the palace, even for just one evening, is a good thing. Getting away with Mal makes it a perfect thing. Nikolai savors the familiarity between them, the genuine camaraderie that’s somehow become comfortable, whether they’re sitting in the firelight or standing in a crowd that doesn’t care to look at either of them. He’s not a king in this moment, and he’s not weighed down by obligations and appearances and tendrils of ever-present darkness. He’s simply Nikolai, and Mal isn’t his guard tonight. He’s just a boy that Nikolai wants to share another drink with in the hopes of once again catching that brilliant smile.

“Being able to walk in a straight line can only benefit you in a brawl, you know,” Nikolai remarks, staying on the side of pleasantly buzzed for Mal’s sake. The smirk Mal gives him warms his face a half-degree.

“Those rumors don’t exist for nothing,” Mal says above the din. “You know, I kinda wish it was you up there. I’d like to knock you on your ass sometime.”

“If it’s a fight you’re looking for, I’d be more than happy to indulge your fantasies.” Nikolai grins — genuinely. “It just may not go the way you want it to. I’ll have to politely request that we don’t have an audience, either.”

“Private show. Got it.” Mal drains his cup, then begins to strip off his shirt. “I asked Zoya what your weaknesses are.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any. It’s the only thing I don’t excel at.”

Mal snorts, mussing his hair as he pulls his undershirt over his head. “That’s not what she said.”

“Intriguing.” Nikolai immediately starts to feel himself hyperfixate on what intel she possibly could have leaked about him, but his expression remains serene. “Nazyalensky is the sort to feed false information to others. Her ruthless cunning is unmatched. It’s one of her most admirable traits and a personal favorite of mine.”

“I don’t know. I’d say she knows you pretty well.”

“I’d say she knows you better.”

Mal glances at him curiously as if waiting for an elaboration before he rolls his shoulders, his muscles bunching beneath the bronze of his skin. The sight of his expansive tattoo sends an unbidden ache through Nikolai’s heart, lifting his hand to trace the ancient Ravkan text with gloved fingers. Mal shivers suddenly beneath his touch.

“Watch me,” Mal says brusquely, taking off for the ring. Nikolai does just that, wandering a few paces to lean his elbows against the dirty metal railing, his hat pulled low over his eyes and his drink dangling from one hand. Mal’s opponent is a broad, heavy fellow, and despite having seen Mal’s impressive physical prowess on many occasions, Nikolai still finds that his nerves refuse to entirely settle. Maybe it’s because he still thinks, from time to time, of why Mal started all of this to begin with. His relationship with Alina was already splintered by the time Nikolai met the two of them. Mal hated being at the palace and would look for any excuse and every excursion to be away. He was hurting back then, albeit in a different way than he’s hurting now, but it’s hurt all the same, and Nikolai finds that he’s bothered by these old habits because he doesn’t think any of them actually help. Had it helped back then? He has his doubts.

But his own desire to come to his aid feels just as useless when he doesn’t know how to translate it into action. Nikolai doesn’t need these violent outlets. He can temper his rage and his sorrow so that it sits idle beneath his skin — a weight, to be sure, but he isn’t one to lose control. He isn’t one to throw himself into a ring and hope that his fists will solve what he’s feeling. Mal bounces on his feet, his expression sharp and his eyes glinting in the dim light, and from here Nikolai can’t tell if it’s pleasure or torment that he sees there.

Mal moves like a predator. Objectively, Nikolai can appreciate his form, the fluidity of his movements, his expert technique, the trickle of sweat at his temples. But as the sound of flesh against flesh thuds more and more, as red blooms at Mal’s mouth and then across his knuckles, Nikolai can’t help but think how much this looks like a man at his wit’s end. The scar over Mal’s heart is healed but still fresh, and for a moment Nikolai wonders what that might have felt like, to feel a blade pierce straight through a still-beating heart, pushed in by someone who already owned the whole of it. Which is worse? The blade or knowing the hand that did it?

The loud clanging of a bell pulls him from his thoughts, the crowd screaming around him. The heavy fellow is down and Mal’s hand is in the air, his shoulders rising and falling around the force of his breath, and he’s grinning. His expression is cruelly satisfied — relaxed, even. The opposite of what Nikolai feels at nearly every moment of the day. He pushes off the railing and gets stuck in the teeming crowd, and despite needing to lay low, he draws himself up as he normally would when he wants to command a room, cutting a path back to the table.

A line of tension begins down his spine, but it’s nothing he hadn’t already predicted. This is a temporary sort of relief, far too fleeting beneath his personal brand of crushing pressure.

Someone barrels into him, and his eyes flash with annoyance as he turns, but his temper ebbs when he sees that it’s Mal. He releases a quick breath, schooling his features back to pleasantry.

“I dare say the blood looks good on you,” Nikolai says, allowing Mal to nab his drink and swallow the remainder down all at once. Mal exhales heavily, wiping the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth and then shoving his unruly hair from his eyes.

“It’d look better on you.” Mal’s bright blue eyes meet his, holding his gaze, and Nikolai begins to wonder if he does that on purpose precisely because he knows he can’t resist a staring match. Predictably, Mal looks away first, shrugging his clothes back on.

“Are you saying you want to punch me, Oretsev?” Nikolai grins widely as they separate from the crowd, spectators thronging forward as the second match gets underway. “You’re drunk, which means you’re telling the truth.”

“Punch you. Shove you under a coach. Accidentally push you into the river. My fantasies have no limits.”

“That last one won’t work. I’m an excellent swimmer.”

Mal scoffs. “You can’t be good at everything. It’s not normal.”

“And yet I am,” Nikolai says, studying Mal’s face. From here he can see that the satisfaction has faded, perhaps just as fleeting as Nikolai’s own ease. Mal almost looks like he wants to go another round. The dark hair framing his face curls with sweat, his skin lit briefly with the dingy gleam of light above them, and Nikolai wants to remove his gloves and slide his bare fingers through his damp locks. The sudden urge sends a flicker of alarm through him.

“All right, then. What about this?” Mal fists the lapels of Nikolai’s teal overcoat, pinning him to the wall with an abrupt shove. Nikolai isn’t worried about the thought of violence, and the crowd is far too preoccupied to pay them any mind. But there’s something else in Mal’s eyes that he’s far more concerned with, something that this brutality brings out of him, as if in his quest to drown out his pain he’s brought it forward instead.

“If you’re going to hit me,” Nikolai says coolly, “I’ll have you know that I sincerely look forward to returning the favor. I’m well suited to all forms of confrontation.”

“Would you return this?”

That’s all the warning he gets before Mal leans in to press a crushingly hard kiss to his mouth, edged in teeth and blood, and Nikolai’s stomach drops, his eyes sliding shut as his gloved hand curls into Mal’s shirt. There’s nothing comfortable about the sudden desperation that sparks between them. It’s searing. It’s overwhelming. Mal tastes like copper and cheap alcohol, but beneath that his lips are so warm, so alive, without a vestige of darkness there, like Alina has left traces of the sun right in his mouth.

Nikolai’s hand tightens, jerking Mal away with a sharp inhale.

“Mal —”

“There,” Mal says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the corner of Nikolai’s mouth. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that Mal’s blood is smeared across his lips; he can taste it just fine.

“Mal —”

“It does look good on you.”

Grasping Nikolai’s wrist, Mal frees his shirt from his grip and then drops his hand, turning to the short hallway and bounding up the stairs to kick the door open. Nikolai doesn’t immediately follow, watching Mal disappear while his heart races uneasily, his lips feeling singed. With the sleeve of his coat he wipes his mouth harshly, then straightens his hat and goes after Mal, ducking through the door and entering the busy street lined with carts and stalls manned by artisans, traders, cooks, and everything in between, selling to citizens and whichever unlucky tourists might be visiting Ravka at the tail end of a civil war.

Nikolai has loved the night markets since he was a child, fascinated by the wooden figures and contraptions that somehow moved as if with magic, but quickly developing an interest in the small sciences instead, which was its own particular brand of magic already. He remembers wanting everything, from hand-fashioned toys to bits of glass made smooth by the sea, and even now he distinctly recalls the taste of candied apples and how he’d made a mess in his pocket trying to sneak a piece home for Dominik to try.

There was only one thing he’s never liked, and somehow that particular cart was always set up, every single night without fail, and — Saints, there’s Mal.

“This isn’t her.” Mal slams his scraped hands onto the cart selling bits and pieces of bones, claiming they belonged to various saints and still held some of their power. Nikolai has a clear view of the emblem of the Sun Summoner hanging above the cart, Sankta Alina carved into the wood. When he gets closer he sees beside it a chiseled moon in eclipse. The Starless Saint. He ignores the rush of disquiet it sends through him, pushing forward.

Mal hardly registers his presence, his bloody mouth twisted with scorn and grief. He snatches the man by the collar, nearly dragging him across the cart, though Nikolai steps in before he can inflict further damage.

“Oretsev,” he snaps, watching Mal’s spine stiffen at the word, as if they’re back in the First Army, as if Nikolai is his commanding officer. Mal huffs out a breath, loosening his grip to snatch a handful of finger bones and hurl them into the street before he kicks the front wheel of the cart, knocking several spokes loose.

“Are you coming here to defend this?” Mal swings his gaze at him, his eyes rimmed in red. “Those aren’t her bones. That’s not her. And what gives him the fucking right?”

“The law, actually,” Nikolai replies, keeping his voice impartial. “He can sell whatever he wants, as long as it’s not people. Living people.”

Mal stares at him incredulously, barking out an ugly laugh. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Oh, Mal.” Nikolai smiles thinly, an edge sneaking into his tone. “Do you really think you can handle the truth right now?”

“Is this really what you want to do?” Mal’s voice drops, and Nikolai hates how he’ll remember the barely perceptible tremor in it. “I know you don’t like this.”

Indeed, he doesn't. “Considering your impulsive decisions are multiplied tenfold after this many drinks and unfortunate knocks to the head, I think it’s time we call it a night.”

“I’m not going anywhere until those fucking bones are gone.”

“Mal —”

“There aren’t any bones.” Mal turns back to the cart, his arms spread. “There aren’t any fucking bones. There’s nothing left of Alina, because you —”

Burned her body, alongside the Darkling’s.

The memory of acrid smoke suddenly fills his lungs, choking him now just as it did then. He remembers standing stone-faced beside Zoya, remembers Genya’s gut-wrenching sobs, remembers the unbearable pressure of not allowing himself to cry because in mere minutes he was going to stake his claim to the throne. He remembers barely feeling human. And he remembers that Mal wasn’t even conscious for it, robbed of his final chance to say goodbye.

But Mal never gets the words out, because Nikolai steps forward, jerking Mal towards him and then slamming his fist across his face with enough force that Mal stumbles back several paces. Nikolai draws in a slow, unsteady breath, uncurling his hand, a smear of blood across the leather of his knuckles. He wishes Mal would look at him with cold ire instead of the way he’s looking at him now — like a bruised, wounded animal, fresh blood on his mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mal asks, his voice breaking. It feels like a blow, and Nikolai nearly flinches.

Saints. If only I knew, he thinks.

“For your troubles.” He reaches into his pocket for a heavy coin, tossing it at the trader before he grasps Mal’s arm firmly, hauling him away from the cart and off of the street. Once they’ve ducked into a back alley Mal shakes him off, and Nikolai releases him without protest.

“You burned her body. Without me,” Mal grates out, pushing his hair from his eyes. “And you expect me to just look at that shit? And be okay with it? There was nothing left of her. Nothing.”

“I expect you to not attack a citizen in the streets,” Nikolai responds evenly, keeping his voice cold with an extraordinary amount of effort. This anger from Mal is deserved, and he doesn’t shy away from it. It’s one of his heartfelt regrets that Mal never had the chance for closure. Nikolai might’ve felt numb watching the flames dance over Alina’s pyre, but at least he had a glimpse at all.

“How do you not feel anything?” Mal demands hoarsely, whirling around and pacing unsteadily in the dank alley. “What the hell is wrong with you, Nikolai? You say shit like everything's fine. Every word so perfectly fucking planned out. Not a hair out of place, not a single misstep. You have something to say about everything, but nothing about what actually matters. Do you even give a shit about any of this?”

A roar rises in his ears, and he swears a tide is going to come out of nowhere to sweep him and Mal and everyone else in this wretched country far enough beneath the ocean that he never has to give a shit about this or anything else ever again. For once he doesn’t want to hold Mal’s gaze. There’s far too much anguish swimming there.

He wants to say don’t ask me that or of course I give a shit or how can you not see how close I am to falling apart, but he says none of those things, instead hardening his expression because if he doesn’t he’s going to crack, and he can’t break here. Especially when there seems to be no stopping Mal no matter what he might say.

Mal ceases his pacing, his breath jagged, and Nikolai bites the edge of his bottom lip, still tasting the salt of Mal’s blood there. He knows what’s coming next. He can feel it in every unsteady breath Mal takes. This pain is nearly enough to topple a man.

“I came back from the dead,” Mal says, his face crumpling. “And she was just gone. She was the only person I wanted to see. The only one.”

Nikolai shuts his eyes, his brow tightening. It feels like he’s swallowing glass, each shard etched with a regret that he will never be able to make right. Alina was already gone, and yet he still feels like he took her from Mal, a snap decision made while he was still trembling from the cold shadows in his veins, not quite trusting the sands beneath his feet after the nauseating terror of plummeting from the sky. They were all bloody, all bruised, all reeling from the shock of death. In that moment he was sure that Mal was gone, too. There just wasn’t time.

When he looks at Mal again he finds that he’s sunk to the ground with his back to the wall, his bloodied hands pressed over his face. Nikolai can’t move right away, a cold vice clamped around his lungs while his eyes prickle with an uncomfortable heat. Mal lets out a muffled sob, his shoulders trembling as he drops his head to his knees. The sound cuts straight through him.

Let him be, he thinks, but then a harsh shudder runs through him, jerking something loose that makes him close the distance and drop to one knee before Mal. Sorrow threads its way around his heart like a swiftly-growing vine, like he’s suddenly given it the attention it needed all along to blossom.

“How am I supposed to do this without her?” Mal asks brokenly, his voice muffled.

“Mal,” Nikolai says in barely a whisper, because any louder and his voice will give out altogether. It’s a question he doesn’t have an answer for. “I miss her, too.”

A heavy silence passes before Mal lifts his head, wiping his bloodshot eyes with the back of his hand. Nikolai feels trapped by his gaze, an insect drawn to a flame. Saints, his heart hurts enough that he’d cut it out in a blink, a desperate attempt to stop this feeling.

“I know.” The blue in Mal’s eyes somehow shine even brighter like this, catching the meager light from the nearby stalls. He blows out a loud breath, the back of his head thumping against the wall. “Everything is so… heavy. Without her.”

“Yes,” Nikolai says quietly, blinking away the flames that keep replaying through his mind. “It is.”

Mal shuts his eyes again, his face wet. “I just want her back. Even if it’s just for a minute.”

Silence befalls them as Nikolai finally manages to look away, his chest rising around a deep inhale. A profound sense of guilt fills his broken cracks, that he wasn’t there, not really, not as himself. Nikolai the prince might’ve pulled off a miracle, but Nikolai the monster wasn’t enough — and if he’s honest with himself, none of his carefully crafted personas have ever felt like enough.

His boots scrape the ground as he shifts, turning to sit beside Mal with his back against the wall. Their shoulders press together, and even when Mal lowers his head into his arms again, he makes no move to pull away. Instead Mal moves a fraction of an inch closer, not speaking, not looking at him, but there are no words or expressions that could pass between them that might make this moment more bearable. Nikolai tugs his hat off, letting it dangle from one hand as he leans back, every tremor that runs through Mal reverberating through his own heart.

Closing his eyes, he composes the words in his head to a letter that perhaps he shouldn’t ever write.

My dearest Alina,

Mal kissed me today. He was drunk and badly missing you. Saints, Alina, what I wouldn’t give to have you back. He’s drowning, and I feel like I am, too.

I know it meant nothing. But when he kissed me, it felt like your sunlight was on his tongue. It burned, but I wanted it to. I’m desperate for that light. It’s so dark in here, Alina, and just for a moment it wasn’t. There has been no respite from this until now.

I want him to kiss me again and again. I want him. I want Mal.

He says I’m not crazy. I think he’s wrong.

Yours,
Nikolai

Upon returning to the palace, Mal takes off to his own quarters — or at least that’s what Nikolai initially thinks, but he quickly sees him make the turn toward Zoya’s instead. He lets him go without comment, ignoring the tightness in his chest and retiring to his chambers to peel away his gaudy outfit and wash Genya’s handiwork from his hair. A reddish sheen remains even after scrubbing it clean, just like how no amount of scrubbing can erase the burning press of Mal’s lips against his. He tries to spit out the taste of blood and cheap beer from the fighting pits, and after so many failures in the span of just a few minutes, Nikolai goes to his desk in his sitting room to go over the revised trading routes to Fjerda. He doesn’t want to sleep because he knows what that will bring — not just the prospect of monsters and murder, but also the memory of Mal’s mouth. Right now both sound equally unappealing to him.

He calls for tea, and when the door opens he’s expecting a servant. Instead there’s Mal in the doorway, changed into clean clothes and free of blood, although the darkening bruises along his cheekbone and jaw ruin the effect. There’s a brief exchange of words outside the door, and then Mal enters with a teapot and cups balanced on a gilded tray.

“We need to talk,” Mal says, setting the tray on Nikolai’s desk.

Nikolai makes a half-hearted attempt to hide his grimace. “Do we?”

“Yes. We do.”

“All right, then.” Nikolai raps his pencil over the pages before him. “We need to make a trip to Fjerda.”

Mal expression grows wary. “What? That’s not what we need to talk about.”

“Perhaps that’s not what’s weighing on your mind, but I need to survey these trade routes in person. I can’t remain in the capitol forever.”

“So —” Mal perches on the edge of an armchair. “You want to go to Fjerda, chain yourself up at night, and hope that no one kills you?”

“I was thinking more of a sleeping tonic. Anyway, you’ll be there.”

“Fjerdans don’t like you.”

“Fjerdans don’t like anyone.”

Mal leans back with a noisy sigh. “Send someone else. That trip takes too many days and you know it.”

“Not with this. Not with Fjerda.” Nikolai turns over a teacup to pour himself some tea. “You know as well as I do that Fjerdans require a firm hand. They’d love to find a crack to slip through to move against Ravka. An ambassador won’t do. Besides, there is so little that’s lovely there. The people deserve the opportunity to admire my face.”

“Does Zoya know about this stupid plan?”

Nikolai doesn’t blink. “Not yet, but she will. She’s coming with us.”

“Oh, good. Because Fjerdans love grisha, too.” Mal frowns, leaning forward again and resting his elbows on his thighs. “I don’t like it. Something’s gonna go wrong.”

“Things have been going wrong for quite some time now. We’ve managed, and we’ll continue to do so. Would you like a cup?” Nikolai meets his gaze at that while he takes a sip of hot tea — chamomile and honey and a hint of sweet fruit, a sign that the kitchen staff thinks he needs more sleep. He does. Mal cuts his eyes toward the pot.

“No.”

“Disappointed it’s not the watered down travesty from earlier?”

“No,” Mal grouses. “I’m fine.”

“A joke? At this hour? From you?” Nikolai lifts his cup toward him, holding it by its gilded rim in one scarred hand. “You’ve cleaned up well, I’ll give you that much.”

Mal gives him a stare that might’ve drilled a new hole in his head. “I came here to apologize.”

“Did you now? You’re making a bit of a habit of it, don’t you think?”

Silence descends, and Nikolai watches Mal rub tiredly at his eyes. They both need sleep, but it seems Mal is plagued with the same restlessness he feels in his bones.

“I shouldn’t have —” Mal stops, his hand still over his face. Nikolai waits, keeping completely still, but nothing comes but a loud exhale of breath.

“You shouldn’t have what?”

Mal lowers his head, carding his hands through his hair, and Nikolai feels a bit of his patience wear away. He doesn’t want to do this, not when he knows Mal isn’t going to say anything he wants to hear. He can’t. He shouldn’t. Nikolai is in no position for reciprocity and even less in the mood for it.

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, Oretsev,” Nikolai says, turning back to his reports.

“Are you mad at me?” Mal’s tone has the audacity to sound a touch too close to incredulous.

Nikolai sets his cup down, misjudging his force. Tea nearly spills over the edge. It’s unusual for him to be so clumsy, easily wearing the guise of self-possession even when he feels anything but. Tonight feels different, as if it’s accomplished the exact opposite of what Mal set out to do. The very air feels grating against his skin. Maybe his head really will explode and Mal can watch the pretty gold flecks in his eyeballs go rolling across the floor. The corner of his mouth curls into a mirthless grin.

“Why would I be mad at you?” He refuses to look at him, flipping blindly through the papers before him as he makes an attempt to swallow his ire. It can’t have been more than an hour or two since Mal was crying in the alley, since Nikolai punched him, since Mal kissed him. Saints, he doesn’t have the energy for any of this. He pinches the bridge of his nose, briefly closing his eyes. This night feels like it’s been dragging on for a hundred forsaken years.

Mal’s voice drops. “I can think of a few reasons.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. Saints, Nikolai, can you stop?”

“Stop what, exactly?” Nikolai finally looks up, all pretenses of his glib demeanor vanishing. Mal’s eyes still hold traces of red, and Nikolai drops his gaze to the bruises beginning across the cut of his cheek. Bruises from his fist. He didn’t have to hit him that hard. “What is it that you want me to do, Mal? Let your anger spill over to whoever you want it to? Would you like me to put out a royal decree that the people may no longer sell any likeness of the Sun Summoner because it sends you into a spiral? These people have been terrorized. Their tokens are a comfort to them, no matter how ridiculous you or I may find them. It’s no different from how you find comfort in a bloody ring or a warm mouth. Or profoundly cheap drinks.”

Mal sucks in a breath, his gaze darkening. “It’s not comfort. It’s just — familiar. It’s stability.”

“That’s comfort, you oaf. I do love a good brawl, but you take it a bit far.”

“Easy to cast judgment when you’re you. You’re immovable. Anchored in your own self-assurance and conviction. I doubt anyone has ever seen you break.”

Nikolai barks out a laugh, edged with a sudden and profound loneliness. “Do you even see me, Mal? Have ever even seen me?”

“I’ve seen you,” Mal replies immediately, his quiet voice ushering silence into the room. Nikolai leans forward, resting an elbow on the table as he drags his knuckles across his mouth. Why did you kiss me, he wants to ask, and why did it feel like I was being uprooted from the earth?

“There isn’t anyone in the whole of the Grand Palace that’s seen me,” Nikolai finally says, pulling a hand through his hair before he rests his forehead against the heel of his palm, eyes closing. “Just Alina.”

“Yeah.” Mal’s voice sounds far away, a tired breath escaping his lips. “She was good at that, wasn’t she? She saw through my bullshit, too.”

“I resent the implication that my naturally gifted and incredibly appealing charm resides in the same family as your dour bullshit.”

“I’m not dour.”

“You most certainly are.” Nikolai turns his head to give Mal a glance, shifting his hand to his cheek. “At least you are now. I’m told you were once funny and charming, too.”

“Told by who?”

“Nazyalensky. She regaled me with tales of your excellent bedroom adventures back in the day. Although I believe tent adventures are more accurate.”

“Saints,” Mal sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “That was so long ago. Before — everything. Before I realized how much more Alina was to me than just my best friend.”

“Don’t explain it away on my account,” Nikolai says, ignoring the sudden heaviness that settles squarely in his chest. “You’re allowed to want other people.”

Mal’s gaze meets his at that, something suddenly nervous swimming amongst all that blue. He thinks he catches a glimpse of guilt. Nikolai eases out a breath once Mal looks away.

“Yeah. I guess.” Mal straightens, glancing behind him at the doors to his bedchamber. “Are you going to bed?”

His eyes feel sandy with exhaustion, nearing the point that he has to read every sentence twice to comprehend its meaning. He picks up his tea, settling back in his chair and trying to forget that peculiar look in Mal’s eyes.

“I’m sure you know why I don’t want to,” Nikolai says, bringing the cup to his lips. “I’d rather just dream while I’m awake.”

“Do you dream?”

“Of course I dream, Oretsev. Are you sure you see me as a human being? I realize I’m more impressive than most, but don’t insult me. I had a very nice dream about being gifted a white pony just last night. It came with jewels in its mane that I then sold for ammunition, I think. Perhaps this was Sturmhond’s dream.”

“Shut up,” Mal mutters. “That’s not what I meant. I mean — when you… when you turn, do you remember all of it?”

“Do I have nightmares of my time as my uninvited guest is what you’re asking.”

“Yeah,” Mal says slowly, hesitating. “Do you?”

A heavy pause settles between them. Nikolai looks idly at a map pinned to the wall, lines leading to Fjerda scribbled in pencil.

“It’s so damnably cold there,” Nikolai says under his breath.

“Where?”

“Fjerda. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a drüskelle smile. It’s almost as if I should take this on as a personal challenge.”

The chair creaks slightly as Mal stands. “Yeah, okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not particularly. But — yes, I do. Have nightmares.” Nikolai rises with his teacup, abandoning his work for the night and following Mal to his bedchambers. “I have to say, waking in chains is perhaps one of my least favorite repeated experiences.”

The chains in question clink when Mal lifts one of the cuffs in his scraped hand. This isn’t new. Mal has locked him in every night since David fashioned the abominable things, and so far they’ve held. They do their job almost too well, and Nikolai wears the bruises on his wrists to prove it.

“I could stay,” Mal says, eyes pointed at the chains. Nikolai waits for the rest of that particular thought, and after a moment Mal continues unhelpfully. “I could stay the night.”

“Propositioning your king, Oretsev?” Nikolai’s brow quirks up as he takes an exaggerated slurp of his tea even as his heart seems to falter in its steady rhythm. Why did you kiss me? “It’s a shame you can’t give me an heir.”

Mal grimaces slightly. “I mean I could stay and watch you. So you don’t have to sleep in chains.”

“And what will you do when I try to nibble an organ or three?”

“You mentioned a sleeping tonic.”

“An untested one, yes. I doubt Genya will rise at this hour to finish it just because you want to have a sleepover. Don’t worry, we’re still going to Fjerda. It’ll be ready by then.”

“I can take your beast on,” Mal says evenly. Nikolai wants to laugh, wants to brush his cocksure proclamation off and pretend like it doesn’t make him feel anything, but he can’t find it in him to do so. Saints, he’s so fucking tired, and he doesn’t think Mal has any idea just how much he wants to give into him. He could stay. He could watch over him. Maybe Nikolai would have the chance to sleep without feeling like the monster he is.

“No,” is all he says, swallowing the last of his tea.

“Nikolai —”

“No, Mal. I won’t hear it. The monster craves human flesh and blood. You all should count yourselves lucky that the only other thing it seems to want to do is escape the bloody palace instead of stalking the halls and eating the servants.”

“I’ve tracked this thing all over Os Alta,” Mal argues, his brow furrowing. “I’m the head of your fucking guard, Nikolai. This is what I’m here for. For you.”

“Yes, you are, and I’d like you to stay that way instead of ending up as another eternal regret of mine.” Nikolai’s jaw tenses, eyes flicking up to glance at Mal. When did that happen, he wants to ask. When did it become for me and not Alina?

“I’m just saying,” Mal mutters. “You’re not alone in this.”

Then why does it feel like I am?

He brushes past Mal to slide onto his bed, exhaling heavily as he leans back against his downy pillows and draws the covers up. “You know, I’d want to spend the night with me too if it meant I could sleep on top of a cloud like this. It’s an exquisite feeling. Combined with my handsome face? Devastating combination.”

Mal grunts as a non-acknowledgment, and Nikolai holds out his scarred hands, his loose sleeves falling away to reveal the mottled bruises circling his wrists. He watches the way Mal’s face darkens as his eyes pass over them.

“Goodness, Mal. I should’ve never told you I hated them so much.” Nikolai snaps his fingers with his right hand. “I appreciate the admiration, but I don’t have all night. It’s late enough as it is.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Mal says, finally lifting the cuff and securing it carefully around one wrist. There’s just barely enough space for the edge of Mal’s thumb to slide beneath the metal, swiping gently over the bruises at the inside of his wrist as if his touch can make them disappear. Nikolai swallows, stifling the shiver that travels along his spine. The pad of Mal’s thumb is calloused where it rests right above his quickening pulse, just the perfect amount of rough to feel pleasant against his skin.

“Unbelievable. Remarkable. Phenomenally charming.” Nikolai forces the words out, winking as Mal closes the second cuff around his other wrist and pulls the key from around his neck, locking both into place. “There are so many words to describe me, it’s hard to choose.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“It’s true that I can be vexing.”

Mal lets out a quiet sigh, the faintest of smiles briefly lifting the corner of his mouth. Nikolai watches his expression shift, growing wary at the sudden softness he finds there. It goes poorly with the bruise blooming across the cut of his cheek. He doesn’t want to see it when it brings an unwelcome tug at his own weakness.

“What?” Nikolai asks, his tone sharper than intended.

Mal shakes his head. “Your eyes are almost back.”

“My —” He blinks, suddenly feeling stupid, and it comes as a shock. He never feels stupid. Saints, he’s never needed a conversation to end this badly before — and he has sat through far more than his fair share of unwanted conversations. “Well. I should hope so.”

“They’re way better like this.”

He’s never struggled through such a lengthy discussion about his eyes before, either. Nikolai tries to stop fixating on how abruptly aware he is of how many times he blinks. Did he always do that? Maybe this is just another part of his sanity crumbling away. The acceptance of flattery is supposed to be his strong suit, but here he is, stumbling like he isn’t the most handsome man to walk into any room.

“Don’t forget the Kaelish poetry,” he finally says, feeling neither clever nor enthused.

Mal huffs out a chuckle. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“I certainly hope so. You’re the one with the key.” Nikolai shifts, the chains rattling as he attempts to get comfortable. “I’ll hopefully be right where you left me.”

“You better be. I’m not gonna look for you if you go missing again.”

Nikolai relaxes, his eyes closing. This is more familiar. “You’d leave me wandering the woods naked and half in a daze?”

“Yes. Make friends with the wild boars.” Mal’s footsteps sound across the room, then a quick puff of breath as he blows out the candles burning at the table. “At least then your Fjerdan vacation will get canceled.”

“Not a chance. Make sure you find a warm coat.”

Mal snorts, opening the door. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

Nikolai waits until he hears the heavy door close before he opens his eyes, his tired gaze settling on the ceiling. The chains are cumbersome when he lifts his hand to run his knuckles over his lips, the searing heat of Mal’s mouth flooding his senses once more. It tastes like blood. Like the salt of the sea. It tastes like something he desperately misses but doesn’t believe he should have again. He wants it and doesn’t in the same breath, caught in a web he never even saw coming.

What if he’d let Mal stay? Would Mal have kissed him again, this time bloodless, without the rush of a breaking dam of grief? Would Nikolai have allowed him into his bed? Would he have stroked his bare fingertips down the sharp cut of Mal’s jaw, tracing that scar and memorizing the feel of his skin? His eyes press shut, feeling the weight of his own irons tenfold tonight.

More likely, if he had allowed him to stay, his beast would have killed him.

My dearest Alina,

Mal still believes this trip to Fjerda is a bad idea, and if I’m being quite honest, he’s likely right. The time to experiment with a sleeping tonic isn’t when you’re in enemy territory, but something in me is compelled to go. If you’ve been reading all of these, Alina, you know I’m half mad at this point. The thought of staying in the palace with no reprieve will drive me the rest of the way there. I need something for Ravka to keep me going. I need to feel like I’m useful again, that I’m not losing my mind and losing my grip on all the work I’ve put into this country.

Maybe I just need the distraction. I can hardly stand to be around Mal, but at the same time I can’t abide being apart. We’ve settled back into things, but nothing feels the same. It felt like progress before. Now it just feels like I’m seasick all the time, like the ground won’t stop swaying beneath my feet.

We haven’t talked about what happened. Not really. Not the part that I keep poring over, the part that keeps replaying in my head every time I close my eyes. I hate what this is doing to me. I hate wanting this. It’s not in my nature to plead for anything to anyone, but sometimes all I want to do is get on my knees and beg him to make all of this make sense. I don’t want to stay up thinking about him anymore. I don’t want to feel drawn to his eyes and I don’t want the pace of my heart to quicken so much that it hurts.

I want to stop, but I can’t. I’ve never been able to, Alina. My entire life has been a forward propulsion to greater and greater ambitions, and each time I seize one, something else takes its place. What will it take to make me stop? When can I just stop? Exhaustion is hardly a word anymore. It’s a simple and constant state of being, and just because I know how to work through it doesn’t mean it doesn’t take its toll. I want to be content with what we have, this understanding of friendship verging on more but never quite tipping over, but I look at Mal and know that I can’t. I can’t look at him and not want him.

I wish you were here. I wish we were sitting by the lake again. I wish I was that young and stupid once more, proposing marriage to you, believing in those improbable possibilties. I wouldn’t take it back even now. I still miss you.

I’m so tired and I want so much, but perhaps this is the thing I can’t have. Not with you and not with Mal. I keep thinking it’s the darkness that will take me, but maybe it’s just this heedless wanting that’ll do me in.

Yours,
Nikolai

Right up to the day they’re scheduled to leave, Mal continues to remind him how bad of an idea it is to travel to Fjerda. Nikolai doesn’t entertain any of his judicious nonsense, but there’s something beneath his complaints that he does pay attention to. It’s as if something has shifted between them, and Nikolai frequently feels as though he’s traversing a path of bothersome cobblestones that leave scuff marks on his polished boots. It’s an unsteady sort of sensation and he can’t help but feel every single step. Mal has always been everywhere, but now he’s taking up a larger portion of Nikolai’s thoughts.

He tries to stay optimistic — it's not an inherently bad feeling. He’s just not quite sure if it’s good, either.

He goes to observe one of Mal and Zoya’s sparring sessions in the afternoon, absurdly hoping that it concludes with the two of them in each other’s arms just so he can put an immutable end to the lingering thoughts in the back of his mind. The memory of Mal’s mouth has soured with time, though now the notion is transitioning to its next phase that will plague Nikolai’s thoughts when he tries to sleep — a wishful and muddled ache for his hyperactive mind to pick apart until he can’t be certain which parts are the memory and which parts are his own wistful projections.

Mal lies in the grass, one hand splayed in the air as if he’s blocking the sunlight from his eyes, while Zoya stands before him, her dark hair gathered into a braid that’s well on its way to coming loose. When Nikolai comes closer he can see the sweat drenching Mal’s shirt and hear the comfortable tone of his voice, the conversation flowing easily between them, and he wonders why they can’t find that particular balance for longer than a few moments at a time. Mal is like a bomb to him, and Nikolai can’t say that he feels much different — always on edge, always ticking, always one thought away from spiraling down a rabbit hole he can’t afford to fall through.

“Intriguing how the definition of sparring has changed so much over time,” Nikolai says with a playful grin. “Should I have brought sandwiches and brandy?”

“Zoya just got finished kicking my ass.” Mal props himself up on his elbows, squinting. “Hate that you missed it. Hate that you didn’t bring any brandy, either.”

“I’ll make a note for next time.”

“Mal tells me the sleeping tonic was a success,” Zoya says, shifting her gaze to him. Nikolai holds it for a moment, recognizing the concern that she makes sure most others can’t detect.

“I slept like a newborn baby.” Nikolai keeps his tone light despite his private reservations. It’s true that for most of the night Genya’s tonic kept him unconscious to the point that even the monster couldn’t slip into his thoughts, but he’s only tested it for a week, and the analytical side of him says it’s not enough time to truly be certain of success. “No ripped sheets. No feathers littering the room from a sliced pillow or three. Even the bruises are starting to heal.”

Which he hadn’t noticed until Mal pointed it out one morning with a rare smile, his fingers again brushing over his wrist. Nikolai sprouted a tasteless joke about bastards and their superior genetics to mask how his heart seemed determined to wedge itself in his throat and block off his airflow.

“It seems like it works,” Mal grudgingly concedes. “It’s still a bad idea and an unnecessary risk.”

“What did I say about bad ideas? How anything worth doing tends to start as one? I wish you would quote me more, Oretsev. It makes me feel better to know you’re listening.”

“I’m usually not.” Mal shrugs. “I would hate to lie to you, Your Majesty.”

“It’s necessary for Nikolai to be there as a show of good faith, and, more importantly, a show of power,” Zoya says. “Only weak kings sit in their palaces all day long.”

Nikolai extends a hand in her direction. “See? Sense.”

“And if they see a giant winged monster flying in the sky?” Mal asks, looking pointedly at him. “The drüskelle will call you a demon and kill you on sight.”

Zoya scoffs. “Let the witch hunters try. I’ll gladly take their heads.”

“So, the worst-case scenario is Nikolai dies,” Mal says. “Second worst-case is that Zoya starts a war between Ravka and Fjerda.”

“I’m flattered that you placed my death as more tragic than a war that will kill hundreds, if not thousands of people,” Nikolai says with a beaming smile. “It does wonders for my self-esteem.”

“If they slay the king of Ravka then we will already be at war,” Zoya points out.

Mal looks at both of them. “None of these things make either of you reconsider?”

“No. Because none of these things are going to happen,” Nikolai states.

“They’re not impossible, Nikolai. And don’t —”

“Just improbable.”

“Say it,” Mal mutters.

“This is what needs to be done,” Zoya says, crossing her arms. “We will protect our king.”

“Yeah. Fine. Sure.” Mal rises, snatching up his discarded coat with one hand and his sword with the other, taking off back to the palace. “Really looking forward to it.”

Nikolai sighs, watching him go. “There’s really no pleasing him, is there?”

“He’s worried for you.” Zoya arches a brow at him. “Can’t you see?”

The laugh that Nikolai pushes out does little to mask his sudden discomfort. “You’re reading a bit much into it, don’t you think?”

“He’s not like us, Nikolai,” Zoya says scornfully. “He doesn’t know how to contain his emotions.”

“Quite right. But I wonder sometimes if that’s such a bad thing.”

Zoya shakes her head, pulling her braid loose. “It’s not something you can afford. He told me how he attacked that trader in the market.”

“To be fair, I’ve wanted to do that on multiple occasions.”

“Yes, but you didn’t. Mal feels everything too much, and then he reacts without thinking.”

“My dear Zoya, you make us sound like a pair of unfeeling barbarians.”

“We’re not unfeeling,” she says, her tone softening by a half-degree. “Maybe we’re just used to death. Mal is afraid of it.”

Nikolai scoffs quietly. “Come on, Nazyalensky. As if we’re not.”

“Mal is afraid of your death.”

He meets her eyes at that, a trickle of uncertainty in his gaze. Mal is Captain of his guard. Of course he would worry about his death. His thoughts war between it’s his job and something else entirely, but he pushes both aside in favor of a playful smirk.

“Are you saying you don’t worry for me?” Nikolai places a gloved hand over his heart. “I’m wounded. This all began when you decided to have more than one friend, you know. I require very specific amounts of your daily attention, and you’ve been sorely neglecting my needs.”

“Of course I worry, Your Majesty.” Zoya cuts him a sharp smirk in return before it falls away. “But Mal still thinks of Alina every night. He tortures himself over her. He takes the blame for her death. And he’s fabricated this idea that the same thing will happen to you and he won’t be able to stop it.”

Nikolai pauses, his smile fading. “He’s told you this?”

“Sometimes, he talks. Other times? He doesn’t have to.” Zoya’s brow furrows. “Do you even see him, Nikolai?”

He almost winces at the unwelcome familiarity of those words. “Too much, in my opinion.”

“Clearly not, if he spends as much time as he does with me.” But there’s no bite in her tone here. “He’s still a hopeless case. That hasn’t changed. Sometimes I even forget that he can be deadly. Until we spar, that is.”

“If your bed is what offers him comfort, then by all means. Have at it.” Nikolai squints as the clouds shift, sunlight gleaming down at them. “He does that.”

“My bed?” Zoya laughs, tossing her hair. “Please. A thing of the past, handsome as he is.”

“Don’t tell me you two spend your time having tea parties and gossiping about your king.”

“That’s only sometimes, and we don’t serve tea when you’re the topic of conversation.”

Nikolai’s eyes return to her as he squashes the mild surprise that tries to snake its way up his throat. He doesn’t believe for a second that Zoya would lie about this — or anything — to spare his feelings, but if Mal isn’t going to her for the physical comfort that he knows he craves, then —

“He talks to me about Alina,” Zoya says abruptly, her shoulders rising around a deep inhale. “He says he can’t talk to you about her, but he needs to talk to someone. I suppose our past dalliances have made him comfortable with me.”

“I don’t need to share a night of passion with you to divulge my deepest secrets. You’re so warm and welcoming already.” Nikolai’s smile snaps back into place, reaching out to tease a lock of her dark hair around one finger, the motion necessary to distract him from how suddenly bothered he is that Mal feels he can’t share his grief with him. Hasn’t he made himself available? “I’m glad he has you, Nazyalensky. You’re a true diamond in the rough.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Zoya swats his hand away. “Mal is an asset to us. Usually. But you and I both know that he shouldn’t be here. He says her ghost is everywhere.”

Nikolai looks away, watching a leaf float down in the idle breeze. He’s exhausted of aching like this, but he does all the same, and the thought of sending Mal away like he should have from the start leaves him feeling cold.

“It is. He’s not the only one that sees her.” He extends a hand to Zoya. “Let’s head back, shall we?”

Zoya gives him a hard look before she accepts the offer, and he imagines he can feel the warmth of her skin through the leather of his gloves.

Their conversation takes up permanent residence in his mind for the foreseeable future, even to the moment that he’s seated beside Mal in his coach, well on their way to Fjerda. Zoya helps him fill out the conversation, sometimes about the trade routes and sometimes about nothing at all, until she leaves as they approach the border, taking to the skies to keep a watchful eye on their path. Mal keeps his gaze trained on the view from the window, a sliver of the curtain peeled back, and Nikolai pretends like the silence doesn’t bother him.

He’s surprised when Mal breaks the quiet first, and even more surprised by his request.

“Let me stay with you tonight.”

A demand, really, Nikolai thinks with a small amount of amusement. He enjoys the familiarity now — it’s far preferable to the tense avoidance they find themselves frequently engaged in.

“As much as I love the idea of rumors of a salacious affair, there’s no need for that,” Nikolai says airily, shifting to fill Zoya’s recently vacated seat so he can have a better view of Mal. Why he can’t just say yes irks him to a degree, but there’s something that’s stopped him each time, and it’s the same something that lodges itself in his throat now. It requires further introspection that he’s not willing to give.

Mal’s jaw tenses, and Nikolai tries not to fixate on the sound of his sharp exhale.

“Do you want to die?” Mal asks bluntly, and Nikolai feels abruptly thrown.

“Dying would leave a bit of a gaping hole in this world, don’t you think? Can you imagine how drab things would be without me? Perish the thought.”

“Then why do you fucking act like you do?” Mal’s eyes narrow, his dark brows knitting together. “Why won’t you let me help you with anything?”

Nikolai holds his gaze despite his discomfort, saying nothing and hoping Mal can’t hear the thunderous beating of his own heart. Mal doesn’t look away this time, and Nikolai blinks, his eyes flitting left for a split second while he pulls in a tight breath.

“You asked me to head your guard,” Mal continues. “You asked me to stay.”

“Yes, I did. My memory is rather sharp, Oretsev.”

“Why? Why do you keep me here when you act like you don’t need anyone?”

The question rankles, Nikolai’s own brow creasing despite his attempts to keep a straight face.

“Am I keeping you here against your will?” His gaze sharpens, Zoya’s words running through his head. You and I both know that he shouldn’t be here. “I would think we’re at least at the point where honesty shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Honesty?” Mal sits back, barking out a laugh. “You’re complaining to me about honesty.”

Nikolai’s brow inches up. “Have I told you a lie I don’t remember?”

“You don’t tell me anything, Nikolai. And you know what? It’s fine.” Mal returns his gaze to the window, jaw set and arms crossed. “When we get back to Os Alta, I think it’ll be time for me to go.”

“You’re leaving?” The words feel clumsy on Nikolai’s tongue, like they don’t belong there, like he wants to spit them out. On Mal’s boots, preferably.

“Yeah.” Mal worries his bottom lip before he seems to realize what he’s doing, going still. “I think I am.”

Nikolai thinks to say more, to ask him why, to press him about where he would even go, to implore him to stay and give him a long list of reasons why he should. Because he needs him. Because he wants him. Because Mal is important, because he’s a comfort in his own way, because Nikolai can’t stand to lose anyone else when the thought of Alina still feels like opening a hole within himself that he doesn’t know how to fill, so he doesn’t even try.

But begging doesn’t suit him. Mal isn’t dying, he tells himself. Leaving isn’t the same as that.

“We’ll make sure you have everything you need, then,” Nikolai says, swallowing down everything else he wants to say in favor of allowing his pride to get the better of him. “Your service to the crown won’t be forgotten.”

Mal looks at him like he wants to take a blade to his throat, and Nikolai lifts the corner of his mouth into a hollow smile.

After that he’s grateful for the silence.

Fjerda is as welcoming as expected, which is to say not very. Nikolai summons the most ostentatious parts of himself, shining with an overconfidence that’s more of a ruse than he would ever admit, but he doesn’t crack, meeting every throwaway comment on his questionable birthright and tenuous claim to the throne with a grin and a final word of his own. The proposed trade routes are revised again and again, and Nikolai begins to sorely wish that Fjerdans approved of brandy during diplomatic gatherings. When Zoya begins a barrage of questions about their imports and exports, Nikolai takes a moment to glance at Mal, standing stone-faced by the door, and the sudden thought of him not being there sends an unwelcome ache right behind his eyes.

No, that’s just a headache forming from his close proximity to so many dull Fjerdans. Nikolai pinches the bridge of his nose and turns back to the table with a smile, expertly cutting in when he senses Zoya about to lose her temper after one too many slights against the Second Army.

Their discussions temporarily adjourn at nightfall in Nikolai’s favor, with the following day marked out to assess the routes in person. The three of them are shown to their quarters, sensibly functional as is everything in Fjerda, though Nikolai would use the words drab and disappointing to describe the thick wooly covers and the bare walls.

“They could have at least put up a portrait of me in preparation of my visit,” Nikolai gripes, standing in the doorway with his hand on his hip. “Did we bring brandy?”

“No,” Zoya says, venturing to the room next door.

“Why not?”

“It was deemed an unnecessary weight for the trip. Sort of like your chains.”

“By whom?” Nikolai turns to the hallway and nearly runs straight into Mal, catching his arm in one hand. The indignant look on his face remains, however. “Brandy is necessary. I have an awful headache.”

“And you think brandy will help?” Zoya casts a scornful look in his direction, and then glances at Mal. “Give him the sleeping tonic. We deserve some peace.”

“How needlessly cruel of you, Nazyalensky,” Nikolai says, letting Mal go when he feels him pull away. “Whenever you’re ready, Oretsev. I’ll be busy in my room chafing against these rough sheets.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Mal answers, eyes averted.

Nikolai turns back to his bed, frowning at the muted colors around him before he starts unbuttoning his coat, leaving it draped on the back of the heavy wooden chair pushed neatly under the empty desk. He leaves his boots by the door, sets his gloves on the desk, and then sits heavily on the bed, grimacing as he pulls his shirt open at the same time that Mal comes through the door.

“The mattress is lumpy,” Nikolai states immediately, looking at Mal still in his uniform. What if he did allow him to stay? Would they share the bed or would Mal insist on something ludicrous like sleeping in the chair? He leans back on his hands, sleeves still on but his chest bare. “This is a travesty. I’m strangely grateful I’m soon to be unconscious.”

Mal checks the window, pushing at the lock to ensure that it’s secure. “Me, too.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. The position of the most pessimistic member of my inner circle is already taken by dear Nazyalensky.”

“Are you ready?” Mal approaches the bed, a small glass vial in his hand.

“Are you ignoring my complaints? I get enough of that from Zoya.” Nikolai thinks to attempt a smile, but Mal feels like a wall of stone before him, uninterested in making nice after their prickly conversation in the coach. He could very well be gone the day after next. Similar to Nikolai, Mal doesn’t seem the type to dawdle once he’s made up his mind.

Nikolai leaves his shirt on, throwing the covers back. The less contact his skin makes with this horrid fabric, the better. Instead of taking the vial from Mal, he tilts his chin up and opens his mouth, his tongue poking forward. Mal blinks, something flitting across his face so quickly that Nikolai can’t be sure if he imagined it or not.

The tonic is bitter as always when Mal carefully tilts four drops into his mouth, and Nikolai pulls a face as they slide down his tongue. He swallows, wiping a hand across his mouth even though it does nothing to clear the taste.

“This is why we always need brandy,” he says sagely, watching Mal recap the vial.

“Goodnight.” Mal turns away, shoving the tonic in his pocket. Nikolai doesn’t look back to watch him go, sighing quietly to himself.

“Oretsev.” Nikolai glances at the colorless curtains at the window. “Get some rest. Stop worrying about me.”

“Believe me, I’d rather be doing anything else but thinking about you,” Mal replies bitterly.

Nikolai wants to turn at that, wants to see Mal’s face when he says those words to him, but his vision tilts suddenly, and he sways instead.

“Nikolai,” Mal says from afar. “Lie down.”

He stubbornly thinks that he doesn’t have to listen to such an order, but before he knows it he’s already sinking to the bed, darkness creeping to the edges of his sight. Mal returns as a hazy figure, though he barely feels it when he lifts his legs onto the uncomfortable mattress.

“Who’ll do this for me when you’re gone?” Nikolai mumbles, his words running together, but he doesn’t hear what Mal says in response, catching just a glimpse of his mouth moving before his eyelids droop and fall closed, the light going out as the tonic takes hold and pushes him toward the darkness.

My dearest Alina,

I’m dreaming. At least I think I am. You’re here in my dream, but I think I’m starting to realize that you’re never coming back. Not really. Not outside of these moments in my head that I wish I could live in forever. I don’t know why it took me this long to come to this fairly obvious and rational conclusion. I did this with Dominik, too. I should know better by now, shouldn’t I? I should know a lot of things that I apparently don’t.

How do you tell someone that you don’t want them to leave? That you’re hurting so badly that you can’t do anything but laugh and pretend that you’re above all of this? This feels like a recurring nightmare — another one to add to the terror I’m already trying to contain. I thought I would handle it better because I already have the experience, but now I don’t know if I even properly handled it the first time. I miss Dominik, and I miss you, and I miss Mal even though he’s right in front of my fucking face.

I’m not writing this one. This one stays in my head. If I see these words on the page, I know what’ll happen. On the bright side, however, no one will know that it was a little too much loss that drove the king of Ravka mad. They’ll all assume it was something inherited from one of my questionable bloodlines.

Yours,
Nikolai

Maybe it’s because he’s suppressed the monster for so long, or maybe it’s because he feels nearly ready to drown in his own grief. Maybe it’s something else entirely, something not related to the heaviness of his swiftly-beating heart every time he so much as looks at Mal, but whatever it is — the tonic doesn’t take this time.

He wouldn’t call himself lucid, but he catches glimpses between his own consciousness and that of the swirling darkness of the beast inside of him. Fjerda’s landscape looks so uniform that he wonders if anyone will ever even find him this time or if he’ll freeze to death in the enemy’s tundra. At least there aren’t any people around. There’s so much space here in Fjerda, miles upon miles of snow dotted with trees, that he stops his futile struggle for control, sinking back within himself until a hot burst of pain pierces his left wing. The monster — he — plummets through a cluster of trees, sharp branches catching against leathery black skin, and falls into a snowdrift.

Nikolai feels like he’s surrounded by black tar, nearly drowning in the darkness, but he manages to resurface for mere seconds — just enough time to identify the black and silver uniform of a drüskelle lowering his bow. Saints. Mal was right, a truth that would skewer his pride if the darkness didn’t drag him back down at the same moment. He wrenches himself up, but the inky blackness fills his mouth and lungs, bleeding into his eyes and nose so that he can’t see or breathe or even feel the faintest bit of hope. He’s not in control.

This is the worst of the Darkling’s punishment. That his mind is not his own.

It would be easier to fall. To let himself sink into the folds of darkness, not comforting but familiar now, at least. He’s tired of fighting something that he suspects is now a permanent part of himself, his soul blackened as much as his fingertips, but fighting is what he knows, and he clings to it now, clawing his way to something that resembles comprehension.

And immediately, the drüskelle’s face comes into view, young, too pale, his expression etched into the resigned horror of a soldier that knows he’s about to die. Nikolai tries to move. Tries to let go of the boy. Why is his fortitude not enough? When did his resolve morph from steel to something as brittle as bone? It’s not enough. He’s not enough.

Blood floods his mouth as rows of sharp teeth sink into the boy’s neck, its warmth spilling down his chin. He’s seen thousands of deaths throughout his short lifetime, soldiers dying in droves around him, but this is different. Nikolai would have put a bullet cleanly through his head. This is cruel intimacy, a callous celebration as the drüskelle’s life rushes down his throat.

It’s too much, an excess of repulsion that sends a shock through him. All he tastes is blood and the harrowing sharpness of death, and his response is automatic, a violent push to rid himself of this awful sensation.

He shrinks, his teeth pulling from flesh, and he means to catch the boy as they both fall even as his mind spins, but a sudden heat blossoms between his ribs, an agony so precise that he knows even without looking down that the drüskelle’s blade has found its mark in his side.

He sinks into the snow, his scarred hand wrapping around the hilt of the knife, but his vision swarms and his grip goes slack. No. His shoulder hits the cold snow. No.

The last thing he sees are glassy blue eyes staring back at him, the image slowly winking out as he loses consciousness.

It’s Mal’s voice that comes to him before anything else, cutting through the hazy shadows like a swath of cold sunshine from a morning sky. Nikolai reaches for it, stirring as his eyes drowsily focus — no, it’s still night, but so different from the darkness of Ravka’s nighttime skies. The moon illuminates the bright snow around them, the ground an expanse of soft blue, and it would be beautiful if he wasn’t so bitterly cold.

A burst of sudden pain lances through his side. Nikolai groans, his expression tightening and his hands trying to find purchase in the snow. Then, right in his ear and accompanied by a warm puff of breath —

“Nikolai, hold still,” Mal says, steady despite the rod of tension his words balance upon. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes open fully this time, blinking away the soft blur that coats his vision. There’s warmth at his back, and he realizes he’s resting against Mal’s solid weight. Mal has his arms around him and a coat wrapped around his shivering frame. Craning his neck with a beleaguered exhale, he catches a glimpse of Mal’s worried expression.

You found me, he wants to say, but all that comes out is a heavy breath. The pressure at his side feels crushing, and when he reaches out blindly he finds Mal’s hand pressed firmly to the source of his pain, the knife wound across his ribs. He starts, and Mal must feel it because his arms tighten.

“The drüskelle,” Nikolai rasps. “Is he dead?”

Zoya suddenly comes into view, her expression grim. “Yes. Before we arrived.”

“Saints,” Nikolai breathes out, and Zoya makes a disgusted sound.

“You mourn this witch hunter?” She gracelessly nudges the body with her boot. “One less drüskelle makes the world a better place. I’m glad to see him dead.”

“Your point is noted and I even tend to agree.” Nikolai runs a trembling hand down his face, his fingers freezing. “I just doubt our Fjerdan friends will share your enthusiasm.”

“Did anyone see you?” Mal asks, and Nikolai shudders not from the cold but from Mal’s warm breath soaking into his hair, his lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“I don’t know.” He hates those words, and they rarely ever leave his mouth because of it. His eyes move to the body, to the blood permeating the snow. “But he’s the only one I saw.”

“I’ll get rid of him,” Zoya says, lifting her hand. The drüskelle’s body rises under a sudden swirl of air, and Nikolai watches blood drip from where his teeth sank into his neck. It’s a mess of red and shredded flesh. His vision fragments and that acrid taste abruptly springs into his mouth, his stomach turning. Twisting from Mal’s grip, his bare hand braces in the snow as he violently retches, traces of blood flecking the white ground. Not his blood. Saints. That’s worse. Pain flares up so strongly that he thinks he might just keel over, if not for Mal’s steady hold.

“Nikolai, you’re losing too much blood,” Mal says, pressing harder against his side, eliciting a sharp breath from between Nikolai’s teeth. “We have to move.”

“Good thing you trained in the First Army, Oretsev. You can stitch me right up and I’ll be good as new for tomorrow.” He spits, trying not to look at the color as tremors grip him.

“We’re going back to Os Alta,” Mal says, his tone suddenly leery. Nikolai feels him tense.

“We can’t just leave,” Zoya cuts in. “We’ll lose all progress on the trade routes. Nikolai must be present tomorrow.”

“Nikolai is bleeding to death in the fucking snow. You can’t be serious.”

“Enough.” Nikolai doesn’t have the energy to dress up his words. “Zoya is right.”

The breath Mal lets out is edged with disbelief. He falls silent, and Nikolai imagines this will just be another reason to cement his exit. The thought weighs on him, but he forces himself to focus on the cold, aching present, wiping the back of his hand harshly over his mouth. He needs to rein some semblance of control around the situation before it splinters entirely.

“Our schedule doesn’t change. We’ll leave tomorrow after we view the trade routes,” Nikolai states firmly, his voice threaded with exhaustion but nevertheless leaving no room for argument. “Did you bring me more to wear than just my coat?”

“In the coach,” Mal mutters, shifting as he slides a hand to Nikolai’s back, helping him sit up. Moving again brings an entirely new and highly unpleasant sensation to his side, but he grits his teeth and bears it, a hand digging into Mal’s leg as he braces himself.

“Cover our tracks when we go,” Nikolai says to Zoya, and she nods, her wind ruffling his hair as she takes to the skies with the body. Mal pulls Nikolai’s arm over his shoulder and slowly gets him to stand.

“Easy,” Mal says softly when Nikolai lets out a grunt of pain. “We’re not going far.”

Nikolai leans heavily against him, keeping pressure at his blood-soaked side. His vision blurs again as Mal leads him to the waiting coach, and he almost wants to laugh at how ridiculously right Mal is — he should go back to Os Alta. He’s not quite sure how he’s going to stand up straight tomorrow, but he’ll somehow find a way because he has no choice but to. Saints, he feels sick. He wants to keep heaving until his stomach is completely empty.

“I wasn’t sure if the cold or the blood loss would get me first,” Nikolai says, blearily looking up to find his coach blessedly close. “Or perhaps a wild animal. I suppose I should be thanking the Saints that drüskelle didn’t have his killer wolf handy.”

“Why the fuck didn’t the tonic work?” Mal opens the door when they reach the coach, and Nikolai hefts himself up with a loud groan.

“Apparently I adapt quickly. Comes with being too clever, I think.” Nikolai shuts his eyes as he sits, a wave of pain tipping him forward, but Mal kneels before him and pushes him upright. “I can’t believe I’ve been stabbed by a bloody drüskelle. Fjerda never disappoints.”

“I told you this shit would happen.”

“Now isn’t the time, Oretsev.” He takes a shallow breath, his back pressed to the seat, and peers down at Mal knelt between his legs, already rooting through a tin for bandages and thread. “You’ve been right about too many things lately. I don’t like this. It feels unfair.”

“And yet you still don’t listen to me.” Mal reaches up to ease Nikolai’s coat down from one shoulder, then pours icy water from a flask over his wound. Nikolai lets out a muffled grunt, gripping the edge of the seat.

“Fuck,” Nikolai breathes out, shivering. He feels taut enough to snap in two. “Some warning next time?”

“I’ll get you warm right after I finish,” Mal says, his brow furrowed as he concentrates on the gash, setting the edge of the needle between his teeth.

“And how will you do that?” Nikolai watches him with cloudy eyes, pushing out a breathless chuckle. “Cradle me against your bosom? Fuck, Mal. This is why we always need brandy.”

Mal glances up with a dirty look. “Why are you blaming me? It’s not my job to make sure someone packs brandy.”

“It’s your job to take care of me. How could you be so remiss?”

“I’m in fucking Fjerda, about to stitch you up in an unsteady coach because you’re too stubborn to just go home after you killed someone and almost died in the snow. Don’t talk to me about being remiss. I should’ve been with you. You wouldn't let me. You’re the fucking asshole here, Lantsov.”

Nikolai opens his mouth to retort, but the needle suddenly pierces his skin and all that comes out is another tight groan. Mal braces his arm firmly against Nikolai’s chest, holding him steady.

“So I am,” Nikolai says finally, and Mal scoffs, his eyes never leaving his handiwork.

“You must be worse off than I thought if you’re admitting to that.”

“I do believe I’ve been going through a particularly trying time.”

“The way you understate things is just incredible,” Mal mutters, tugging at the thread with bloody fingers. Nikolai leans back, taking the flask and making a valiant attempt to clean the blood trailing from his chin down to his throat.

“I don’t have the luxury of going into a full blown panic.” He slowly exhales, his breath trembling slightly, and glances down when Mal speaks again.

“Do you want to?”

Nikolai blames the blood loss for both his hesitation and honesty. “Sometimes.”

“Lately?”

“Often.”

“Yeah.” Mal drops the bloody needle back into the tin and reaches for the bandages. “I can tell.”

Nikolai focuses on the throbbing pain instead of Mal’s perception — which he wants to say is unwelcome, but can’t entirely admit to. A part of him feels a little relieved that Mal can see his fraying edges. In this hazy moment he doesn’t feel quite so alone.

“— Nikolai,” Mal says, suddenly beside him.

“What? I’m listening.”

“You’re not. I just called your name three times.” Mal’s jaw ticks in concern, his rough but warm hands cradling his face briefly before pressing to his forehead. “Saints, you’re burning up.”

“Funny,” Nikolai says, leaning into his touch with a shiver. “I feel like I’m still in the snow.”

Mal blinks in uncertainty, then reaches for a sack full of clothes. “Okay. Let’s get you dressed.”

“Mm. I know you’re disappointed.” Nikolai smiles crookedly, making clumsy work of shedding his coat. Mal helps him into a shirt and warm trousers, and Nikolai can’t help but feel as though he’s moving underwater, his limbs heavy. He sways as Mal wraps his coat back around him, gently nudging forward to rest in the crook of Mal’s shoulder, hoping he’ll finally feel warm. For a moment Mal doesn’t move, but then he cards his hand through Nikolai’s hair, sending a tingle down his spine.

“You’re okay,” Mal says, settling back carefully.

Nikolai lets out a muffled laugh followed by a sharp breath when his side protests against the movement. You’re okay. Saints. If only.

“It’s been barely an hour since I sprouted claws and teeth and killed someone. Okay is highly relative.” He swallows, still tasting blood. “Mal, I killed that boy. I —”

“He was trying to kill you. Shit, Nikolai, he almost did. You had no choice.” Mal’s voice is steady, making Nikolai think of the calm sea on a still day. “Zoya’s right. Who knows the kinds of things he’s done to the grisha here? He’d happily string her up and call it a sacrifice to the elm trees.”

“Ash trees. Not elm.”

“I don’t give a shit, Nikolai. I hate it here.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No, I really fucking hate it here,” Mal says with sudden venom in his words. “I tracked the stag all over this fucking place for the Darkling. I watched my entire unit die, one by one. The only thing that kept me going was Alina. The thought of seeing her again. If it wasn’t for her I would’ve just fucking died with them. This whole country is a graveyard for me, Nikolai. Sometimes — I still have nightmares about it. I think I always will.”

His confession settles like ice in Nikolai’s veins, his brows knitting together as he struggles to sit up again, lifting his head from Mal’s shoulder to meet his eyes. Saints, he wishes they could both get on a ship and sail away from all of this.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Mal?” Nikolai’s mouth twists into a weary frown. “I never would’ve asked you to come here.”

Mal shakes his head. “It wouldn't have mattered. I wasn’t gonna let you come here alone.”

Worse than the pain in his side is the sudden pressure in his throat, rendering him unable to speak and barely able to breathe. Heat rises to his cheeks, and then Mal’s hands are on his face again, his fingers cool against his skin this time.

“Stop.” Nikolai feebly tries to shake him off, still reeling from his words.

“Shit,” Mal mutters, pushing Nikolai’s hair back from his forehead. “Still cold?”

“A bit,” he says tightly, tugging at the collar of his coat. “Is there a reason you can’t stop touching me, Oretsev?”

“Yeah. Because otherwise you’ll fall over.” Mal glances at the window, then reaches into the sack again, pulling out Nikolai’s leather gloves. “You want them?”

“Hm. No. Let them see how much of a war hero I am.” Nikolai flexes his fingers, studying the blackened scars. “They’re really quite unsightly.”

“There’s nothing unsightly about you,” Mal says as the coach comes to a stop.

“Ever the flatterer today.”

“Just don’t say anything. Pretend you’re drunk.”

“Saints, I wish I was.”

Mal opens the door, hopping down from the coach, and Nikolai does his best to appear as a handsome young king who has imbibed a bit too much — and in a foul mood so that no one wants to speak to him. Mal does all of the talking himself while Nikolai thanks the Saints that the Fjerdans have no idea how odd it is that he would allow someone else to speak for him.

The door shuts and the coach lurches forward once again, this time only for a few moments, and then Mal appears, bracing one foot inside as he reaches out to offer Nikolai his hand. He almost doesn’t take it, too busy staring while lost in his thoughts, an overwhelming sadness settling upon him as he wonders if tonight will be the last time sees this — Mal’s hand stretched toward him, his gaze expectant.

Forcing himself to move, he clasps their hands together and exhales sharply when he climbs down, his free hand pressed to his side. Mal steadies him, coaxing him along. The drab walls blend together to the point that he hardly knows where they are anymore, but in this moment he trusts Mal so completely that it isn’t even a concern. He wonders when that happened, this sudden truth pressing hard against his heart.

“I’m going to vomit,” Nikolai mutters, and Mal starts, nearly missing his next step.

“What? Are you serious?”

“No. I don’t know. Saints, I hate saying that.”

“Well — don’t.” Mal renews his pace, and Nikolai thinks about how, yes, he does feel sick, but it’s not entirely from being knifed and left in the snow to presumably die. Apparently the beast has absolutely no survival skills.

“I wish I was happier to see this place,” Nikolai says when they finally make it to his room, where he discovers the chair overturned and the sheets in disarray. “I’ll never understand why the monster insists on leaving a mess each time.”

“It wants to be as annoying as you.” Mal eases him to the bed, then goes to the window to draw it shut. He pulls the curtains tightly closed. “Are you still going to be sick?”

“From looking at this room? Yes.”

Mal snorts, righting the chair and picking the covers from the floor, bringing them back to the bed. “You’re spoiled, you know that?”

“I am not.” Nikolai makes a face, then presses a hand to the hard mattress to steady himself when the room tilts slightly. “I didn’t take the easy way out of anything like Vasily did.”

“I know you served. I know you don’t mind getting your hands dirty or working alongside commoners. But this?” Mal gestures at the room. “There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“You suffer from a profound lack of taste.”

“You suffer from not knowing what it’s like to have nothing.”

Nikolai shifts his gaze from the wall to Mal, struggling to focus. “I needed Alina for that.”

Silence falls as he watches Mal’s back stiffen. Then Mal returns to the bed, kneeling before him to unlace his boots. Nikolai looks down, taking his next breath with some difficulty.

“I told her that she was going to be the thing that took you from a good king to a great one,” Mal says softly. “She was going to take you to Keramzin. Show you how we really lived.”

“I would have liked to see it.”

“It’s a terrible place to grow up. Worse now, probably. After…” Mal trails off. “You know.”

After the Darkling scorched the entire town and left bodies hanging from the trees. At least it’s what Zoya told him, after it was all over. He doesn’t have the heart to ask Mal to recount the story, and guilt still pricks at him that he wasn’t there to stop it.

“We’ll change it,” Nikolai says.

“We?” Mal sets his boots aside and rises, easing Nikolai’s coat from his shoulders. He nearly feels too weak to remain sitting up, but Mal’s hands keep him upright.

“I’ll change it,” he amends, his eyes falling shut when Mal grows hazy. “So it’s not a terrible place to grow up.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I mean it, Mal.” Nikolai reaches out blindly, his hand bunching into the fabric of Mal’s shirt, right by his hip. “Why do you think I’m doing this? It’s not even my birthright.”

Silence ticks by again, and Nikolai weakly opens his eyes when he feels Mal move his hand, sliding his coat off. Mal’s expression looks somehow bruised.

“I know you’ll do it,” Mal says finally, resting his hand on Nikolai’s cheek. “You’ll make the whole country have hope again. Now lie down. Your fever’s bad.”

“I won’t sleep,” Nikolai says even as he settles on his pillow, pulling in a slow breath. His skin prickles with heat. “I can’t. That’s when the beast takes hold.”

“Not every time.”

“I can’t risk it.” He swipes the back of his hand over his eyes, his brow creasing. “Especially if you’re staying here with me tonight.”

Mal doesn’t say anything, but in a moment Nikolai feels the cold press of a damp cloth to his forehead. Blearily, he opens his eyes.

“Are you?” Nikolai asks.

“Am I what?”

“Staying?”

Mal drags the chair over to sit beside the bed. “Tonight. Yeah.”

Just tonight. It hangs in the air, unspoken, and Nikolai feels that same rush of panic or sorrow or loneliness trying to creep up his throat. He doesn’t know what it is, really, only that it’s been happening for too long and he wishes it would stop.

“Do you want me to stay?” Mal asks, avoiding his eyes as he reaches over to adjust the cloth.

Yes. Stay. Please stay. The words get stuck in the spreading panic already choking him.

“I don’t want you to stay anywhere you’re unhappy.” It doesn’t feel like enough, and one look at Mal’s face confirms it. Nikolai reaches for more, to say something with more weight and meaning — stay, please — but he can’t. There might as well be a wall there, one he can’t scale. It feels ridiculous that something so simple could be this hard.

“You don’t seem all that happy, but you stay anyway.” Mal’s fingers move through his hair, a shiver ghosting over Nikolai’s skin. “In Os Alta.”

“It’s a bit different when it comes to me, don’t you think?” A touch of a smile pulls at his mouth. “Running away is harder when you’re the king of the entire country.”

“Do you want to?”

“Run away?” Nikolai shifts uncomfortably, then stills when Mal places a gentle hand at his side, his touch feather-light against his bandages. “Perhaps not run. Sail, maybe.”

Mal wipes the cloth down his temple with his other hand. “Go back to being a pirate?”

“A privateer. Yes. Sturmhond’s good to keep in your back pocket.”

“Sturmhond’s an ass.”

“Sturmhond is extraordinary, and I seem to remember him rescuing you.”

“He’s okay.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my alter ego in such disparaging terms. Especially not when I’m wounded. Besides, I know you like him.”

“I like the real you better.” Mal rests his elbow on the bed, leaning his head against his knuckles. “Even though you never let anyone in.”

I don’t mean to keep you out is what he wants to say, but all he does is tilt his head to meet Mal’s eyes, struggling to keep his own open. His fatigue must be obvious, because Mal reaches out and brushes his palm over his eyes.

“Stop,” Nikolai says. “I want to see you.”

“You see me enough. Go to sleep.”

“I told you I won’t. And you’re —” He swallows as his throat tightens, suddenly thankful for Mal’s hand over his eyes. “Soon I won’t see you at all.”

Mal’s hand moves away, and Nikolai finds himself staring right at him, suddenly close. In the dim lamplight the weary shadows across Mal’s face are more pronounced, and Nikolai wants to reach out and smooth the worry between his dark brows with the pad of his thumb.

“Alina and I didn’t hide things from each other,” Mal says. “Even when it scared us. Even when it broke us apart.”

Nikolai is silent for a long moment, his eyes half-lidded but never leaving Mal’s even when the room threatens to tilt on its side again. Something in his chest feels like it’s caving in, perhaps beneath the weight of an unspoken expectation, and he finally shuts his eyes as he draws in a tight breath.

“Mal,” he says quietly, a sudden chill sending a shiver through him. “I’m not her.”

Mal swallows audibly, his eyes falling, and Nikolai watches the sweep of his lashes as he tries to blink something away. His side smolders with pain, a wince passing over his face, and then Mal looks at him again, reaching out to press his hand to Nikolai’s erratic heartbeat as if he can hear it through the air. Beneath Mal’s palm, his shirt feels damp with sweat.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Nikolai answers without thinking. “Not at all.”

Mal’s eyes widen in something that looks far too much like hope. “Nikolai —”

But Nikolai finally gets a step ahead, forcing a weary smile onto his face and sliding his fingers over the back of Mal’s hand as he gently pries it away. “I’m fine, Oretsev. Just damnably cold and missing the touch of a good grisha healer.”

Mal’s hand stays slack in his for the time it takes the moment to unravel. Then he pulls away, and Nikolai is too exhausted to chase after him. His eyes fall shut, darkness tugging hard at the corners of his vision despite his determination to stay awake.

Morning comes with the realization that Mal allowed him to drift off to sleep. Nikolai rouses with a tired breath, feeling less rested than he hoped to be, his gaze falling on the chair still pulled up beside the bed where Mal slouches with his feet propped up atop the covers of the mattress. His dark hair is a mess, tumbling into his eyes, and a shadow begins along his jaw where he needs a shave. Nikolai imagines how it might feel against his skin before shaking the thought away, failing to stifle a groan as he sits up gingerly.

“Hey.” Mal’s voice is rough with sleep, his eyes barely open. “Take it easy.”

Nikolai squeezes his eyes shut as his stitches pull, grimacing. “What a promising morning.”

“You wanted to stay.” Mal stretches, his back making a series of interesting pops while his feet hit the floor. “How’s your fever?”

“Broken, I think.” Nikolai runs a hand through his damp hair and obediently sits still when Mal reaches out to press a hand to his forehead. The door opens without warning, Zoya appearing in the doorway, and Mal awkwardly pulls his hand away.

“How is he?” she asks.

“Not dying,” Mal says with a shrug. “He’d be better with a healer.”

“Nazyalensky, you look like a dream.” Nikolai makes an attempt to beam at her. “I assure you that I can answer questions about my own health.”

“Did he sleep?” Zoya looks to Mal again, who nods. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Are you calling my appearance haggard?” Nikolai inches toward the edge of the bed, struggling for a moment before Mal appears at his side to help him stand. “Just wait until I can get in front of a mirror.”

“Is everything clear from last night?” Mal asks. Nikolai glances at Zoya, his expression briefly strained before he forces himself to relax.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Zoya crosses her arms as she regards them both. “Make yourselves look better. This is pitiful. What sort of royal group is this?”

“An incomplete one,” Nikolai says, moving away from Mal to open his trunk. He doesn’t know why he says the next part, but it’s out before he can stop himself. “Oretsev is leaving us for steadier waters. Can’t say I blame him.”

Zoya’s brow ticks up. “Finally decided to cut your losses?”

“Something like that,” Mal grumbles, scratching a hand through his hair.

“Well, you’ve been thinking about it long enough,” she says. “Your indecision was so aggravating.”

“Guess I have.”

“You have?” Nikolai almost winces and not because of his side. He’s glad his back is turned. “I didn’t know it was weighing on your mind.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Mal says, and Nikolai turns at that, meeting Mal’s sharp gaze. Zoya purses her lips as she regards them, pushing off of the doorframe.

“I’d say don’t keep the Fjerdans waiting, but there are so few joys around here.” She turns to go. “I’ll be down the hall.”

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting.” Nikolai tilts his head to the door. “Go on, both of you. I grant you my sincere word that I can get dressed on my own.”

Mal exhales, his hardened gaze still boring into him, then follows Zoya out, pulling the door shut behind him. Nikolai grips the edges of his trunk until his knuckles pale, briefly closing his eyes as a frustrated breath whistles out from between his teeth. That Mal has been considering leaving for Saints knows how long feels like a barb in his uninjured side, and beyond that, it feels foolish and unfair that it would bother him this much when he can’t even ask him to stay.

He told Zoya. Not him. It rankles.

His demeanor, at least outwardly, is much more like himself by the time he joins Mal and Zoya after washing up and donning fresh clothes. Mal has changed as well and looks only marginally more awake, though Nikolai supposes there is something to be said of the brooding — smoldering — stare he gives him. Nikolai brushes Mal’s elbow before extending an arm to Zoya.

“No,” she says, walking beside him.

“I’m wounded. And not just emotionally this time.”

“Don’t let it show. Fjerdans are wolves looking for fresh blood.”

“How do the stitches look?” Mal asks in a low voice, flanking his other side.

Nikolai glances at him, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth before he can stop it. “Quite even for someone who complained about an unsteady coach. They’ll hold.”

“You remember that?” A flash of amusement passes over Mal’s face, then he seems to catch himself and quickly school it away.

“I have an excellent memory, Oretsev. I even remember the color of the mug you were drinking from when I asked you to head my guard — specifically because I thought you might throw it at me, but that’s beside the point. Prussian blue, by the way. Gilded edges.”

Mal sighs, his expression softening once again as if he can’t help it. “I should have.”

“There’s still time to,” Zoya remarks, and Nikolai laughs, suddenly wishing that, despite everything, things could stay just like this.

He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to make it through the tour, but it ends up being a welcome distraction from the recent state of his thoughts. This is something he can focus on, something he knows he can excel at. It tempers the pain at his side, minus how the quick ride on horseback nearly has him thinking he’ll end up face down in the snow. Still, he argues his way into getting exactly what he wants, taking comfort in the one success of a day of abject failures.

“Let’s go before the Fjerdans witness the king of Ravka tripping over himself and fall on his face,” Mal says once their business has concluded and Nikolai’s coach is at the ready.

“But it would be such a regal, dignified sort of fall.” With the last bit of his energy he hoists himself into the coach, followed by Mal and Zoya. “See? Everything is fine, and we got exactly what we came for. I urge you to have more faith in your king.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Mal settles beside him while Zoya stretches out opposite of them.

“Desperate hope and perilous optimism.”

Zoya snorts, closing her eyes. “Ruthless determination.”

“That’s why you’re here, Nazyalensky.”

Mal huffs out a quiet chuckle. “You guys are gonna be fine.”

But Nikolai can’t bring himself to agree. Now that he’s sitting still, pain radiates across his side, but more than that his heart feels tightly clamped once again, making it impossible to relax. A beat of silence passes before Mal suddenly squeezes his leg.

“Hey,” Mal says softly. “Try to get some rest. It’s a long ride.”

“That’s like telling a member of the Merchant Council to stop being greedy.”

Mal looks at him then, his gaze piercing, and Nikolai tells himself the rise of heat in his cheeks is from his poor health. He has never been a blusher. He looks away first, an irritatingly recent habit that only seems to manifest when it’s Mal’s gaze he’s trying to hold.

“You can’t go on like this,” Mal says.

“Being this handsome is quite the burden, yes.”

“Don’t you feel like you’re gonna break?”

Every day. Every minute. “What a question. Kings don’t break, Oretsev.”

“I’m starting to think you really will die if you start telling the truth.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“At what?”

Nikolai exhales uncomfortably. “Telling the truth.”

It requires a level of exposure he’s unwilling to give. The steady pace of the coach begins to tug at his exhaustion, and he’s glad Mal doesn’t push the topic even if he’s realizing more and more that these conversations are coming to a swift end. What does he want to say? He’s still not sure.

“How long before you go?” Nikolai asks, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the endless blanket of white passing through the window. Mal’s reply comes after a long silence.

“A week. Maybe sooner.”

“And where will you go?”

Mal blows out a sigh, rubbing an eye with the heel of his palm. “Doesn’t matter.”

A mirthless smile faintly graces Nikolai’s mouth. He can’t help but think that sounds like anywhere but here. And truly — anywhere would be fine. Mal had made himself right at home with Sturmhond’s crew on the Volkvolny, flourishing anywhere he could feel useful. He thinks of Mal's earlier words spoken right in this very coach.

Why do you keep me here when you act like you don’t need anyone?

Maybe he plays the part of the able king too well. The king that doesn’t allow himself to lean too hard on anyone else. He’s used to people coming and going — or at least he should be, but he already feels the emptiness of Mal’s departure, another hole to fill when he hasn’t even dealt with the ones that came before. He’s suddenly sorry that he made Mal feel like he wasn’t needed, but trying to push those words out gets harder and harder each time he thinks that he might want to.

Mal’s fingers tighten at his thigh, causing Nikolai to glance over. There’s something in Mal’s gaze that pulls hard at the knot in his stomach.

“What’re you thinking about?” Mal asks, surprising him.

You. Always, lately.

“How eloquent I am,” Nikolai says hollowly. His hand moves without permission from his brain, sliding over Mal’s. “How wretched I feel.”

Mal’s fingers twitch, hesitating briefly before he twists his hand, lacing their gloved fingers together. Nikolai dares to squeeze, holding on tighter than he means to.

“Thank you.” Nikolai angles his gaze at him once again, marveling that his voice doesn’t so much as waver. “For keeping my secrets. For everything.”

“You’re saying goodbye already?” Mal’s expression darkens, but not with anger. Something else. Nikolai tries to place it, but all he tastes is sudden grief in his mouth.

“Promise to visit.” Nikolai leans back, resting his head against the back of the seat. “I need the attention. I’m still your king.”

“Sure.” Mal drops his gaze to their clasped hands, and Nikolai fights the urge to move. “I’ll visit when I have a formal complaint to file against the crown.”

“You could visit just because you miss me.”

“I will.” Mal stops, his hand tightening again. “Miss you, I mean. Don’t know about visiting.”

“I don’t know that I’d be in a hurry to come back, either,” Nikolai admits with a rueful sigh. “Not with all the ghosts that haunt the palace.”

“Do you see her there, too?” Mal asks suddenly. “Alina?”

Nikolai almost lets go of his hand just to hide the tremor that runs through his fingers. It feels as though that same rising tide will envelop him completely and he wouldn’t even fight not to drown. It’s so unlike him. He fights for everything, but maybe this profound mourning that he can’t seem to pull himself from will be the thing that does him in. It’s silly. The great Nikolai Lantsov, defeated by acute sadness. It’s even more pitiful than being such an obvious bastard.

“She’s everywhere,” Nikolai says finally, his voice quiet. “And nowhere.”

Mal sighs, the light catching his eyes as he looks to the window. “I just wish I could talk to her one last time.”

What would you tell her? But the question never comes out, his throat seizing around the words. He does let go of Mal’s hand then, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and push a hand through his hair. He exhales shakily, his eyes closing.

“Nikolai —” Mal leans forward with him, but Nikolai shakes his head.

“I’m fine. It’s last night catching up to me.” The lie comes so easily, but he can feel Mal hovering beside him, decidedly unconvinced.

“It’s —”

“It’s nothing, Mal.” He says it too sharply, dismissing the rest of whatever this conversation could have been. Even Zoya stirs, a lock of her thick hair slipping down the side of the seat. Mal remains silent, and Nikolai feels his hard gaze before Mal sits back, crossing his arms and turning his face toward the opposite window.

His heart races, a nearly painful discomfort in his chest. He wants to demand answers from himself, to know why he feels so precariously near certain doom each time he flies too close to the light illuminating Mal’s heart. Can he blame the monster? He’s not sure. This feels too much like a personal flaw rather than the thing lurking inside of him.

Whatever it is, it’s already cost him Mal. He swallows this uncomfortable truth, the ache in his side starting again now that he doesn’t have a pleasant enough distraction. It’ll be better that Mal goes. Maybe then he’ll be able to breathe again.

They don’t speak for the rest of the journey home, but an hour later when Nikolai’s fatigue finally gets the better of him, Mal pushes an inch closer to offer his shoulder. Nikolai rests against him, his eyelids too heavy to keep open, at once comforted by the warmth of their closeness.

It won’t be better when he goes. It’s the last thought he has before he drifts to sleep.

My dearest Alina,

I should stop writing these letters to you. I know I should let you go. You and Mal both. I never thought the pair of you would live so close to my heart, and I never imagined that I would have to say goodbye to you both so soon. That’s just the way that life goes, it seems. A steady stream of happiness and heartbreak. I have to believe that hope lives around the corner, but I feel as though I’m weathering a storm, and the storm might be winning.

You will forever be my dearest friend. My sun in the dark. You’re the warmth I feel during Ravka’s endless summers. I hope you can forgive me, Alina. For everything. For not being enough for you. For not being enough for Mal. All I see when I look at him is regret. Saints, I’m not ready for him to go. I miss him. I miss you. I don’t have any more goodbyes left in me. Now I’m just giving away pieces of myself.

I’m empty. I feel so wretchedly empty.

This stops here. These burdens are mine to bear, and for all that you’ve done for me, you deserve to be at peace.

You’re the sun and he’s the sea. I’ll never look at the world the same way again.

Yours,
Nikolai

The following days pass in what feels like slow motion. Even after immediate treatment from one of the crown’s best grisha healers, Nikolai still feels as though he stumbles over his every breath, his movements heavy and his clever mind dull. During the daylight hours he’s resigned himself to the swiftly approaching reality of Mal’s departure, but at night he aches to ask him to stay, feeling himself crumble piece by piece.

He suggests throwing a going-away soiree, which Mal refuses but Nikolai tells Genya to plan anyway. That same evening Nikolai feels so sick that he retches in the privacy of his personal bath, his eyes stinging and his heart hammering so hard in his chest that he spends a good chunk of time on the floor trying to return his breathing to a marginally normal pace.

He draws a bath when he feels steady enough, undressing and slipping into the pleasantly warm water as he reclines against the glistening marble pool. The stitches at his side have nearly dissolved, leaving behind another angry scar to add to his plentiful collection, and the steam rising from the bath soon has his hair curling from humidity. He takes a breath and submerges himself, imagining that he’s floating just beneath the waves of the sea, hoping for the illusion to clear his mind.

It does little good. He comes up when his lungs call desperately for air, but then has a different sort of shock when he finds Mal in the room, his expression twisted into something that guts Nikolai with immediate precision, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

Not just any papers. His letters to Alina.

“Mal,” he snaps, sudden ire flooding him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mal’s words are cut wide open, laid bare, the intensity of his emotions barreling into Nikolai like an unwelcome blow. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“You overstep.” He’s angry because he’s thrown, wholly unprepared to face this situation. His mind scrambles for an out, tumbling through words and phrases and excuses only to discard them for not being enough. That’s all he is lately. Not enough.

“I’m overstepping?” Mal raises the letters. “Half of these are about me.”

Unfortunately true. “There’s a reason those were locked in my private drawer in my private sitting room.”

“You left your key in it.”

Nikolai stares balefully at him while he swiftly retraces his steps in his mind. He might be right, though it’s not a mistake Nikolai thinks he’s ever made before.

“That’s your excuse for reading correspondence clearly not meant for you? A bit weak, don’t you think?”

“For fuck’s sake, Nikolai.” Mal carelessly discards the letters, papers containing his entire heart scattering across the gleaming floors. “What’re you doing?”

“Trying to enjoy my bath that someone seems hell bent on ruining.”

Mal turns an entirely too helpless expression onto him, and Nikolai feels his breath hitch in response. Water drips from his hair down the planes of his face. He blinks swiftly to clear his eyes.

“Do you really think you’re hiding any of this well?” Mal asks, lowering his voice. “Do you think I don’t see right through you?”

Nikolai bites the inside of his bottom lip, his heartbeat once again too fast. And after all the time he spent calming it down. He happens to think that hiding his insecurities is a strength of his, generally able to appear composed despite the storms sheltered beneath his skin, and that Mal thinks otherwise feels like a splinter digging deeper and deeper.

“Mal. I mean this sincerely.” Nikolai’s eyes sharpen. “Get out.”

Silence falls, and in lieu of a response Mal gives a single shake of his head. Nikolai’s temper flares, but before he can say another word Mal lifts his hands in what looks like the gesture of surrender.

“I’m not gonna fight with you,” Mal says, and for some absurd reason that sends another spike of anger through Nikolai. Does he want a fight? He’s never wanted to hit Mal so badly in all the time he’s known him. He’s never wanted him to be gone like this.

“You’re certainly not proving that with your actions.” Nikolai prepares to draw himself out of the water, intending on taking his own leave, but Mal speaks again, stilling his movements.

“You’re drowning.”

Absurd. Accurate.

“I told you already that I’m an excellent swimmer. I wish you would listen when I speak.”

“I can see it, Nikolai. I can see it because I’ve felt it myself.” Mal takes a step closer, and Nikolai feels his back gently hit the edge of the pool.

“Are you entirely certain you’re not projecting your own feelings onto me?” Exasperation wears away at Nikolai’s voice.

Mal keeps his gaze steady, much steadier than Nikolai feels. “You remember when I said that Zoya told me your weakness?”

“I remember telling you I don’t have any.” Still, he has no idea what Zoya might have said, a prickle of unease rising over his spine.

“She said you can never leave a wounded man behind. No matter what. No matter if it puts you in the same danger.”

Nikolai huffs out a breath. Of course Zoya would view that as a weakness. He feels a sudden jab of anxiety as Mal sheds his boots and his uniform jacket, dropping them beside the letters as he approaches the pool.

“Mal —” Nikolai doesn’t have room to move back any further before Mal slips into the water with him, soaking his clothes.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Mal says earnestly. Nikolai stares at him, his brow furrowing. You are, he wants to say. That’s exactly what you’re doing.

“Mal, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not leaving you, Nikolai.” Mal comes forward, his wet hands circling Nikolai’s biceps. “Not like this.”

Heat prickles over his skin. “I don’t know how many other ways I can tell you that I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. I know what you’re feeling.”

“Do you?”

“Yes! For Saints’ sake, Nikolai, I know you loved her. I know what that feels like. I know how hard it is to let her go.”

Mal is close enough — to his absolute horror — that he can see the frustrated tears that spring into his eyes, the way they look blue just like drops of the ocean. Nikolai wants to look away, but he can’t. He can barely move. That feeling comes over him again, the feeling he hasn’t been able to shake, the clamp in his throat, the thunderous buzzing in his ears.

“What,” Nikolai whispers, his anger barely leashed and his voice pulled taut, this time wavering, “Do you want from me?”

“Too much,” Mal whispers back, and something in the way he says it makes Nikolai’s sudden alarm worse, his hand curling into a fist to stop the way it shakes. He pulls in a breath only to find that he can’t. He can’t. Something painful pushes out of his lungs, both hands going to Mal’s elbows to keep himself upright.

“It’s okay,” Mal says, tightening his grip.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Nikolai growls out, struggling to draw in air. Saints, he feels like he’s going to die. He feels every bit of his carefully crafted persona cracking. All of them.

“You haven’t let yourself feel this. It’s okay to feel it.”

“Feel what, Mal?” Nikolai’s gaze turns desperate. “This is all I’ve been feeling, every day, every hour. Like I’m caving in on myself over and over again.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel it, too.” Mal hesitates as if the words are difficult. “I feel it all the time. I tried... tried what I always do when I feel like shit. I tried to get someone to beat it out of me. But it didn’t go away. It just kept getting bigger and bigger and I felt smaller and smaller until I couldn’t hold it anymore. That’s when I started talking about it. To Zoya.”

Nikolai barks out an ugly laugh that’s unbecoming of him. “I suppose I should’ve gotten to Zoya first. Saints forbid you talk to me.”

“You don’t talk to me! You shut down every single time you’re in danger of saying something that actually fucking matters to you. Do you know how much I've tried to get you to open up to me? You’re like a fucking treasure chest at the bottom of the sea. With no locks.”

“Heed your tone with me,” Nikolai says darkly, his mind whirling through defenses and having discarded every other one but this. It’s still a poor one.

Mal shakes his head, sighing. “Stop fighting me.”

But it’s the only thing he knows how to do. He’s been fighting his entire life — to be loved despite being a bastard, to be respected as a soldier and not just a prince, to prove that he was worthy enough to seize the throne and is worthy enough to keep it. Now Mal is asking him to lay down his arms at the precise moment that he feels the most defenseless. It’s preposterous.

“Let go of me,” Nikolai says, but then Mal presses his palm against his chest, right over his heart. Again, it feels like he can hear it.

“Do you feel her, too?”

Nikolai freezes. The sunlight has nearly faded, casting a weak glow across the floor from the high windows. He wants to touch it, to feel its warmth when his insides are always so bitterly cold and hellishly dark. He wants her. He wants her to come back and give him that halfway smile before attempting to knock his ego down several notches. It never worked, and it only made him adore her more.

He wants her to tell him what to do with Mal, to show him how to ask him to stay instead of always demanding that he goes. He wants her here. He misses her. Saints, he misses her like a piece of his own heart.

“Nikolai.” Mal’s voice is soft in his ears. He doesn’t know when Mal reached out to cup his face, only that his hands are wet and warm on his cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Nikolai whispers, the sunlight suddenly blurring. Mal was right — he's always right these days. He feels like he is drowning. When did that start happening with such alarming frequency? “I can’t — breathe.”

“You can,” Mal says, and Nikolai wants to believe him, but his chest seizes with an awful pain. His shoulders shake, his lungs constricting.

“Mal.” But it doesn’t come out like he intends it to. It comes out in a breathless gasp, like he’s dying. Like he’s crying. Something warm spills down his cheeks. Mal’s hands slide to his jaw, into his hair, the rough tread of his fingers familiar on his skin.

“It’s okay,” Mal repeats, his words barely above a breath. “It’s okay.”

“I should have protected her,” Nikolai says brokenly, pressing his eyes shut. Soldiers and princes don’t cry. Kings certainly don’t. He doesn’t even remember the last time he did. Was it for Alina? He didn’t while she burned. Did he ever cry for her? It seems absurd that he wouldn’t. That he hasn’t.

“You did everything you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.” If only he hadn’t been cursed. If he was clever enough to avoid the Darkling’s punishment. If he was himself in the moment she needed him, not trapped in a nightmarish cage composed of his own mind. “I wasn’t enough. I’ve never been enough.”

“What more could you possibly be? You’re a king in more than just blood.” Mal slides his thumb beneath his eye, and Nikolai knows now with absolute certainty that he’s crying. It tears through him, uprooting all of his meticulous planning, his armor, his self preservation. It still feels like dying.

“Mal.” Nikolai grips the wet fabric of Mal’s shirt, like it even matters to hold on when he’s already been cleaved in two. “I can’t start this. I can’t begin to mourn her.”

“You don’t have a choice. It’ll come out whether you want it to or not.”

Nikolai shakes his head. “I won’t be able to stop. I can’t — it feels like my heart is being carved out. I can’t.”

Mal’s eyes glimmer with the last of the sunlight. “It feels like it’s not even beating anymore.”

“Yes.” How does he know? Nikolai looks desperately to him. It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world that Mal knows what he’s feeling. He’s not alone. “And that stillness is worse than the pain.”

Mal’s hand slides to his chest once more. “I know what it feels like. But I promise you your heart is beating, Nikolai. It’s strong and it’s beating and it’s going to be okay.”

Again, Nikolai shakes his head. He doesn’t feel strong. He feels frenzied. “I can’t fall apart, Mal. It isn’t a luxury afforded to this job.”

“To hell with it. Fall apart. I’m right here.” Mal comes close enough that he can feel his breath cascade over his wet skin. “You’re already in my hands.”

“Mal —”

“I won’t let you go.”

His eyes squeeze shut, his forehead pressing to Mal’s while his body quakes with the sobs that keep coming. They come and they come and they don’t stop. It hurts. It hurts to breathe and it hurts to cry and it hurts to be in Mal’s arms because he doesn’t want him to go. I won’t let you go. Why did he say that? Why did you kiss me?

His grief pours out of him, and if Mal wasn’t here he knows he wouldn’t be able to stand. He’s been here before, only it was Dominik’s memory and there hadn’t been anything or anyone there but tired infantry soldiers and the heavy scent of death all around. No one held him then. No one told him it was all right. No one cared that he was a prince and he was falling apart.

Saints, he’s falling apart. He’s falling apart so completely that he doesn’t know how he’s going to face his triumvirate or his people or anyone ever again. He feels shattered. This is worse than bleeding in the snow in Fjerda. Worse than the weight of chains around his wrists. He turns to Mal’s shoulder, his hand winding around him to clutch at his back, and he feels him respond, feels the weight of Mal’s hand in his hair and the strength of his embrace. I won’t let you go. The words sink into him, past everything broken and everything dark, and they settle into a hidden part of himself that’s only just seeing the light.

He draws in a breath, the first in what feels like an eternity. The shadows lengthen, the sky just barely alight. For a long moment he can’t say her name. He can’t even think it. But then he feels the warmth of Mal’s mouth tickling his hair, the thick, tremulous breath he takes that tells Nikolai that he’s grieving, too, and then her name is the only thing that fills his mind, like pure, concentrated sunlight.

You don’t have to do that, Alina had told him once when his armor had slipped and he’d covered the lapse with brainless charm. But I do, Nikolai had said, and he did, because the thought of his insecurities laid bare for all to see was unbearable. He’d loved her, and yet he still hadn’t wanted her to see him.

You don’t have to do that.

He gently pulls away, his face flushed and his eyes rimmed in red, his breath unsteady. Mal looks much the same, blinking quickly before he meets his gaze. There’s no sense in trying to hide or reaching for his armor. It’s already been cracked open, and now his insecurities are scattered all over the floor, laid bare for Mal to see. It takes everything in him not to flinch away. Not to close the door on this as he’s done so many times before.

Mal releases a soft, tired breath, skimming his thumb gently over the damp curve of Nikolai’s cheek. Briefly, Nikolai closes his eyes as he tries to gather what little strength is left inside of him. Don’t look away. Don’t close the door. You don’t have to do that.

“Nikolai,” Mal whispers, his expression pained. “Ask me to stay.”

The words feel caught in his throat. He swallows. Don’t look away. Mal’s eyes are the sea. Don’t look away.

Is it as easy as just asking? Is this the thing that he’s never been able to bring himself to do?

Mal looks at him with only the barest hint of expectation in his eyes, and that truth cuts Nikolai unexpectedly, that all of his running has drained the hope out of him. In so many moments the only thing that’s kept them all going has been Nikolai’s unyielding demand that they place their faith in him and believe that he will carry them to shore. But in this private intimacy he shares with Mal, he knows he’s lost his faith somewhere along the way.

“Mal,” he breathes, keeping his gaze firm. He needs to say this. He needs to look this thing in the eye and say it. Saints, he wants Mal. He wants him by his side and the thought of him not being there makes him feel sick with loneliness.

“Stay with me, Mal,” Nikolai finally says, not a command as his king, but a plea. The words ache as he pushes them out. “Please stay by my side. I should’ve said this before. I wanted to, I just — I could never get the words out.”

This time Mal closes his eyes, lowering his head as he takes a shuddering breath. The pool ripples when Nikolai moves his hand to Mal’s waist, giving him a gentle pull forward just because he wants him near.

“You?” Mal murmurs, a spark of mirth in his wet eyes. “Not being able to get words out?”

Nikolai exhales softly, the corner of his mouth rising. “Preposterous. I know.”

“Can I kiss you?” Mal asks suddenly, earnestly, his voice quiet. The memory of blood springs bitterly onto Nikolai’s tongue.

“Not like last time,” Nikolai says, even though he wants this more than anything. Has wanted this since the first time. He shakes his head. He can’t. Not again. Not on top of this sorrow. “Not if… not like that.”

“I promise.” Mal’s hand rises, hesitant, but eventually ghosting once again over Nikolai’s cheek. “I promise you it won’t be like that.”

Sudden hope buds in his chest, the same hope so many have warned him against. The wind in his sails to carry him home. His lips burn with the same metallic taste, but he reaches for Mal’s promise. He wants it wiped away, the agony and confusion of that hard kiss he hasn’t been able to scrub from his memory.

“Then yes,” Nikolai whispers, drawing close enough to count the different shades of blue in Mal’s eyes. “Please.”

Mal bridges the space between them without hesitation, their mouths pressing together, and this time Nikolai meets his kiss. His breath pulls out of him, but not the way it was before. Not like a sudden blow that leaves him gasping. Instead Mal fills him with a hazy comfort, spilling against his raw parts and jagged edges. The windows are dark now, and Nikolai glimpses the muted candlelight bouncing along the moving water. There’s no blood, no searing discomfort. There’s only the warmth of Mal’s lips and the gentle burn of the stubble at his jaw. So that’s how it feels.

He’s being swept away to sea, but this isn’t drowning. Far from it.

Nikolai brings a scarred hand to Mal’s hair, gently curling his fingers in the softness he finds there. Mal nudges him closer, the water splashing softly when he moves to grip Nikolai’s hip. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark now. It doesn’t matter that they’re late to Mal’s going away party. It doesn’t even matter that all of his letters are still scattered on the floor, all of the words and promises and heartbreak that now exist between the two of them and not just between him and his own loneliness.

All that matters to Nikolai is Mal’s mouth. That he didn’t look away. That he didn’t close the door. And maybe he’s starting to believe that despite the wreckage and despite the pain, it’s going to be okay. Hope is the only thing he’s ever had to hold onto, and he leans into it now. And he feels those familiar winds catch him.

His heart is still beating and it’s going to be okay.

My dearest Alina,

I said I wouldn’t do this, but here I am again, penning my heart to my dearest friend. I don’t mind that this turned out to be another one of my clever lies. Truthfully, I’ve missed writing to you. I hope you haven’t missed hearing from me too terribly much, because I hope, wherever you are, you’re brilliantly happy. Perhaps every once in a while you might look fondly upon a certain emerald and remember the young prince that so desperately needed the friendship you granted him.

Mal speaks of you often, so I now know that you complain about hard cheeses and that he was the only one to laugh at your morbid jokes. He said he doesn’t remember if he ever told you you were funny, so here I am to tell you: you’re not quite as funny as I am, but you still shine radiantly above the rest. You’re certainly funnier than Mal. I’m charmed by every new thing I learn about you, although I must admit it’s bittersweet that I couldn’t discover these things firsthand.

Ravka is doing as well as can be expected. I’m doing as well as can be expected. I hope that doesn’t sound worrisome. I haven’t felt this way in months. The clouds are still above me, but now I can see the dawn breaking through, and I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is that I’m no longer alone in the dark. I owe you a tremendous debt for that, although I think I’ll pay my penance to Mal.

You’re in my heart. That will always be true.

Until the next one.

Yours,
Nikolai

“What’re we supposed to be looking at?” Mal asks, peering at the billowing white sheet covering the outline of a large frame mounted onto the palace wall. “This is a portrait of you, isn’t you?”

“Mal, please. It’s been less than a year since my coronation portrait. I don’t think I’ve aged that much.” Nikolai rubs at his chin. “Have I?”

Mal glances over. “Think I see a gray hair.”

“Don’t be ugly.”

“Impossible.”

Nikolai blinks, thinking it over. “Maybe.”

In fact the portrait is not of him, but it’s one he has carefully overseen and even offered his own sketches for reference. He’s not sure it can even be classified as a portrait, but he’s certain that the walls of the Grand Palace could use a breath of fresh air at this point. There are only so many identical Lantsovs one needs to look at.

Nikolai signals with a nod, and the servant waiting patiently by the wall pulls away the sheet. Nestled in a gleaming gold frame is a painting of Alina on the Volkvolny, though he had to flub some of the details to keep the secret of Sturmhond’s ship just that. It’s a moment that lives in his own memories, of looking over and seeing the girl they just rescued lingering by the railing of the ship, her brown hair lifting in the damp sea breeze.

He steals a glance at Mal, almost holding his breath. Mal is deathly silent and still as a statue, and for a brief moment Nikolai wonders if perhaps this isn’t the grand idea he thought it would be.

Then Mal exhales, his shoulders relaxing. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I remember this,” he says, his teeth catching his bottom lip.

Nikolai looks back at the painting. “As do I. Very well.”

“I liked your ship.”

“I loved my ship.”

“She didn’t even know who you were here.” Mal lips quirk up into a brief smile. “Neither did I.”

“All intentional. Besides, I already knew who she was, although I never could have imagined how important she would become to me.”

Mal’s eyes haven’t moved from the painting once. He lapses into silence again, and the next time he speaks it’s with mirth in his voice.

“You know Alina would hate this, right?”

Nikolai breaks into a wide grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Sometimes…” Mal trails off, and Nikolai watches the sweep of his lashes, watches him nearly lose himself in thought. “Sometimes I think the people don’t know that she was more than just the Sun Summoner. She was so much more than that.”

“Indeed.” It had been a conscious decision to render her as when they first met. There are paintings and figures and likenesses of Sankta Alina, the beloved Sun Saint, displayed all over Ravka, but nothing of her like this. Nothing of the girl he knew who smiled when the cool spray of the sea dampened her cheek. “I’m not much for worshipping Saints. That’s not how I choose to remember her.”

“Thanks,” Mal says softly, the barest waver in the word. Down by his side, Nikolai gently lets his gloved hand knock into Mal’s. Readily, Mal gives it a brief squeeze. “The palace gets pretty lonely, but this spot right here? It’s pretty good.”

“Yes,” Nikolai agrees in a quiet murmur, tilting his head. Mal’s gaze still points to the painting, but Nikolai’s eyes are on him. “It’s good.”