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Genya Safin rose with the early sun on a particularly busy morning. Allegedly, the Sun Summoner had been brought to the Little Palace the day before; and while the Tailor still held her doubts, there was no denying the rumours that spread between both Palaces in Os Alta. Plus, the Darkling and the King were happier than she had ever seen either of them.
Not that the Darkling ever really smiled.
So something about the new Grisha had to hold true to the rumours.
The Darkling had asked her personally to work on the cartographer, pretty her up for the King like preparing a banquet for a grand feast. He had told her to limit the alterations done to the Sun Summoner and whilst Genya had initially turned up her nose at the absurdity of such a request... She knew it was the right call.
She knew better than most that there were consequences for being too beautiful.
The light had just begun to filter into her chambers, soft pinks of dawn painting the white walls as she climbed out of bed. A glass of half-drunk Kvas had been left on her bedside from the night before and with a swift motion and a long swallow, Genya soothed her dry mouth with old liquor and prayed to the Saints for strength.
The amber-eyed Tailor sat at the dressing table, perched on a cushioned stool of golden, crushed velvet, in the Grand Palace where she had her own room just down the stretching hall from the King and Queen, it was tiny in comparison but lavish in its accessories.
On the East side of her small room stood a gorgeous screen of intricately carved Birchwood, encrusted with flecks of gold and river-pearl even though she had the small privilege of privacy and a lock on her door. The Queen had gifted it to her and had servants bring it to her room; it was by far the most beautiful thing in Genya's quarters; well... besides herself.
But the deep-auburn haired girl had her suspicions that the gift was a play of the Queens jealous mockery, for carved into the white wood were the images of small, golden birds in flight, looking like they were about to take wing and fly right off the screen itself. The meaning was not lost upon the young Tailor who eyed the partition with envy.
She would never be free, would never get to fly from her exquisite confinement.
Centre-South of her quarters stood a bed big enough for four people to lie without touching and was home to the arrangement of many pillows in white silks and saffron-dyed furs, each carefully embroidered with the most intricate designs and yet each cushion spent the night on the floor after Genya was too tired to deal with fighting the pillows for space in her own bed. That was of course, if she was finally fortunate enough to spend the night in her own bed.
The northern wall was in fact, mostly window, which looked out upon the bridge that separated outer Ravka from the Dream City, the bridge that was almost always drawn up, keeping the fountains, palaces, gardens and herself locked away from the outside world.
In front of the window is place to her pride and joy; the dressing table, long and narrow, with three tall mirrors that reflect her face from different angles. It was nearly as glamourous as the Queens dressing table, with the reductions of fancy crystal bottles of expensive perfumes.
It was true that Genya also had a room in the Little Palace too, a shabbier hovel in the servants quarters, devoid of all the luxury that she had suffered and worked hard for. If that reason wasn't enough to confine herself to he Grand Palace; it was the rage of the fat, childish King when she wasn't there to answer his entitled beck and call.
So she made a point never to sleep in the servants quarters even though it turned her fellow Grisha against her even more. They called her a pet to the King and Queen. And for once, they were right.
Nobody really knew where Genya was meant to be, in her presence and her status.
Genya Safin wore the white and gold kefta , the attire of the servants rather than Corporalki red, yet she spent most of her time catering to royalty, flooding the queens' lips with colour, amending her eyes a blue that was far from natural.
It was clear that she didn't belong in the same tier as the other Grisha, even the lowly fabricators looked down on her, thought less of for the same abilities that had brought her to the Little Palace in the first place. She was Overshadowed and Overlooked.
Even she didn't know who she was or where she belonged. But there was one constant rock of truth, that would remain until the end of time. The one thing that Genya knew with all her being. She was beautiful.
The tailor was gorgeous and she knew that; how could she not? There was no ignoring the attention that her beauty drew from all parties. She didn't mind the petty attention; walking into the dining hall and feeling the eyes of the higher ranked Grisha in their dark blue and red kefta , staring with a concoction of longing and jealousy; or in those very rare times of freedom where she could afford to amble around the marketplace, looking for new varieties of colour for her kit, and often catch a stranger fall into the trap of wanting. Of course there was the attention her beauty had drawn in, the king and queen as such, and she had paid heavily for their attention.
But the fact remained that Safin was beautiful and it was obvious, the cocky air around her was indeed a cloak of vanity. But where most Grisha earned their steel, Genya had earned her vanity, harnessing her small science for the majority of her life, playing with perfection. After being placed in the position of pet to the queen, and king, she deserved to feel gorgeous.
After all, without her beauty what was she? Like an Inferni without flint, she'd be as good as an otkazat’sya.
The thought of not being Grisha at all made Genya shiver as she took the shimmer of a river pearl and let the iridescent colour paint her nails, taking a moment to admire how they took on nearly every colour in the morning light.
Not Grisha...
There were moments, brief as the passing shadow of a crow across her window, where Genya wondered what picture might await her in the reflection of the mirror if she hadn't been altering her image since the age of five.
Not as beautiful, that's for sure.
She currently considered the alternative whilst running her fingertips against the tight, smooth and flawless skin of her cheeks, a rose-petal blush adorning the trace she left behind. The chiselled definition of elegant cheekbones. The thick curls of her dark lashes that brought about a pretence of innocence to her gorgeous features.
How much of it had been tweaked over time until she had reached an ever obtaining perfection?
She styled her long, auburn hair, twisting curls into place and picking out a subtle pair of golden earrings which she used to flick a shadow of gold onto her eyelids. A heavy breath tumbled from soft, cushioned lips as Genya greeted the day, same as every other, alone, even when she’d had company the night before. It’s a sigh that holds the weight of the world.
Genya Safin had to be the only servant to treat herself like royalty. And she deserved it for everything she had endured,
Before leaving her room, Genya pleaded with her reflection, but to anyone else who might have happened upon her chambers, she seemed to be staring into her own eyes with a pierce hardness. The waiting game was a long and unfair one; how long had she been waiting for a purpose other than to stop the Queen’s breasts from sagging to her navel?
Whilst rare, her perfected small science was hardly useful, as many Grisha liked to remind her as she walked past the dinner hall after already dining with the Queen’s servants. In the event of the war, she could do little more to help the second army than disguise people to death.
But the Darkling said she had her uses, as did the King and Queen, but those uses contrasted differently and all three made Genya a variation of uncomfortable.
She pleaded to the silent image in the mirror, for something, anything that might make all of this worth it; the pain, the insufferable jibes, the beck and call of royalty. Somehow all the lavish privileges she obtained from being a pet, the pretty jewels, the embellished necklaces, hardly seemed a fair compensation for the resentment that followed her from the Little Palace.
Being up so early meant at least one thing; she didn’t get time to grab herself some breakfast from the kitchens before her work began, but luckily, as she hurried to the Queen’s chambers for her majesty’s preparations, the maids were wheeling out a trolley of mostly untouched fruits and pastries.
Genya stealthily slid a crumbling pastry coated in sugar from a passing plate and stole a moment to herself in the empty corridor to devour a tasty breakfast. The sugar stuck to the back of her throat and she found herself wishing she had time to get a glass of tea.
She made sure to wipe any traces of sugar or pastry crumbs from her kefta before entering the Queen’s lounge with a sharp, resentful knock.
“You’re late.” the Queen snarked with a haughty arrogance as she sat proper on her stool, clearly waiting for the Tailor to make an appearance. She was clad in a silken purple nightgown with billowing gauze sleeves and flowers stitched into the fabrics.
She continued airily, “I should have suspected that it would take you so long to perfect this,” with those words she gestured to Genya’s face and the Tailor felt her face grow warm, the blood racing to the tips of her ears that rendered a similar shade to her red hair.
“Many apologies, Moya Tsaritsa, I may have imbibed in too much kvas last night,” Safin lied through gritted teeth as she laid her kit down on the table before her.
She would rather the Queen think of her as a servant with a taste for liquor than a Grisha that had to take so much time to perfect her beauty.
The Queen turned her head to the side, her nose turned up with disapproval, “You are nothing but a drunken fool. I have no clue what the King sees in you,”.
“The same as everyone else,” Genya answered in a monotone whisper as she pulled a shard of Seaglass from her kit, “A pretty face,”
She heard the sharp crack before the feeling of hot, white pain even made sense and her hand flew up to the searing and quickly reddening mark on her cheek. Her fingers soothed the pain with an itching sensation and just as easily brushed away the stain of red; her alabaster skin flawless once more.
Genya took the beating as a chance to practice on blemishes, not that she needed it.
The Queen said nothing as she glanced hazily into the mirror, nursing her hand. There would never be an apology from those royal lips. Instead, she seemed to forget the ordeal and lifted her chin with superiority.
“Today, I’ll be wearing blue.” she announced and that was that.
Genya took a moment to pull herself together before pulling out an arrangement from her kit; a speckled blue duck egg, a single withering bluebell, a sky-blue thread from the cuffs of a Tidemakers kefta , and she spent the better part of the morning readying the Queen for the Sun Summoners display.
With only an hour left until the King expected to see his new prize, an orphan girl, mapmaker, Genya hurried to the Little Palace with such haste her curls flew behind her. She barely had the chance to listen to the words thrown her way from the dining room as she ran through to the stairs.
“What’s the rush, little pet?” she heard the female Squaller call from behind her as she ran past. Zoya, always so beautiful but could never hold a candle to Genya’s pristine features. “Running for your master?” A couple of Etherealki laughed and barked as she hurried past, head held high and an air of confidence that refused to acknowledge the statements.
Safin ran up the stairs to the Sun summoners quarters, all the while swearing that if she ever got her hands on Zoya Nazyalensky, she’d give her a huge black wart on the tip of her nose.
She had not yet met Alina Starkov, but despite her own smug little attitude, she could only hope for a saviour, maybe a friend... someone who perhaps would see more than the colours of her Kefta .
The hallway was pitch black aside for the window at the very end of the corridor that lit only a foot or two of rich carpet in silver moonlight as Genya quietly crept from the King’s quarters feeling sick in her stomach. He laid like a pig and smelt like one too. She tiptoed the hall in the dark, eager to find the comforts of her own privacy, when the shadows around her began to shift and even the dim moonlight couldn’t break the concealment of the dark.
Had she not been used to the Darkling's secret visits, the dark might have spooked her, but now she just stood, blind to any passers-by and glanced up as General Kirigan stood in silence beside her in the safety of the dark night.
“How is she?” he asked in a plain, hard tone. All greetings, though few, started this way, the living amplifier checked in every now and then for news on his little project.
It had been a number of weeks and Genya had warmed up to Alina Starkov, and would sometimes join her for meals when she wasn’t needed elsewhere; they traded stories, gossip and more than once the Tailor ended up styling the Sun-Summoners hair when she was bored, or touching up the dark circles under her eyes even when Alina said no.
“Still settling in... confused, scared, she still doesn’t believe she belongs here,” Genya whispered, her heart felt for the new Grisha.
“Neither do you,” responded the Darkling, “And you’ve been here a lot longer than her,” Safin shifted uncomfortably beneath her Kefta , not too sure what his point was but it definitely was true. Neither Palace would ever feel like home to her.
A quiet settled between them and just as General Kirigan was about to release the darkness that hid them in shadow, Genya spoke up, “She’s still writing letters,” At this point, the man said nothing, byt held out his hand, palm to the sky. Safin pulled out three letters from the safe pockets of her long sleeves, each addressed with neat, slanted handwriting.
Mal Ortesev.
An uneasy tug yanked at her heartstrings as she handed the letters over, feeling sick with the betrayal. Alina had given these to her in confidence with the purest hopes she would send them on... Aline who had never done anything to warrant her despicable betrayal... Alina, who had always treated her like an equal and a friend, who had no reason to suspect that the Tailor would turn behind her back like this.
It pained the Grisha to think of the hurt and disappointment in the Sun-Summoners eyes if she ever found out.
There was a short burst of reconsideration, like a blinding light in her own chest; but for her to be free of the King, the Darkling would have to rise to power, and the only way he could do that was with Alina Starkov at her full potential nad not wasting time pining over a soldier of the first army.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered out into the darkness, her tough resolve the only thing keeping the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. The darkling hadn’t moved once and didn’t turn his head to the sound of her emotion.
Instead, he just muttered, “Soon,”.
He had promised her ‘soon’ a lot, that she only needed to struggle a little longer until everything came into fruition. But this time, with the sound of his voice, she could tell that he meant it, with Alina pushing her limits daily with Baghra and Botkin. It was only a matter of time before she was strong enough to play the part the Darkling had assigned for her.
“She could save a lot of people,” Genya whispered quietly, amber eyes drifting to the floor. Surprisingly, he moved at this, turned to face her for once and rest a hand on her cheek, the way he had done when she was eleven and brought her to the Queen as a present.
She flinched, for this was the spot where the Queen so often struck her, but the Darkling either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“This is true, but she has a part to play in the works that have been set in motion for centuries. With her help, she will bring around a new era... The King will be in your pocket,” It’s this promise that always brings Genya back to the idea that the Darkling offered her freedom.
“And the Queen?” she asked, lifting her gaze.
“As good as a prisoner in her own home,”.
He drops his hand and shifts back into the prior position, standing side by side, back to the wall and watching. Always watching.
After another elongated silence, he sighed and spoke once more, a moonlight tint in his black eyes, “She could save a lot of people, but that doesn’t bring the bad ones to justice... That is what I can do for you, Trust me, and Trust her, at least for now,” those were the last words to be spoken in a dark hall with nought but the soft moaning of the wind creaking in thew roof.
Genya returned to her room that night with true confliction between a friend and her freedom.
“You were amazing!” Genya gushed with flowing compliments as she fell into Alina’s chambers after her demonstration in front of all the most important people in Ravka, having one to many glasses of Kvas that evening.
The Sun-summoner felt elated, high on the clouds after displaying her light in the most effective manner, showing the world who she really was... A powerful Grisha... A saint.
“I was, wasn’t I?” laughed Alina, giggling and blushing in girlish fantasy as they both fell together onto Alina’s bed, feet sore from spending the whole evening in small heels, meeting strangers and dancing to music.
Genya softly jabbed her in the ribs, careful not to maim the lush black robe. “And you have the nerve to tell me to be humble!” the auburn-haired tailor laughed, a smirk etched upon pillowy, rose lips as she caught her breath, finally sitting up, some of her curls coming loose from its perfect updo.
“But that was... that was incredible,” she smiled as she caught her breath, staring at the other girl with an adoration that most people used to look at her beauty. “That was the brightest light that I’ve ever-” words failed her and Genya started laughing again. “I guess that’s why you’re Alina Star -kov,” Safin joked and the ex-cartographer fell into a fit of pained giggles.
“Saints! That was the most terrible joke in all of Ravka!” she swore, her face red from too much laughter, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
“Excuse you! I tell the best jokes!” Genya shoved her again lightly, a look of mock offense gleaming in those beautiful amber eyes.
“Oh really?” Alina asked with a flicker of challenge braving the grin on her lips, “Tell me another one!” she demanded and so Genya did. In fact, they spent perhaps an hour telling back and forth jokes and little anecdotes of where they heard them first. Some were actually funny, and one was so bad that Genya had snorted so hard she had fallen off the bed and Alina found the whole ordeal so hilarious that she had to clutch her sides that wracked with pain until tears leaked from her eyes.
“Another!” the sun-summoner begged once she could finally breathe again, and Genya groaned wildly, she’d run out of jokes ages ago and was now just saying anything funny that came to mind.
Still, the auburn-haired girl cleared her throat and took a moment to look at the other.
Some said that she wasn’t beautiful; but Genya disagreed, she was healthier now than she had been when she arrived after spending a week on horseback. She smiled more and eventually, with better night's sleep, Genya didn’t even need to fix the dark circles under her eyes.
“There were two Grisha girls,” Safin began, fiddling with the golden cuff as she took a leap, not sure if Alina would even reciprocate, yet she was putting herself out there, “Over time, one of the girls came to realise that she cared about the other deeply... she missed the other when she went away and found herself smiling like the sun when she came back...”
Genya admitted timidly, and when she found the courage to glance up, Starkov was waiting expectantly, blinking and patient for the joke to finish. The tailor scolded herself for even thinking that this was a good idea.
“Never mind,” she mumbled miserably, “I forgot the punchline,” for some reason, that seemed hilarious to Alina and the summoner elbowed her in the ribs, causing a genuine laugh to bubble from the redhead servant and wash away the awkwardness that had resided within her.
“You’re so ridiculous! Who even forgets the punchline?” Alina teased and tabbed her fingers into Genya’s side causing the Tailor to squeak in appalled laughter. “You’re lucky you're so beautiful!” Alina grinned as the smile faded from Safin’s lips.
She tried for a smile, reaching into the depths of her hollow chest for anything that resembled a happy girl. The search was fruitless, “Yeah, lucky,” she nodded half-heartedly. Genya didn’t feel lucky when her beauty got her sold to the Queen as a child; she didn’t feel lucky when she was teased daily by the Grisha; she definitely didn’t feel lucky when the King brought her to his bed because she was so irresistibly beautiful.
It took the auburn-haired girl a moment to realise that Alina had taken her hand in her own, and was now drawing soothing circles on the flawless skin, little brushes of light warming the back of her hand.
“Genya...” Alina Starkov whispered with so much care and consideration, “What happened?”
Oh, how badly she wished she could confide in the Sun-summoner, warn her of the men in this Palace, admit to every bad thing she had done and plead for her forgiveness.
“I’ll tell you one day, Alina, I promise,” Genya spoke, her voice low, soft and feeble, laced with sad restraint. “When everything makes more sense, I’ll tell you; but right now...” she sighed, her fiery red curls falling down to frame her perfect face, “Right now, having you here, having a friend, it’s more than I could ever ask from you,”.
And although she had diverted the conversation, she hadn’t spoken a word of a lie. Out of everyone in her life, Genya wanted to tell Aline Starkov everything; but she couldn’t risk the Sun-Summoner knowing of her loathing for King Pyotr, she didn’t want to be a suspect when at long last he would mysteriously fall ill.
Alina squeezed her hand and offered a nod of comfort and reassurance. She shuffled closer to the tailor, messing up the firs on her bed and bumped playfully against her shoulder, “I know a joke,” Starkov offered with a light tease and Genya was grateful that the girl didn’t press.
If she had... maybe Genya would have given into her feelings and ruined the Darklings' plan by spilling every truth in all the disgusting corners where his shadows had infested.
She arched a brow, instead, towards the sky and smirked, preparing herself for something terrible. “Go on,”
Alina readied herself, her lips twitching with the struggle of trying not to laugh too soon. “Why- Why did the cow cross the Fold?”.
That was it. The final straw and Genya creased, laughing prematurely before Alina could even answer her own joke. Tears sprung to her amber eyes and she hiccoughed as Alina punched her for ruining her terrible and obvious punchline.
It had been two weeks since Alina Starkov had fled the Little Palace under the cover of night and darkness, and it seemed like eternity since they had sat together on the summoners bed, laughing at terrible jokes and in Genya’s case, trying to explain her feelings that only came around when the Sun-summoner did.
Genya had known loneliness all of her life, but it stung even worse now. There were no tours of the grounds; no sneaking into the Queen’s dressing rooms; no more stealing pastries for Alina when she was sick of peasant food... no more confiding in a friend.
It was just her and her lonely mirror.
But by running away with Baghra’s influence, Alina had put a halt to the Darkling’s plans and Genya had never seem him so angry, and even though it meant that the Tailor would never see the justice that she deserved... she was glad that the Sun-summoner was safe. And hopefully... far away from here.
She had wished for nights on end that Alina had taken her with her.
Genya Safin hadn’t faced Alina since the Darkling had brought her back with that Tracker she wrote to. He had kept her informed, that everything was back on track, and that the collar had been crafted. Genya had always been uncomfortable at the thought of the amplifier locked around Starikov's throat... she knew what to was to be a slave and the resentment that came with all those who had played a part in her capture.
Back on schedule, the King had fallen fatally ill and the Queen fled to her chambers with the fear of contracting the illness too, and once her part had been played in such a macabre dance, she had been gifted her reward.
A red kefta of the Corporalki with blue cuffs, a combination made only for her.
She slid her arms into the sleeves tailored for her and an embodiment if self-assurance swarmed her being. Awareness crowned her fire-red hair like a halo of understanding, that this was who she is, at long last... Genya Safin, Grisha, Tailor.
Traitor. Said a voice in her head. Was it worth it? You traded your only friend for a coat . The voice snarked and chided with repulsion.
“This Kefta is my freedom,” Genya reminded herself out loud as she braced the cold winters air, still unused to the red that clad her form instead of white. The price she had paid to have her own life, her own respect.
She passed tents and horses, the smell of wet mud and hay was thick in this area and Genya had almost missed such natural scents that didn’t come from a sickly perfume bottle. She had to find Alina; a part of her wanted to show her only friend the progress she had made in her silly little life, the red that she had finally earned.
But mostly, she wanted to be forgiven, and the Grisha felt sick to her stomach that there was a possibility that perhaps, Alina was so repulsed by her to even offer forgiveness; it was a very fair possibility, for if Genya where in Starkov’s shoes, she wouldn’t forgive her either.
“I’m sorry,” She wanted to say as she held Alina’s hand, the way the Sun-summoner had done for her on their last evening together before Starkov had vanished. But the words didn’t come. The tears did.
It took a while for Alina to console her when the initial anger melted away, and Genya knew she had made the wrong choice believing in all that the Darkling had promised her. He had spun her stories of how good the freedom would taste, yet all she could taste was the salt of her bitter tears. After all, who taunted her with tales of freedom after gifting her to her captors?
“Forgive me,” Genya all but begged with a shred of her dignity left intact. She had grown up with the Darkling controlling her allegiance; she had grown up with her priorities being twisted and altered until all that mattered was her face.
Alina mattered more than the beauty on which the Tailor prided herself on. And apart of Alina knew that too.
That was why she couldn’t stay mad at Genya, not for long, and without much of a reason at all, she forgave her only friend in the Little Palace, without even sure if she could revoke that title.
“Did you really believe in me?” Starkov asked after a moment, her voice weak and broken, how Genya hated thinking that she had a part in the Saints downfall, “Or where you feeding me his lies to make me stronger?”
This surprised the Tailor who grasped Alina’s hands, both of them, tightly. “I never cared about your abilities or how strong you were. Are .” she corrected carefully, a timid smile on parted lips as her eyes silently pleaded with the others. “I believed in you, truly, always... because of who you are, Alina.”
A crooked grin formed on the Sun-summoners features and a curt nod dismissed the Grisha.
Their bond was irreversibly tattered, but Genya swore to herself that she would fix it. She had a talent for fixing things; and one day, she would fix everything between herself and Alina Starkov.