Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 1: The End of the Beginning

“To be born is to struggle! It is to know that enemies surround us, undermine us, seek to destroy us! But succumb not to despair. Soon, a light will come to guide us out of the darkness! She will know suffering, she will know truth! She will cleanse the land and absolve us of our sins! She will banish the night and show us the brilliance of dawn…”

-The 66th Apparat

It was cold and dark by the time Assistant Cartographer Alina Starkova of the Royal Corps of Surveyors 2nd Company dragged herself back to her tent. Damp, musty, rotting in places from water damage, and sporting a rather prominent mold infestation, her tent was a proper health hazard. It was also only tent that Supply Sergeant Danilovich would allow being allotted to the Shu half breed, so beggars couldn't exactly be choosers, and this beggar was just desperately grateful to crawl under the first semblance of a roof Alina had the luxury of having ever since the most recent round of violence on the Fjerdan border had flared up. All she wanted to do was crawl into her bedroll (also musty, also the worst bedroll left in the supply train) and keel over for as long as the First Army would let her get away with.

A finger prodded her side that she immediately curled away from, and she made a wretched, mangled sound when it followed her rolling form. 

“No, Alexei, nooooo. Let me dieeeee.”

Alexei Stepanov, ordinarily Saint Alexei, the friend that she did not deserve but who was right now the bane of her existence, sighed. “Alina, come on. You can’t go to sleep yet. You have to eat something or you know you won’t be able to move in the morning.”

Alina groaned into her threadbare pillow before flopping over, eyes squeezed desperately shut. “What’s the point of trying to get food now? The line’s going to be massive now that everyone in the unit is back at the same time, and you know the cooks are just going to send me to the back of the line and say they ran out by the time I get to the front again. I’m not going to get food tonight, so why can’t I sleep instead?”

“Because Petya also thought that might happen and sent me with food she strong-armed out of the cooks for you.”

Alina stilled. Sniffed the air. She cracked one eye open, then scrambled to sit upright. She hadn’t been hallucinating after all!

Objectively it wasn’t much. Some rather shriveled potatoes covered in what the mess called “stew” but widely hypothesized to be the waste-product of some mad grisha experiment, it was the most beautiful thing Alina had seen all day. She snatched the bowl away from a kneeling Alexei and immediately started inhaling her food.

Distantly, she thought Alexei might have muttered something along the lines of, “you’re welcome,” underneath his breath, but Alina was far too preoccupied devouring the contents of her small dinner bowl.

“Alina, slow down,” Alexei said half-heartedly, as though he knew that Alina was going to ignore him just like every other time he tried getting Alina to take better care of herself. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” He scooted slightly to the left as the tent flap rustled open and Agafya slipped through.

Done. She put her bowl down and took a moment to crack her back. “Alexei, you know I’m going to be bedridden for the next few days. A little bit of an upset tummy is not going to make that much of a difference.”

“Useless Alina Starkova, always bedridden and making Petya worry,” Agafya sneered from where she was shaking out her bedroll. “And I thought mutts were supposed to be healthy, not sickly. Is this why plagues keep coming from the South? Inferior Shu blood?”

Alina exchanged a glance with Alexei before rolling her eyes, leaning back on her elbows. Agafya Nikitichna Malaya was a tall, blonde, but otherwise unremarkable woman who had joined their unit a year after Alina had. For a person whose name meant, ‘one who is good in heart and mind’, as well as ‘kind’, Agafya seemed inexplicably determined to disprove her parents' aspirations for her. Once when she had become spectacularly drunk while on leave, she confessed to Alexei that she knew that she was a mediocre cartographer and hid behind her prejudices to avoid her insecurities. Alina supposed she had at one point felt pity for her, but any sympathy she may have had died quickly after several months of her continued sniping at Alina’s heritage long after the rest of the unit had run out of energy to do more than fight and draft maps. 

Still, it was unusual for Agafya to be so lengthy with her vitriol so soon after returning from the fighting. Perhaps she was still smarting from the reprimand she had received from Petya after Alina had absent-mindedly commented that her placement of the border above Ulensk was too far south. Or maybe it was just because she had to take her turn sharing Alina’s tent this rotation and suffering the consequence of the Supply Sergeant’s prejudice. 

“Why are you even here?” Agafya was somehow still talking. “How did you even pass the physical when you’re so weak and fragile?” 

Alina sighed and sat upright, clapping once before raising her hands to the sides of her face, palms open and pointed forward. “Because after many decades of border skirmishes, the army desperately needed bodies and the orphanage desperately needed to get rid of them,” she chirped, lips curving upwards in a smile she didn't really feel. “So! Here I am. Assistant Cartographer Canon Fodder. Like all of us.” She waves her hands sarcastically.

“Getting a little dark there, aren't we solnyshko?” 

Petya! 

The sturdily built cartographer ducked through the tent flap. The rock upon which their little group of individuals had fortified themselves into a unit, Petya Mikhailovna Vernaya had looked at frail little Alina Starkova fresh from recruitment and taken Alina under her wing with a smile on her lips and in her dark brown eyes. It had been Petya who had taught Alina the importance of precision in their line of work, had steered lost, lonely Alina towards the cartographer’s tent in the first place. “A frail girl like you would die immediately if you went into the infantry,” Petya had said frankly. She winked at Alina. “You can be my apprentice instead. I’ve always wanted one of those.”

Alina had once wondered how it was that Petya had not made Senior Cartographer by virtue of sheer competence after the last Senior Cartographer died in battle, but she quickly put two and two together when she saw the newest Senior Cartographer, a weak chinned, sallow faced man who she recognized as the second son of a baron she had seen once at one of the Duke’s charity galas during her time at Keramzin. He had been laughing with the Colonel in the manner of old friends, exchanging hearty back slaps in the middle of the garrison. Petya’s eyes had been dark and cold in a way Alina had never seen before or since. 

If secretly Alina had been relieved at the prospect that Petya would be staying with them for the foreseeable future, well. She would bear the guilt of her relief if it meant she could continue sitting by Petya late at night, drawing in silence.

“If a little darkness means I’ll get some extra sleep, I’ll be happy if an eclipse decides to pass by.” Alina told her supervisor, accepting her customary headpat as Petya passed by on the way to her own cot. “Old bones,” Petya had chortled once when a younger Alina had asked indignantly why Petya had a cot to herself while Alina had to make do with a bedroll, nevermind that Petya was at most only six years older than her.

“The Darkling isn’t anywhere close to us,” Agafya sniped, “pity, seeing as he’ll have to sacrifice some poor Ravkan to feed his grisha magic instead of Starkova making herself useful for once in her life.”

“Agafya!” Petya snapped, “you’re out of line! I won’t tolerate that sort of language, not towards a member of this unit or the Black General. If you don’t keep that tongue of yours in your head, I’ll have you digging latrines for a month!”

“Defending your pet as always, hmm Petya?” Agafya spat out the word pet with particular vitriol. “The grisha loving is a new look though. What, did you tumble that squaller who was looking your way for once?”

“Keep digging Assistant Cartographer Malaya. The practice will serve you well when you’re digging latrines for two months -”

It was at this point Alina found she no longer had the energy to continue listening to the argument. Petya may have outranked Agafya, but ever since Agafya cozied up to Senior Cartographer Rostovsky, she had become insufferable. That she was likely going to be promoted to the same rank as Petya soon despite her sloppy cartography only exacerbated tensions and made Alina feel bad for Alexei who in all likelihood deserved the promotion the most — if the decision was based on merit. 

As for Alina herself? Well. Between the two of them, Alina might strictly speaking be the better cartographer, but she had long given up hope that a half-Shu orphan would ever be able to have a career in the Ravkan military. Her best bets were to either do her tour and take her chances alone in the outside world, or cling to Petya and hope that she survived long enough to get promoted and would take Alina with her wherever she went. Not that the odds were particularly high or that a promotion would be awarded any time soon. Setting fatality rates on the Fjerdan front aside, their little unit was under Colonel Chenkov’s purview. So long as he was in charge, Petya’s file would never get a second glance without an influential sponsor.

Little Alina clinging to Petya’s skirts, Agafya had sneered. When will you let go of mother, little girl? How will you face the world when there’s no one else to hide behind?

A sickly girl, too slight to bear healthy children if a man ever looked her way, too frail to survive if she ever tried. She had overheard Ana Kuya say once, late at night long past when the children should have been in bed. What else could she be in a world as cruel as this one other than a burden?

The argument ended when Agafya stormed out of the tent and Petya was left to sigh in irritation, hand moving loose strands of brown hair out of her eyes. She then crept over to where Alina was beginning to doze off, and knelt down. Alina felt Petya’s rough, calloused hand gently stroke her head. “Oh Alina. Don’t listen to what bitter people like Agafya have to say about you. You fought so hard today, you were so brave.”

“If it wasn’t for you seeing that Drüskelle sneaking up behind Emiliya, things might have actually gotten really nasty,” Alexei piped up. Alina had by this point honestly forgotten he was still there.

She felt her eyes begin to tear up now that there was no need for pretending, no need to lock her emotions behind the iron pikes and fortified steel she had spent years building to protect herself in Kermazin, in the army. Not in front of the people she knew she could trust and let see behind a border more solid than the one she'd been fighting on that very day. The events of the day were setting in, and she could no longer stop herself from feeling the grief she had been forced to set aside to survive. “But I still wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t save Grigori.” Grigori. Haughty, brave, contradictory Grigori. Generous one moment, opportunistic the next. The boy who had complained incessantly about being drafted but was the first into battle and the last one to leave, now dead; never to fulfill his dream of apprenticing with the blacksmith he admired so back in his hometown.

“Oh Alina,” Petya sighed softly, “This is how war is , dear heart. People die, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t save everyone. But you fought as hard as you could to save the people who were left. Sometimes, that’s all we can ask of ourselves.” 

“I don’t want to kill people,” Alina murmured, drifting closer and closer to sleep’s sweet embrace, “I just want to save them.”

“I know Alina. I know,” Petya leaned down to give Alina a small kiss on the forehead. “Go to sleep my dear. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

Belly full and body aching, soothed by Petya’s hand gently stroking her hair, Alina allowed herself to relax and let go. 

~

The next morning, Alina swayed on her feet as she stood in the meeting tent awaiting orders with the rest of her unit and a infantry squadron from the 37th. They were expecting good news this time at least. Their unit had been fighting on the front lines defending against the hit and run tactics of Fjerdan war parties for the past six months. This was not as long as the infantry units, which generally served three rotations totalling nine months, but their unit was not actual infantry. They had been deployed to a combat position out of necessity, not because anyone thought that sending cartographers to fight Drüskelle was actually a good idea.

But they had served their two rotations at the border and as promised, they were to be rotated back to garrison for at least one rotation of reprieve.

“Please not Ulensk, please not Ulensk, please not Ulensk,” Alexei prayed underneath his breath. “I just want to go somewhere where I can feel my toes for once.”

“So Chernast then?” Alina muttered, smiling when Alexei’s eyes flickered over to her in horror.

She stopped smiling as soon as Lieutenant Bodhan marched into the tent, followed by the grisha assigned to their frigid little outpost. There were only four of them here at this minor outpost: Dmitri, the squaller, Irina and Makari, the inferni, and Emiliya, the tidemaker. Resplendent in their blue keftas, they cut a striking contrast to the bedraggled members of the First Army despite the fact that they too had been fighting nearly non-stop for the past three months.

Alina shot Emiliya a quick smile when their eyes met, and Emiliya returned the gesture, before they both had to turn their eyes back to Lieutenant Bodhan who began addressing the assembled.

“Alright, we have a lot of ground to cover today, so I’ll make things brief. The relief forces have arrived —which means that everyone in this tent from the First will be rotating out today. The four of you from the Second, your orders arrived this morning, for your eyes only.” Bodhan pulled a packet of letters out from the inner pocket of his jacket. The four grisha took their letters and opened them, quickly skimming for important information. It quickly became clear who had received good news as Dmitri closed his eyes and sighed, while Makari’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

Emiliya on the other hand became visibly excited, and the ordinarily stoic Ira breathed a sigh of relief. The four grisha had a rapid, hushed conversation underneath their breath. They exchanged hugs and gave each other a kiss on each cheek before Dmitri and Makari swept out of the tent.

Alina felt bad for the two men. They had already been here for two rotations before her unit had even arrived. That they were leaving now meant that they would have to wait one more before another chance at reprieve might arrive with the post.

Lieutenant Bodhan grunted in disgruntled acknowledgement of the presence of the two remaining grisha, though he refused to so much look in their direction. 

Ignorant and narrow minded, Emiliya had complained once, Bodhan thinks grisha are only good as artillery, and will soon become obsolete when better guns become ubiquitous. He lacks the creativity necessary to see more strategic applications of our talents, and blames us for his stagnating career. Chenkov’s man through and through. 

Bodhan clears his throat. “Right. Our orders are to report to the garrison at Kribirsk. We march in twenty minutes. Dismissed!”

Even before Lieutenant Bodhan finished speaking the assembled troops began murmuring at the mention of Kribirsk. “I take it back,” Alexei breathed, “I’d be happy to go to Chernast instead.”

Kribirsk, the doomed city in the shadow of the Fold. All but abandoned— save for the foolish, the damned, and the unlucky First Army units stationed there. The Fold itself was unsettling, an impenetrable curtain of black storm clouds billowing across the width of the country and then even further, but the most damning problem was the strength of the Resonance in the area. 

Everyone in the First Army, hell probably all of Ravka, knew at least one person who had been near enough to the Fold to experience it. Alina herself remembered how it felt the last time their unit had briefly passed through Kribirsk before continuing north to their current posting. The cloying sense of anguish, anger, sorrow, loss, despair that you could feel settle in your bones, could taste on your tongue. The closer one went to the Fold, the stronger the Resonance became, and who knew how it must feel inside . The few that had gone in and survived said little after getting out, but what had been said confirmed what everyone had already known. The death throes of the Black Heretic , the Church cursed, may he rot for eternity.  

The Church had reason to wish the Heretic ill. Beyond matters of doctrine, beyond even the creation and subsequent existence of the Fold, it was the  subtler, but no less intense emotions that had caused domestic unrest and nearly caused a schism in the early Church. Had forced the Tsarist regime at the time to recant its first version of events. 

Betrayal. Heartstopping, heartbreaking betrayal. Then, confusion. The sense that something had gone terrifyingly wrong.

The rumors spread faster than the then-Tsar could ever hope to suppress them. No amount of fear or cajoling could convince the peasantry to stop trying to piece together an explanation for the abomination that bisected the land, to disbelieve what they had felt rattle their bones. 

These days, no one truly knows how the matter was settled. Records of the time were primarily kept by the Church and it was plain to even bookish little Alina Starkova exactly who the authors of the records sought to curry favor with. It was that story Alina would learn during instruction at Keramzin. 

Hundreds of years ago, the Tsar Anastas hired a Grisha as his military adviser, the man that history would only record as The Black Heretic. The Heretic grew hungry for more power, and the King, fearing a coup, put a bounty on his head and any Grisha that stood by him. The Heretic knew he was outnumbered, so he attempted to create an army of his own using the same forbidden science Morozov once used to create his amplifiers. But he failed. He created the Fold instead, and was killed by it, along with countless others: his enemies, followers, innocents. As the Fold raced across the landscape, so too did the Resonance crystallize the horror of that fateful moment for perpetuity, singing the first mournful note of a requiem that would span centuries.

The Resonance was entirely psychological. After multiple claims of heart palpitations and other similar ailments, the Corporalki had conducted a careful analysis of the supposed effects of the Fold on the heart and concluded that there was nothing physically wrong with the individuals in question. If prolonged exposure to the Fold shortened tempers, decreased impulse control, exacerbated the worst in people, that was an issue well beyond the ability of Corporalki to solve. Time , the grisha researchers had concluded, time away from the Fold cures well enough.

Didn’t stop the Fold from being unnerving. Didn’t stop people from wanting to be basically anywhere else. Didn’t stop Kribirsk from being the least desirable interior posting in Ravka.

A flash of blue kefta appeared in Alina’s peripheral vision and she turned to see tidemaker Emiliya Larissovna Grigoryeva standing five paces away, hands tucked behind her back, long black braided hair cascading over her shoulder, a small smile on her face. She was the same age as Alina, yet she was somehow so much more mature than Alina had ever even remotely felt in her life. The tidemaker had warmed up to Alina after a month or so, drawn towards the company of another woman after so long with only three grisha men for company. “Don’t get me wrong, Dmitri, Ira, and Makari are great,” Emiliya confided, “but they see me as a little sister more than anything, and I can’t talk to them about certain things or they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.” She rolled her eyes at this point. “ Men .”

“I heard that you were an orphan too,” she had said one night when they were sharing Emiliya’s cot in the grisha tent, lying on their backs staring at the ceiling, mud stained boots long since shucked and tossed against the far side canvas. Alina, confused at why the tidemaker would want her company, had probed Emiliya for answers. “It’s easy to observe people in a camp this small, and well, like calls to like.” She said the last phrase with the cadence of a well worn proverb, of a truth so plain, so fundamental, it needed no explanation, and so Alina did not ask for one. She could sense that this was a grisha truth, something precious whose meaning lay behind boundary that an otkazat’sya like herself did not have the right to step over without invitation. Emiliya did not extend one, and Alina stayed on her side of the line.

“I don’t remember my parents,” she had told Alina instead, “obviously they must have come from the far side of Novyi Zem because well, you know,” she motioned to contours of her strikingly beautiful face, to the dark color of her skin, “but I don’t remember anything about them. All I remember is the storm, the rocking of the ship, the push of the waves, and washing up on the shores of Ketterdam alone.” 

“How did you survive?” Alina had whispered into the darkness of the grisha tent. She might have grown up in Keramzin, in an orphanage that made it very clear whose generosity and mercy they owed their lives to, a place that trotted out its charges like dolls on display and sent them off to war when they became too old and unsightly. 

But there were stories about Ketterdam, how the city of capital made no pretenses towards charity, and parentless children were seen as commodities to be spent by those who acquired them in whatever manner they saw fit. Orphans there were lucky if they made it to age fifteen with full function of their limbs. 

“Somehow they knew I was a tidemaker,” Emiliya said. “Someone must have had an amplifier on hand, or I must have reached out to the water to defend myself or, I don’t know. Something. Whoever it was that found me auctioned me off quickly enough, and I was indentured to the Lilac House. I did whatever my mistress wanted me to do for three years. Then one day, an agent of the Second saw me playing with a puddle on the street, and smuggled me onto a ship bound for Ravka. I’ve lived here ever since.”

“I was one of the lucky ones,” Emiliya had added when she saw Alina’s wide eyes turned to stare at her instead of the ceiling. “I was found young, and I was kept whole and reasonably well fed so that I could retain my value. Grisha that are found in Shu Han aren’t nearly as lucky. Most of them don’t survive the laboratories, and when they’re found in time they often don’t recover from the trauma. And grisha captured by the Drüskelle get dragged all the way to the Ice Court in Djerholm before they get put on trial for being grisha and burned at the stake.”

“That’s awful,” Alina whispered.

Emiliya shrugged. “We are grisha. That’s just how the world is for us.”

Alina took a moment to let her words sink in before she pushed herself into a sitting position. She looked Emiliya in the eyes. “Would you like a hug?”

Emiliya looked back at her gaze as steady as it had ever been. “I don’t need your pity,” she said carefully. “I’m not that little girl anymore. I don’t need saving. I’ve had a long time to reconcile with my past, and the situation of the grisha in this world is as bad as it has ever been.”

Something hot blazed through her chest, but Alina forced herself to remain calm even as her heart burned with righteous fury. “I’m not trying to- that’s not what I asked . I didn’t ask if you wanted a hug as if that would make up for what was done to you, what’s being done to the grisha! I asked if you, Emiliya Grigoryevna, would like a hug from me, Alina Starkova, because I don’t have a better reason than I want to give comfort to my friend, because a hug is within my power to give.”

Alina wrapped her arms around Emiliya when, after a moment of hesitation, the tidemaker sat up and shuffled closer to Alina. “It’s dangerous to be friends with a grisha you know,” she whispered in Alina’s ear, “what will the other otkazat’sya do to you if they find out?”

“My friends won’t care.” On this point, Alina was certain. They wouldn’t have made it so far past her walls if they were the kind that would think less of her for this. “As for the others, it’s not like I can be more of an outcast right?”

Alina pretended not to notice the arms tighten ever so slightly around her back, the feeling of small points on her shirt becoming damp. “I guess we both know a little something about that,” Emiliya whispered hoarsely. 

They spent the rest of that night in comfortable silence.

Alina’s wandering mind in the present day was drawn back to Emiliya when her eyes suddenly flickered away and she ducked her head shyly. “I never did get the chance to say thank you for saving my life.”

“Because you didn’t have to,” Alina replied immediately, “you would have done the same for me, and you have. We’d probably lose track immediately if we tried to keep score, and you would probably be ahead in the count anyways. I can’t even remember how many times you saved our lives by, you know,” she wiggled her fingers, “sweeping the Fjerdans off their feet.”

Emiliya giggled. “Don’t phrase it that way!” Emiliya exclaimed in mock protest, lightly shoving Alina in the shoulder, “We’re in the permafrost! Making the ice slippery was just the easiest way to throw them off.” 

She sobered quickly however and cleared her throat. “I also came to check if you remember what we talked about that one time. You know, about what would happen after we left this place.”

“Yeah.” I remember . 

Being friends with a grisha was more complicated than making friends with anyone from the First. For one thing, anti-grisha prejudice was also prevalent throughout the First, with many growing up on tales of dark magic, changelings, child eating, and blood sacrifices. 

Monsters , the village elders would whisper where the grisha and the oprichniki could not hear their words, unnatural abominations . 

Grisha also had their hang ups. They almost universally called non-grisha otkazat’sya. Abandoned. They were by and large suspicious of outsiders, and had the quick trigger fingers all combat personnel in the army developed after a certain point. Theirs were probably worse actually, seeing as they spent more time on duty than most.

It made making friends with grisha a dangerous proposition. The relative anonymity that came with larger outposts and larger populations meant that physical violence was a possibility should someone on either side get the bright idea to act on their prejudice. Things had gotten out of hand before.

Even setting prejudice aside, it was relatively uncommon for both a grisha and a non-grisha to be in a situation where they could bond in the first place. In garrison, the First Army and Second Army installations were segregated. Otkazat’sya outside of the Black General’s infamous oprichniki were not allowed into Second Army encampments outside of official business. Grisha rarely left said encampments, preferring the company of fellow grisha over anyone else. 

Though now that she thought about it, Alina wasn’t so certain about how hard and fast that last rule was. During their stopovers in Kribirsk and Ulensk, it seemed true enough, but when they had passed through the mid-sized outpost in Adena...

Regardless, it was in situations such as the one Alina and Emiliya had found themselves in that was most likely to produce any sort of relationship between a grisha and a non-grisha. Grisha deployed to the border were spread thin, being both in high demand and their numbers having been depleted by the last decade of fighting on both fronts of the border wars. This led to deployments like Emiliya’s, in which grisha were needed to hold flash zones outside of the major outposts, but only a few could be spared, and not enough to sustain the insular tribal culture of the Second Army. In these scenarios, a grisha might look outside of their detachment for company. Likewise, after fighting on the border for long stretches at a time, some from the First might find that the people they already knew couldn’t provide something they needed and maybe they could find it in one of the grisha.

Or you know. Both parties just wanted to have sex. That also happened.

The point being it was still doable out here in the sticks. First army officers were too far away to be able to do anything, and Second Army higher ups tended to look the other way so long as the grisha in question kept their hearts safe. But it wasn’t risk free to make friends with the grisha. The First stigmatized any sort of relationship between the First and grisha, and Alina had already heard some new slurs being added to the usual rotation, grisha-tumbler, freakshow, blah blah. The Second Army was also notoriously protective of their own and would make the life of any otkazat’sya hell if they hurt a grisha in any way. But even so… 

Maybe Alina did get what Emiliya meant about like calling to like, even without an explanation.

But it was different in garrison. Alina and Emiliya had talked about what would happen after one or both of them were reassigned from this tiny outpost thirty leagues northeast of Ulensk. They both agreed, they would have to pretend to be strangers. Letters could be exchanged occasionally when they knew it wouldn’t draw undue attention. But this , the sneaking into each other’s tents, the late night story sharing, their easy companionship- this would have to end, even if they ended up in the same place. 

Emiliya looked at Alina, her smile sadder now, but still soft. “Alright,” she said quietly before holding her arms open, “one last time? For the road?”

Alina felt her face contort briefly with grief before she forced herself to smile. “Yeah. Of course.” The hug she gave Emiliya was the hardest one she had given in a while, the tightest she had given anyone besides...Mal.

“No matter where you go, no matter how far the world takes you from me, a part of my heart will go with you,” it was that cadence again, the one that spoke of ritual, of wisdom long kept, of desperately sought prophecy, “so long as you would have my love, know that you will never be alone.”

What could Alina possibly say in the face of that regard? “And you’ll have a part of my heart as well. I’ll remember you. Always.” 

~

It was time to leave. The wagons were packed, the people accounted for. Petya was in the second wagon, riding with the other full cartographers. Emiliya and Ira were somewhere in the middle of the procession, surrounded by an escort of six oprichniki in their dark greatcoats who had been the ones to deliver the grisha’s orders. Alexei and Alina were sitting together in the second to last wagon, with Alina taking the seat closest to the door in the back, and Alexei taking the seat next to her.

With a jolt, she finally felt the wagon begin to move. She took one last look at the tiny outpost that had been her world for, what was it, six- Saints, how had it only been six months?

The place where she had fought tooth and nail nearly every single day in order to survive. The place where she watched people she knew, some she even liked, die. The place where she met people who had changed her life, told her of a world so much bigger than an orphan from Keramzin could have ever dreamed of. The place where she took a life for the first time, but also where she had saved someone else’s.

The tiny outpost thirty miles north and east of Ulensk, indistinguishable from the many that dotted the Fjerdan border, disappeared into the depths of the dark pine forest.

This chapter of her life had come to a close. Now, onto the next.

~

She took the spare time afforded to her during the ride to draw, to catch up on the work she had been too busy fighting or being sick to finish. She took special care marking out the border on her map, adjusting the pressure of her hand to adapt to changes in the road. It was slow going, her exacting need for precision not allowing for mistakes, but the lack of a stable surface making errors more likely. But that was fine. Alexei had long drifted off for a nap, and Alina was not inclined to make conversation with anyone else, so it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do with her time.

The world narrowed around her. All she could see was the border. The thick black line of ink slowly making its way across the piece of paper on her lap, and the granite walls she had constructed around her heart, her mind. They had fallen into disrepair these past two months, dented by the death of Grigori and so many others, eroded by the sorrow of Emiliya’s parting. That was okay. She had time now to start repairs. She could see herself in her mind’s eye begin to sweep the detritus left behind by her grief away from the warm core of her innermost self, the little hearth she kept carefully tucked away where no one who meant her ill could ever hope to see it, timing the motions of her imaginary broom to the strokes of her pencil, or was it the strokes of her pencil to the motions of her broom? It didn’t matter, so long as she had something to do. So long as Alina was still alive, she would force herself to stand, and fix what was broken.

Time passed slowly but she could feel it pushing at the edges of her mind long before she could see it, knew that they had arrived. The tension in the wagon mounted as people began to fidget restlessly and murmur anxious conversation. 

She glanced outside through a gap in the canvas covering the wagon. There it was. The ghost town at the foot of the supposed entrance to the Blighted Lands.

Kribirsk.

The Fold.

They had arrived.

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 2: Sacrifices- But By Whom and On What Altar?

“You can plan for every externality, account for any and all variables except one. The greatest weakness any strategist can have is one that they can never be rid of. Themselves.” 

-General Mikhail Kirillovich Demidov-Kirigan

Lord General of the Royal Second Army of Ravka, Minister to the College of War, Grand Strategist of Ravka

~

The first day near the Fold was always the hardest. The unnatural chill in the air and the haunting melody thrumming underneath her skin sent shivers down her spine and set her teeth on edge. The raw edge of rage and despair would not quite fade, but at least would at least be little less all encompassing given a little time to acclimate. For now, there was little else to do but wait.

There was rhythm to setting up camp, the beat to which Alina had picked up quickly given the nature of the profession. Cartographers were often sent into the wilderness, and one learned to embrace the tent life out of necessity. Her task this time was pitching her tent, which she set up in the middle of the site designated for their unit, underneath an old watchtower. She had learned the hard way that settling on the outskirts was an invitation for some stranger to vandalize her things. At least being closer to the bonfire meant that there were more passersby to possibly see any untoward activity. It was not exactly a foolproof solution but- small victories. Alina would take those. After dropping off her things and eating lunch with Petya and Alexei, the next step was to check in her rifle with munitions. She was almost sad to hand the rickety thing over. Old Faithful was ancient, the last of the D16 model rifles that had been decommissioned in favor of the current D17s, and was inexplicably prone to giving her splinters. But the old girl had never once jammed on her and that reliability had saved her more times than she could count. But it was time to send her back from whence she came. Alina was a cartographer, not infantry, the only weapon she was supposed to have was the standard issue service revolver strapped to her side. If she was maybe feeling a little emotional after handing Old Faithful over, she blamed it on the magic mood altering curtain of darkness. 

Yeah. Definitely the Fold’s fault.

Her duties completed for the moment, all there was left to do was to make herself scarce.

Alina was being sensible for once. Aside from Alexei and Petya, the most Alina had come to expect from the remaining members of her unit was apathy, and that was on the good days. Today? When everyone was going through Acclimation, and tempers would be hotter than usual? 

Alina was going on a walk. A nice, long one, preferably somewhere out of the way where she wouldn’t run into anyone and possibly get into trouble. Maybe this walk could even be productive, she had always wanted to sketch out the three proximity zones outside the Fold. If she made her way to the eastern edge of the base, maybe she would be able to see the ridge marking the boundary between zone three and the ground border of the Unsea...

There was just one problem. A very minor one. She was completely and utterly lost.

Yes, Alina was well aware of the irony in a cartographer getting lost. In her defense–

“Why does every tent in this fucking encampment look the same?”

They were all the same off white beige color canvas. Circles upon circles of identical standard issue tents surrounding dozens of similarly sized firepits. 

Why is Kribirsk still an encampment? Alexei had asked the last time they had passed through. Fresh out of Poliznaya, he had been very not happy hoisting tent poles that were both taller and heavier than he was. Officially?  Krugan had said, a month before he would die of gangrene, proximity to the Fold increases the speed of decay in permanent structures. 

Alexei had squinted at this. So why not just build stone buildings?

Unofficially, there’s no budget left. Scuttlebutt says the Tsar spent it all on the last Winter Fete.

Right. So. Alina was very lost. Okay, think Alina, think. What did Petya say to do when  lost? Move towards a recognizable landmark and then reorient from there. Hey, that road seems familiar, wasn’t that the main thoroughfare that ran down the center of the camp? Maybe she wasn’t as lost as she thought she was.

Out of nowhere, a large muscular man walked out from between the maze of tents and crashed into her. Alina– tiny, frail, ninety pounds soaking wet– went flying. The great lunk that had crashed into her barely stumbled, though Alina could see that he had stopped for some reason. “Excuse me? Are you blind? Watch where you’re going!” Oh good. Well done Alina. Your temper and lack of brain to mouth filter, getting you in trouble yet again. Right, time to see who she was going to have run from...this...time?

“Mal?” Alina whispered. 

“Alina?”

“MAL!”

This time contact was welcomed and she felt lighter than she had in years, metaphorically and actually quite literally. Mal had picked her up in a great big hug and given her a twirl in the air before setting her down.

“Saints, it’s been forever since I last saw you! Is that a silver button on your shoulder? It is, isn’t it!” Alina was giddy with, well she wasn’t quite certain, but she could feel something warm pulse and stir deep inside her. This was Mal, apparently now Senior Tracker Malyen Orestev one of the only people in the world she allowed to see inside her walls, with his stupid grin, and stupid face–

“Mal, you asshole!”

“Ow, ow, hey! Alina, what’d I do this time?”

“Malyen Oretsev, you absolute moron! You leave the orphanage without saying anything, I have to find out from Ana Kuya that you left to join the fucking army , then I write letters to you that are pages, pages , and you send me–”

“Two pages and the bottom third of a sheet ripped off and folded in half, I know, I know,” Mal caught her hands as she flailed ineffectually, one after another. “Whoa, whoa, hey! Calm down! Is this you or is this the Fold?” Alina blinked, as his words cut through the haze of anger that had blindsided her after Mal let go of her. “Come on,” Mal cajoled, “breathe with me. In and out. One. Two. One. Two. Steady does it.” He looked into her eyes and examined her carefully. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m– I’m alright.” Alina took deep breaths, could feel the pressure pushing against her heart easing ever so slightly, the rage withdrawing from where it seeped through her borders, pulling back underneath her skin as if to lie in wait.

“I’m still mad at you,” Alina grumbled. She was not pouting.

“Well you can’t blame me for the paper,” Mal grinned. She knew that face, that was the one he made whenever Ana Kuya caught him sneaking out late, the one he made when he knew he did something wrong and felt guilty , “Infantry don’t exactly get that much paper to begin with, not like you cartographers. Besides, I was stationed up in Chernast which doesn’t get non-essential supply runs often, so I had to make do with what I got.” 

Alina was unimpressed with this explanation. “Even infantry in Chernast are allotted at least one sheet every other rotation to write home with. Try again.”

“Ok, so maybe I lost my paper rations in a bet and only got to keep some for myself recently,” Mal graciously pretended to sway when she shoved him in exasperation. “I only sent the bottom third the most recent time because I wanted to save the rest in case something similar happened again! Come on, you have to give me credit for my strategic foresight.”

Alina laughed and shook her head. “You’re actually an idiot.”

Then Mal’s crooked smile dropped from his face. He looked away, “you’re right to be mad at me. About leaving the orphanage I mean. I– it was a dick move, and I know it was–”

“You left without saying goodbye,” Alina whispered.

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Mal and Alina, Alina and Mal. It was the two of them against the world, until one of them left for the world without letting the other know.

“I was a coward,” Mal said hoarsely, “I didn’t want to see you hurt. I thought, if the last thing we remembered of each other was that last night in the meadow, then everything would be okay.”

She remembered that day. The way the last light of the setting sun burnished the wild grasses with a beautiful harvest gold. How, even after the sun had long since set, she could feel a comforting warmth linger in her bones as they laid in the meadow, watching the stars.

How cold it felt when she woke up the next day and the most important person in her life had disappeared without a trace.

“That wasn’t your decision to make, not alone,” Alina said softly, “you didn’t have that right.”

“I know,” Mal said quietly, “I know, I’ve treated you badly these past few years. I might have been fighting, but that’s not an excuse to have been so reckless with the only way I could talk to you. It’s not an excuse for leaving without saying goodbye just to spare my own feelings without thinking of yours. But when I was up at Chernast, all I could think about were the jokes I wanted to tell you, all the stories of Mikhail and Dubrov being stupid. I would look over my shoulder for you and feel empty and cold when you weren’t there. Please.” He reached out and carefully twined their fingers together, the way they used to all the time, for all those years before. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you. Let me try again.”

Something just felt right like this, something comfortable and good rising to the surface. She felt warm and awake in a way she hadn’t since the day Mal left, like the soft light of dawn was warming the blood in her veins. This was Mal, the boy from a time when an orphanage that didn’t care for them as people could never be called home, and so she had made hers out of a person instead. This was Mal, a person who wanted Alina, and how many others could say the same?  

“No more lies,” Alina decided, “no more hiding, no more running away, and no more making decisions for me. If we’re doing this, we’re in this together.”

Watching Mal’s anxious and withdrawn expression open with elation and relief was rather like watching the first light of dawn pierce the shadows of the night. Alina was struck by how complete the change was in him, as Mal drew himself up as though a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Happiness suited him, and only now did it occur to Alina at how handsome he looked smiling at her like that. 

“So where did you learn that trick with the resonance?” Alina abruptly changed the subject. She was definitely not going to examine that last thought, not here at least. Maybe later when she had some time alone to gather her thoughts. She had...many thoughts that needed gathering. “The one with the breathing and everything?”

“Oh, Tyoma taught me it when I told him I was going to be stationed here for a second rotation.”

“Your oprichnik friend? Wait did you say Tyomnyi? Isn’t that name a bit too on the nose?”

“No, Tyoma not Tyomnyi. Could you imagine though, an oprichnik named ‘The Dark One’?”

"A bit on the nose isn't it?"

"Can't imagine why you'd think that."

~

They spent the rest of the day catching up. The work Alina had done on the ride over was paying off; she had handed in her immediate assignments that morning and didn’t have to submit anything else until the end of the week. Mal had briefly pulled over some people passing by and called in a few favors so that he would have the rest of the afternoon free. 

They talked about why they were in Kribirsk, ( her unit was here for a down rotation while Mal had been pulled from his unit mid-rotation for...reasons. He didn’t exactly know what they were but orders were orders), what they had been up to, ( fighting and map making for her, fighting and tracking for him) , her deployment history ( Poliznaya , Kribirsk, Ulensk) , as well as his, (Poliznaya, Kribirsk, Chernast, Kribirsk again) , where they were hoping to go in the future (“I’ve always wanted to go to Ketterdam. I hear their underground fighting ring pays out the nose if you win.” “Mal!” “What?”). For a moment she could almost forget what had happened over the past three years, pretend as though nothing had ever changed. 

She should have known better. Nothing good that was hers was ever meant to last.

Disaster struck over dinner. Lieutenant Bodhan, who had apparently taken up a secondary occupation as a town cryer, got up on the podium in the middle of the mess tent and started bellowing.

“Right, listen up! All of you know that we’ve been going through some lean times on this side of the Fold. The Second Army, however, has a shiny new solution to our food shortage, and it sails tomorrow for Novokribirsk. If this model works, it means a full meal for everyone in this tent next week.” Alina could hear the soldiers around her murmuring at that. “It means bullets for your guns and sugar for your tea.”

“How about some whiskey?” An unknown voice called out to general laughter.

“Yes, that would be nice, but don’t hold your breath. Of course, the Second needs our help bringing those supplies back, so some of you will be assigned. I will now be selecting names for what I call the ‘nightmare lottery.'” Lieutenant Bodhan missed his calling as a thespian as he paused, seemingly only for dramatic effect. “For the supply run across the Fold! Sergeant Yure Teplov. Senior Tracker Malyen Oretsev! Corporal Masyelentov!”

Alina felt her blood go cold with dread. “Did he…”

“Rifleman Valek Tapenyov!”

“It has to be an error. It has to be.” 

“Didn’t sound like an error, Mal.” Mal might be in denial but the both of them had been in the army for far too long to hope that bad news would turn out to be a mistake.

“And finally, Medic Nolech Barenovsky. Come back and line up by rank in an hour for debrief. That is all.”

“Well,” Mal breathed numbly, “I guess I’ll get to visit Ketterdam after all.”

~

That night she sat on the edge of the watchtower overlooking her unit’s campsite. They had parted when it came time for Mal to depart for debrief, but he had promised he would find her as soon as he was dismissed.  

“Please,” Mal had grinned when Alina asked how he would know where to find her, “Tracker, duh? Besides, I always found you as a kid, didn’t I? Just sit tight, I’ll figure out where you scurried off to in no time.”

Part of Alina had taken that as a challenge, her mind immediately attempting to think of the best way to subvert Mal’s uncanny Alina Sense. This went nowhere fast. First, Alina had only arrived this morning. Second, she didn’t know if any of the good hiding spots from last time she was in Kribirsk were still there. Third, she really wasn’t good enough to hide her tracks from Malyen Oretsev, tracker extraordinaire.

And if she was being completely honest with herself, she didn’t actually want to hide. Not when that would mean losing time with Mal, her oldest friend that she just found again, only for him to be taken away from her the very next day.

Crossing the Fold was dangerous . Volcra infested the dark inky depths, attacking sailors . The ground was littered in the debris of failed crossings, the broken graves of ships blocking straightforward passage for the skiffs. Even setting aside the physical dangers of the crossing itself, the Fold itself...changed those who dared to make the crossing. 

The manner of change varied. Some became colder, haughtier. Others became more anxious, haunted. The effect was subtle, hardly noticeable with a single journey, but became far more prominent when compounded with multiple crossings. Such individuals were marked by their journeys, the Resonance singing in the air around them no matter how far they went from the Fold. Just as the change marked them as different, so too did they mark themselves with a ritual cut across the forearm to indicate the number of times they had made the voyage through the Fold that made them other . Even those with only one mark were stigmatized, avoided. If Mal ever made it back to East Ravka, he would have at least two.

How would charismatic, extroverted Mal cope with joining the ranks of the Tainted? The thought haunted Alina. She had seen how popular Mal had become, through his letters and first hand the number of people who had greeted him happily while they were walking through camp earlier that afternoon ( how their smiles shuttered quickly when they saw who was walking next to him) .

But what would Alina’s concern change? Mal was being sent into the Fold tomorrow , into a place where she could not follow. She would be left behind as her oldest friend sailed, to either ostracization or death. Helpless to do anything but watch.

What a joke. What a sick fucking joke.

“I found you.” She didn’t look at Mal as he made his way up the ladder and onto the watchtower platform. She felt the air shift as he swung his legs over the edge to settle next to her.

“You always do, somehow.” 

“Well, it’s not hard, you always perch.”

Was she really that predictable? Even after all this time, Mal still had her number it seemed. “I’m brooding,” Alina said. 

“Well, I have something for you.” Alina glanced over as Mal smiled and did the most ridiculous eye wiggle while holding out a bowl of–

“Are those grapes?” Mal’s smile turned mischievous as she first goggled at the bowl and then at him. The last time she had grapes was when she smuggled the precious fruits from the Duke’s table. In the middle of an army encampment how did he– “Where did you even get these?”

No. He didn’t. “From a grisha tent?” Mal, you reckless idiot. Stealing from the grisha was Second Army business, which meant Second Army got to dole out punishment, and in an outpost where even Emiliya had admitted grisha could be  “a bit touchy” about defending their prerogatives from otkazat’sya– 

“I thought it would get me an invitation to jail, but it just got me an invitation to tumble with a Grisha.”

Jail would be the least of his problems if he had been caught– wait, what was that about tumbling a grisha?

“You tumbled a Grisha?” Alina studiously ignored something black and ugly flare in the back of her mind, shuffling it away into a storage closet deep in the dark corners of her fortress. Also, how? He wasn’t gone for that long right? Exactly how much time did she spend brooding?

Mal chuckled. “No. No, I just flirted with her.” Alina raised an eyebrow. “Ok,” Mal amended quickly, “maybe she flirted with me. Look, in my defense, Grisha women scare me. Okay?”

Alina frowned at this. “What’s wrong with grisha women?”

Mal hesisted at this, tilting his head one way then the other before replying. “It’s not so much grisha women as just...grisha in general I suppose.”

Alina did not like where this was going. “...Go on.”

“The first time I was in Kribirsk, I was fighting in the tents and then two grisha came in, an inferni and a squaller. They thought it was funny how two otkazat’sya were having a brawl, wanted to show us what real power looked like. So they picked a fight and burned Yozhin, pretty badly too. Yozhin got a week in the brig for picking a fight with the grisha, while apparently they got a telling off by their commander and that was it.”

“Most of the time grisha leave us alone,” Mal was quick to reassure her. She could never really hide from him, he must have sensed her uncertainty and mistaken it for concern, “just like at Chernast. Their General is here now too, so none of the grisha have been by to pick on us since. But grisha...they scare me a bit. That kind of power is still dangerous, and when people have that kind of power, it gets to their head. The idea that they can just you know–” he waved his hands, “and kill someone is… I don’t know. Unnatural.” 

Some part of Alina wanted to scream, the part that was the spat upon half-Shu orphan, the part that had been Emiliya’s friend. There was just too much to dissect here, points both valid and decidedly not.

But untangling what was reasonable, what was just prejudice, and what was reasonable but being used to justify prejudice? That would take time, time she did not have. Mal was going on the skiff tomorrow and this might be the last time she ever sees him again. Did she want their last memory together to be an argument?

Oh Emiliya. Her heart ached with the guilt of, if not condoning, then standing by and allowing his words go unchallenged, an act which was functionally indistinguishable. Had this been under any other circumstances, I would have fought dearly to change his mind, to make him see what the world has done to you and yours, to make him understand the validity of your heart. But –

“Let’s not talk about grisha,” Alina said instead, the words tasting bitter and heavy on her tongue. “Let’s be Alina and Mal for just one more night.”

Emiliya. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.

But I can’t. Not tonight. Not when we’re dealt a hand like this.

“...hey Mal?”

“Yeah?”

She looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you scared?” Some part of her watched his face grow uncertain, watched him hesitate and then clear with resolve, and knew he was thinking of the same words she was.

No more lies. No more hiding.

“Yes,” he whispered. She could feel the force of his honesty ache in her bones. “I’m afraid Alina, I’m so very afraid.”

She rushed to hug him and he met her halfway in between. They clung to each other with the knowledge that this might be the last time they would ever see each other, staying that way until sleep came to take them into an embrace of its own.

~

The next day felt grey and flat in a way it hadn’t since Mal left her life the first time. She felt listless, tired, her senses dull. She had lied through her teeth when Petya and Alexei had asked what was wrong that morning over the porridge that had tasted like ash. They had originally planned to go into the town of Kribirsk proper for their first day on leave. Alina had wanted to map out the ghost town, Petya wanted to see if she could find a ghost to scare Alexei with, while Alexei was going involuntarily because Petya said he was. 

She had told them to go ahead without her. She needed time to herself to come to terms with what was happening. She needed space, to be alone with her thoughts.

She did what she did whenever she was in this sort of mood. She went to find the nearest collection of maps she could get her hands on.

Petya had been surprised when Alina had taken to cartography so quickly, but part of Alina had not been. Duke Keramsov had treated the orphanage more or less like a storage facility, offloading unwanted goods every so often at Keramzin for the inhabitants to find some use for them. One day, the Duke’s servants dropped off a crate of books, and in this crate of books had been several atlases.

They had been in mostly good condition when they arrived, with some looking as though they had hardly been opened. The Duke’s son had recently fought in a decisive battle in the border skirmishes with Fjerda, with victory by Ravkan forces pushing the border northwards. In celebration of his son’s accomplishments, the Duke ordered a new set of elaborate, finely calligraphered atlases with the new borders, and had the old set disposed of. 

Ironically he needed not have bothered. The very next month, the First Army would be pushed back to their original positions on the old border, and the Duke’s son would die in a friendly fire accident, leaving the grieving Duke with a grim momento in the form of a set of handsome but inaccurate maps. 

When the discarded atlases first arrived at Keramzin, they had been quickly moved into the room containing the orphanage book collection by the orphanage matrons, and placed in a position of prominence for visitors to marvel at the Duke’s generous donation. Alina as a sickly child had often been confined indoors, leaving her with little else to do but read. She had quickly established a good relationship with Demina, the matron in charge of the book collection, and was given permission to look at the atlases after Demina had noticed Alina admiring the gilded lettering running down the volume spines.

Opening the atlases was a revelation. The maps inside showed Alina a world that she could have never imagined, places with names so distinctly not Ravkan that they seemed fantastical. The world was so much vaster than she realized, so large that the orphanage that had been all she had ever known did not even have a dot to indicate where it was. She spent hours learning the names of cities and countries around the world, dreaming of a day that she might visit. Foolish dreams for an orphan, for a little girl living in an East Ravka hemmed in by two enemies and the Fold. 

She dreamed nonetheless.

But in truth, what fascinated her most was not the glimpses of lands beyond her comprehension, rather, it was the clean bold lines marking the borders.

The way the lines clearly demarcated boundaries between countries and concepts, how different types of lines conveyed different types of information and sometimes the information conveyed overlapped but remained coherent–

it resonated with Alina. Maps gave her concepts and images to understand the structures her thoughts had formed, gave her lines of demarcation around which she could organize her Self , and she did so, tucking the bits and pieces of herself into place. It gave her control, made her feel safe, less like her innermost self would overflow and shine when all she wanted was to hide in the dark where no one could find her and pick on her. 

The atlases would be her sanctuary, a place where she could organize her thoughts and find some measure of solace– at least that was until she was twelve and some of the boys had noticed the half breed was fond of a particular set of books and burned them.

They had been caught, and Matron Demina had given them the tanning of a lifetime. But the atlases had still been reduced to ashes, and Alina had been devastated.

By that point however the association had been made, and Alina sought the company of maps whenever she felt overwhelmed and in need of peace.

In an outpost this size, the garrison map collection would ordinarily be located in the room one door down from the Senior Cartographer’s office. In Kribirsk, where there were no permanent structures, the map collection could be found in the central cartographer’s tent. A meeting point for the cartographer’s units stationed in Kribirsk, it was deserted for the moment. Nearly all cartographers were on leave or distracted watching the preparations to launch the newest sand skiff.

It was then that she saw it. A map nearly identical to the rest, set in a wooden cubby at her eye level, a nameplate with words etched in brass.

Novokribirsk and Surrounding Territories.

Her heart stopped, she felt her mind racing at the possibilities.

The skiff was going to Novokribirsk. Standard protocol for a trip across the Fold was for the senior-most First Army officer on the mission roster to debrief with a designated expedition overseer, likely Lieutenant Bodhan given his role in announcing the participants. If the Lieutenant were to see that the map of Novokribirsk was destroyed, he would order a cartographer onto the skiff to replace it. Bodhan had made no secret that he distrusted the forces in West Ravka, with their talk about West Ravkan independence. He would want a cartographer from this side of the Fold to make a new map. 

Alina was a cartographer from this side of the Fold. She could volunteer to replace the map.

She could feel her arm moving to grab the map. There was a little stove on the other side of the tent. She could burn the map, destroy enough of it to require a replacement be made, but leave enough for Bodhan to know what happened to the map and lead him to the conclusion that she wanted him to reach. 

She paused, arm stilled by indecision. Had she been just a few years younger, this would have been an easy decision. Mal had been the only person she had in her life. She would have followed him into the Fold in a heartbeat. 

She could feel the seconds she spent in hesitation pass by. Her window of opportunity was closing.

But it was different now. She had Alexei and Petya to think about now. How would they react to learning that she had volunteered for a run across the Fold? She could just. Stay. Let Mal go. Mal was a survivor, he would get across just fine. She had people here who cared for her, an entire life to look forward to... 

Little Alina clinging to Petya’s skirts. When will you let go of mother, little girl?

What else could she be in a world as cruel as this one other than a burden?

...No. If she stayed behind, then what. Live a life clinging to the two people who had shown her any sort of kindness? Try to find employment outside of the army from people who would look at her eyes, her face, and call her a thief or spy, stay in the army and hear much the same? Alexei and Petya had each other. They would be fine and, if she was lucky, they might even mourn her. But Mal? 

Reckless, loyal, extroverted, Mal? 

Mal was afraid. 

Mal was alone.

She could feel her uncertainty, her insecurities, and nebulous sense of anxiety pressing against the borders of her mind, but she held firm and denied them entry. She breathed in and out slowly. 

One. Two. In. Out.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe the journey was destined to go horribly wrong and all she was doing was feeding one more person to the volcra. Maybe she was just shifting the burden of her person from Alexei and Petya to Mal.

But cartographers made maps to help the lost find their way. 

What kind of cartographer would Alina be if she let a friend go into the unknown alone?

No room for regrets.

She grabbed the map and threw most of it into the flames, before quickly finding cover just out of sight.

No turning back.

~

She didn’t have to wait long.

She heard Bodhan long before she saw him. She watched him duck into the tent and heard him curse the moment he discovered the burning map. “Sergey, how did this happen?”

“We don’t know. We were extra careful to secure all the lanterns.” 

“And what was damaged?”

“Nothing major. Just some records of Novokribirsk, the surrounding valley, and the river system that runs through that. It’s really not…”

“Critical? Geographical data of the territory on the other side of the damn Fold? Those records?” She felt her muscles tense. Come on Bodhan, take the bait.

“Yes, but I’m sure that the First Army on the other side has an…”

“You think I trust anyone else’s intel?” She almost let out a sigh of relief. Good old reliable Bodhan. Never change. “Now someone will have to cross the Fold to redraw these maps.”

That was her cue. She stood and rounded the corner. “I’ll go.” She waited for them to look up at her before continuing, “put me on the skiff, I’ll go.”

She saw the moment that Bodhan recognized her, but also how his eyes blackened with something dark and ugly. “Yes. You will.” His next words made her blood freeze. “Your whole unit will.”

No. No no no no no. No!

What had she done?

~

The lead up to boarding the skiff passed by in a blur. Lieutenant Bodhan had sent runners rounding up the rest of her unit, and soon everyone was packed and lining up on the wooden docks before rippling waves of Darkness, the impenetrably black wall that ran the length of the kingdom and separated Ravka into the New and Old Country. The Black Heretic's death and creation, the site of so much suffering, misery, death. She could faintly hear Raisa insisting that this was somehow Alina’s fault ( she was right for once) , and Alexei defending her (she didn’t deserve it) . She saw Petya’s eyes fill with worry. She felt numb.

It was only supposed to be me.

The rest of the First Army arrived, and she saw Mal’s eyes open wide with surprise. She saw him mouth her name. She nodded but said nothing.

Then the grisha arrived, marching single file up the stairs, their keftas bright even in the shadow cast by the Fold. The brass pendants they wore caught Alina’s eye. Neither Emiliya nor the other grisha had ever worn any jewelry when she had been stationed with them at the border post. Yet every single grisha that had filed in was wearing one, implying that they were likely standard issue. They each stopped in front of one of the dreaded oprichniki who had been standing at attention across from their unit, frightening them into silence at the sight of his infamous uniform. The oprichnik had been holding a polished wooden case that he now opened with ritualistic precision to reveal a case lined with some sort of pearlescent cloth. The grisha one by one took off the brass pendants that they had been wearing and exchanged them for some sort of silver pendant. When Alina squinted, she could see that they were small but intricate silver cylinders studded with openings hanging from silver chains. 

They all boarded the ship, with the grisha settling into position, infantry along the sides of the skiff, while she, the other cartographers, and the medic settled in the hull with the cargo. 

If Alina thought it felt a bit like boarding a funerary barge to the Blighted Lands, she tried not to think about it too hard considering where they were and what the Church said about the darkness she was staring into.

The Inferni at the head of the boat clapped her hands. She was beautiful, with clear dark skin, and long equally dark hair braided intricately over her shoulder. She reminded Alina of Emiliya and the thought sent a pang through her heart. 

She started speaking, articulating her words so that the entire skiff could hear her loud and clear over the thunder of the Fold. Alina was struck by how calm she seemed, how oddly... relaxed she was.

“Here’s how it goes. We go into the Fold, it gets dark, but we like it dark. That keeps us from drawing attention. That’s how we travel. The only light we use is the blue one at the mast,” she pointed at the blue light above Alexei’s head, “It’s weak but safe.”

“But you’re an Inferni, right?” She heard Raisa ask, “Why are you here if we’re supposed to keep things dark?”

The Inferni’s eyes gleamed with unnatural fervor. “For when the dark comes to keep you.”

Another voice called out from above her head. “Ready for launch!”

“That’s our cue.”

The wind picked up suddenly. The squaller must have begun summoning.

“Right, listen to me, cartographers,” Alina snapped her attention back to the Inferni, “until we reach the western dry docks, you are to remain at your station. Do not, I repeat, do not leave the skiff during the crossing.”

The skiff began to move.

“In we go.”

~

The journey was dark, the air oppressive with fear and something... heavier. She hadn’t believed certain stories, thought that while she could accept mood altering magic curtains of darkness, the survivors of the voyage couldn’t have been telling the truth. But here and now, it was undeniable.

Something was watching. It was everywhere and nowhere at once, but she could feel the eyes on her, judging her, following her.

It wasn’t the volcra.

She knew the truth of this in her bones. Something was out there, and it was beyond her comprehension. But some small part of her knew that it didn’t mean her harm. The eyes felt–

curious

A soft little chime rang out quietly. A marker, one of thirty-seven total. Now they only had to wait for...wait. How many markers had they passed already? Had that only been the first? How long had they been in here?

She felt herself growing numb, her heart turning cold. She felt the Resonance drip into her veins, the anxiety, fear, despair, betrayal pouring past her defenses. Her mind was slowing down the deeper in they went. Where was she? Why was she here? What was her name? She was spiralling out of control, anguish flooding her mind.

She was drowning.

The weak blue light at the mast sputtered and died. For a moment, she could see nothing but the darkness and

she

                                      was

               lost. 

Then a light from a flame too bright pierced the darkness and she whipped around to see Armen, cowardly, stupid Armen, standing with a lit lantern shaking in his hand.

“What are you doing?” The Inferni whispered. For the first time this trip, her posture was not relaxed, and Alina could see the fear and anger in her eyes. “Blow it out!”

Too late. They heard a beastial cry in the distance. Then all hell broke loose.

Alina ducked when a leathery winged thing swooped across the deck, grabbing Armen with its claws. His screams cutting off abruptly, as the monster ripped off his skull. The winds were rapidly changing direction, the squaller desperately trying to reverse their momentum and return from the side they came. Armen’s lantern swung across the deck, shattering on the floor, and the wooden skiff was set ablaze. 

She saw volcra swarming in the air around them, the firelight glinting off rows and rows of long serrated teeth. The infantrymen were desperately shooting whatever they could see, but her vision of them was obscured by the smoke of the fire and the chaos of wings battering against bayonets. Up ahead, Alina could see the inferni swung her arms and hands in a wide circle and shout before the air around them swirled into flame.

The flames pulsed midair before moving clockwise, rotating rapidly in a dome. The inferni had created a shield, Alina realized, to buy time for the squaller to correct course. 

For a moment, Alina thought it might have even worked. She could feel the skiff moving backwards, the volcra were dying to shots fired by the infantry and the inferni’s flames.

Then a volcra came barrelling in at breakneck pace, diving straight through the dome. It knocked the inferni off her feet, sending her careening straight into the cargo hold.

The medic raced to check on her, but Alina knew that anyone who hit a wall with that amount of force was out of the fight. They had bigger problems anyways.

The volcra had taken the disappearance of the shield as a signal and began swooping down in earnest. The infantry were in complete disarray, some still shooting with their rifles, others switching to their service pistols.

Alina didn’t know when she had drawn hers but her pistol was out of its holster and she shot desperately at the monsters. The sounds of shots ringing out around her told her that her unit had done the same. They might be cartographers but two months on the Fjerdan front had taught them to never give up without a fight. She shot one down, and then another!

But then she saw him. Mal was knocked into view, rifle braced against the dirty claws of the largest volcra she had seen yet. 

“MAL!”

She couldn’t shoot . The monster and Mal were moving too chaotically, Mal wrestling desperately to hold onto his rifle and keep it between him and the volcra that was snapping at him with its jaws.

She reached for her knife, the small fucking switchblade she used to cut oversized pieces of parchment down to size. It was stupid, it was suicidal.

But what other choice did she have?

Her heart was racing, she forced her body to move as fast as she could. She saw the volcra wrench the rifle out of Mal’s neck and lunged .

She leaped across the deck and stabbed the volcra in the throat.

A hand reached out to catch her, break her fall, and the moment she felt that touch, she could feel a pull, felt something deep inside 

SHATTER

~

Mikhail Kirillovich Demidov-Kirigan, Duke of Caryeva and Balakirev, Earl of Ijora, General of the Royal Second Army of Ravka, was sitting behind his desk, trapped by his eternal nemesis: paperwork. 

No matter how irritating or troublesome a particular enemy became, he never allowed them to truly bother him. He knew he had time on his side. All he ever had to do was wait and he would inevitably watch them die.

But the paperwork was different. The more time passed, the number and complexity of the institutions he had to deal with increased, the more his paperwork piled higher and higher. It had reached the point where even he had conceded that his workload had grown far too great for a single man, no matter how long lived, and devised a system to sort it all and delegate where necessary. To this end, he had hand picked otkazat’sya from families that he had cultivated for generations to serve as his personal secretariat.

Though evidently they are in need of remedial sorting lessons , he mused as he flicked through the reports on his desk. The monthly estate report from Caryeva was not supposed to be in the same pile as a missive from Chernast, and he could see the insignia of the Royal Budgetary Office peeking out from in between the grey folders used by his oprichniki. He would have to bring up the matter with Kolya when the young man came back from his lunch break.

He addressed the situation in Chernast first. Colonel Milyukov had, predictably, ignored his assessment of the situation and had ordered an advance on the Cilician Ridge, leaving the western flank vulnerable to a Fjerdan counter assault. He quickly drafted instructions for Senior Squaller Volkov and Colonel Milyukov for the First and Second to regroup at Outpost Yulia and use the downward sloping ridges to force the Fjerdans out into the open where his grisha could collapse the snowbank onto their heads. He then copied the instructions to the true commanding officer of the 41st Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Zhuravleva, and then drafted secret orders to an embedded oprichnik disguised as Milyukov’s aide de camp to arrange for an accident if the colonel proved intractable. Zhuravleva was more than capable of assuming command and had served long enough that such a transition would be more or less seamless. Such a change in command also served his purposes well. Should Milyukov be removed from the picture, Zhuravleva had been in correspondence with him for long enough to know exactly who she would have to thank for the advancement in her career.

The monthly reports from Caryeva and Balakirev at a glance were positive. The numbers indicated that the latest alterations made by his Alkemi on the fertilizer used on his estates was working. The yield per individual plant was up 230%, and a large surplus would be ready for distribution next harvest. The area of Ravka near the Sikurzoi had undergone a recent drought, and suffered a minor famine due to localized crop failure. The only reason why the damage was not worse was due to the good fortune that Northern Shu Han had borne the brunt of the damage from the drought, and had decreased the number of border skirmishes in the region as a result. Distributing food in the region and attributing the results to the grisha as well as his holdings would buy goodwill from the otkazat’sya there and demonstrate to the people and the Court non-combat applications for grisha talents.

The next report was more disturbing. Despite the decrease in the number of skirmishes on the border with Shu Han, the number of grisha missing in action on the Southern Front was higher than ever. Reports from Second Army commanders in the region reported an abnormal number of grisha hunting squadrons being deployed south of Tsmena, near the Fold, and dangerously close to Caryeva. His spies indicated that the squadrons were retreating in the direction of Bhez Ju, but no further information could be verified without closer observation. 

While Shu Han often deployed squadrons to capture grisha to butcher them in their sickening parody of ‘science’, they rarely went out of their way to do so when their infantry was not also deployed in the area to serve as a distraction. That they were conducting so many raids in spite of decreased support from the main Shu Han force indicated that stealth and caution had been deprioritized, that the capture of grisha was sufficiently vital as to warrant reckless action. That they were all retreating in a single direction indicated a project or series of interconnected projects that required geographical proximity to each other, else the Shu would have spread the captured grisha across multiple laboratories on the border to prevent catastrophic losses in the event that any one facility was lost. 

This begged the question, what exactly was Shu Han planning?

As he began drafting orders for a deeper infiltration mission into Northwestern Shu Han, he felt a flash of dark amusement. The bond between creator and creation was fraught but ever present even four hundred years after the act of merzost that intertwined their fates. The period immediately following the creation of the Fold had been nightmarish until he had learned how to narrow the bond and the cacophony of dark emotions had quieted to a whisper. These days he only felt pulses over the bond if a crossing was about to go catastrophically wrong.

At the speed the Durasts had calculated the skiff would travel, they would not have progressed terribly far, at most one marker, possibly two if the squaller on board had deemed the winds in the Fold were faster than normal and could increase the force of wind while evading detection. 

Who were the grisha assigned to this voyage? Was it… ah. Nazyalenskaya and Bogomolova. He mourned the death of any grisha but the loss of these two would be significant. Zoya was a promising talent, one of the strongest squallers he had seen in some time, with a strong personality that could lend itself well to command. Natacha had been by his side for nearly three decades now. She had been one of his most loyal and devoted followers for years, and he had become fond of her in spite of her...eccentricities.

He frowned as a shift in the bond caught his attention, dark amusement giving way to–

curiosity?

He had never experienced anything like this from the bond, and the sensation was disturbing. New in relation to merzost was not usually a positive portent, and he hesitantly reached out across the connection.

LIGHT

The world around him had disappeared, the only thing left was the light. He gasped for air, could feel his heart pounding, his gloved hand clutching the arm of his chair desperately seeking a way to anchor him in this sea of white heat. He could hear Commander Sokolova shout in alarm from where she had been stationed on call in the event he required the services of his oprichniki, and he wrestled the writhing shadows down into a pool beneath his feet just as Ivan ran into his tent, likely alarmed by the sudden skyrocketing of his pulse rate. 

None of that mattered in the face of what had happened. He knew exactly what he had felt, the only development in the world that could induce such a reaction, such a connection to the very heart of him.

“Moi soverenyi !” Fedyor sprinted into the tent, followed closely by Captain Molchalin.

“A light has been seen from inside the Fold,” he said, clearly surprising Fedyor with knowledge that he should not have been able to acquire from the inside of his tent. Fedyor’s reaction confirmed his suspicions, and he forced himself to acknowledge his hopes, his longing, his new reality, aloud. “The Sun Summoner.”

He snapped his gaze to the two wide-eyed Heartrenders. “Where is the skiff?”

“The skiff slammed into the docks moments ago,” Fedyor reported, “the oprichniki have been posted around the crash site and have denied any personnel other than Corporalki Healers entry.”

“Excellent,” he breathed, his mind racing before he forced himself to focus. “Ivan! Run through camp and lead the first ten healers and summoners you find to the crash site, secure the Sun Summoner and have her brought to the pavilion.” 

The pavilion? Why had he said– ah, he knew exactly why he subconsciously made that decision. His own tent was not fit for purpose. While elegant, practical, and sufficient for his day to day needs, it was still too...small for such an occasion. The idea that he would meet his destined other half in such a space, as though it was a mundane, routine affair, or a clandestine event to be had in secret, in shame? The very notion offended his sensibilities.

No. When he met his counterpart, it would be in a setting more fit to mark such a momentous turning point in history. In truth, no setting would be equal to the moment aside from perhaps the Little Palace, the sanctuary he had spent centuries building from nothing to protect grisha, but alas one had to make do with what was at hand.  

“Commander Sokolova, take a squadron directly to reinforce the oprichniki already there, and head off any intrusion from the First. This is a Second Army operation, ignore any objections to the contrary. First Army medics will be allowed to treat the wounded, but no one else is to be allowed on board.” Such a shame that General Ilyinsky had been dallying in Piasky at the home of Duke Shafirov, leaving General Kirigan the uncontested senior-most officer in both armies with no one able to countermand his orders.

But better to ensure no interference from that end. “Captain Molchalin, take your unit to the gate and delay any new arrivals or messages. No one enters and no one leaves without my express authorization until I say otherwise.”

He forced his pulse rate to calm, a skill acquired out of necessity after centuries keeping secrets from Heartrenders. 

“Fedyor? Have every grisha remaining report to the pavilion, inform them they are on standby. Oh, and make sure the braziers are burning high. I will be joining you shortly.” The excitement of the day would have riled up his grisha, a dangerous proposition given their proximity to the Fold and its particular effects on his people. They knew better to act out while he was in the area, but still, better to have everyone under his direct supervision for the moment. 

Besides, if it was indeed the Sun Summoner, then an audience would be necessary. It would be an introduction both ways. The Sun Summoner would see their people for the first time, and their people would watch him greet his counterpart, his other half.

Now alone in his tent, Aleksander Morozov smiled. The chaos unfolding outside could not reach him, not in this glorious moment. 

The Sun Summoner, here at last. What would they be like?

Four hundred years of planning was all falling into place. The stage had been set, all he had to do was play his part and reap the fruits of his labor.

A companion who would understand the burden of eternity at his side. A throne to usher a new Golden Age of Ravka under his rule. A world made safe for the grisha. 

Everything he had ever wanted would be his.

Everything.

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 3: First Impressions

“Never mistake what you want for what is. You may think you know the full measure of a person’s character, have seen all there is to be seen. You have not. Not until you see them at their lowest, cowering in the dark.” 

-Baghra Ilyinichna Morozova

~

Alina jerked awake, her vision blurry, heart rate beating unnaturally fast before slowing precipitously. She didn’t understand what was happening, and yet she suddenly felt unnervingly... calm. She could feel the Fold pulling on her, reaching out as if to drag her back in but it felt so far away. Was she seeing... sunlight? 

“Fractured collarbone,” she heard someone say close by. A moment later her vision cleared somewhat and she blinked at a blonde woman in a bright red kefta weaving her hands in purposeful motions in front of her.

“Nazyalenskaya, are you certain?” She heard a gruff male voice say off to her right. She couldn’t see who he was addressing, nor could she hear their reply, but what she could hear was movement as a tall, stern faced man with close cropped hair came into view. He was also clad in a red kefta, and she stared at the intricate black embroidery, more elaborate than anything she had ever seen before, come close to her face as the man leaned over her and slid a silver pendant around her neck.

The smell hit her like a punch to the face. Lavender, pine, a floral note that she could not quite pin down, and some sort of...citrus? The pendant appeared to contain an incense of some sort. The fragrance wasn’t altogether unpleasant, if a bit cacophonous, but she still gagged from how pungent it was.

This was a mistake, the movement jarring her apparently fractured collarbone, causing her to cough violently and the female corporalki in front of her to curse. “Ivan! Hold her still!” 

She felt her arms stiffen and still, she couldn’t move her upper body but she still jerked when something in her body made a sickening crack, and she felt her collarbone snap back into place.

She scrabbled at her neck as soon as the hold on her limbs disappeared before her panic once more began to fade. This time she noticed that the male heartrender, Ivan, the other corporalki had called him, had not lowered his hands but had only shifted position.

He must be lowering my heart rate , Alina noted sluggishly. Emiliya had mentioned offhandedly once that corporalki were capable of inducing an artificial calm that way, though it appeared that it had been an unintentional slip of the tongue. She had been tight-lipped about any more specifics about grisha abilities afterwards.  

It was then she noticed a different unexpected development. The pressure at the back of her had receded, and she found that she could think . Her mind was quiet in a way it hadn’t been since they arrived in Kribirsk. The influence of the Fold wasn’t gone, but it was strangely muted, almost as though she was perceiving it through a haze.

“Look at me.” Alina obediently looked at the healer as directed. “Follow my finger please.” She watched the healer move her finger back and forth from her left side peripheral vision to her right side peripheral vision. “Right, I’m going to hold my finger here. I want you to look away with just your eyes and then look back at my finger, do that a couple of times and tell me if you feel anything strange.” Alina did as she was told, moving her eyes away and then back to the healer’s fingers.

“I feel a bit dizzy,” Alina said. 

“Is she stable enough to move?” Ivan said curtly. Grumpy, no nonsense, face perpetually looking like someone had kicked his cat, likely a bit of a prickly asshole, Alina was starting to get a feel for this Ivan. She had met officers like him before. 

The healer in front of her looked like she was trying not to laugh, while Ivan seemed to be glaring at her more so than he was already. “I’m obviously not finished,” the healer said with an amused note to her voice, “she seems to have a mild concussion but I will need more time to heal that. It will keep for now, she’s stable.”

Ivan grunted and then grabbed her by the arm, hoisting her up onto her feet. A few quick orders later and multiple grisha wearing red and blue formed up around them. “You can come with us then,” Ivan said to the woman corporalki, before they all began to move.

Oh they were taking her with them.

“Wait,” she forced herself to work through the haze, “what about my unit. And. Mal! The tracker? Are they alright?”

“First Army goes to medical,” the woman said kindly as they marched off the dock and acquired an additional escort of oprichniki . In the distance she could see more oprichniki standing in a line, preventing a crowd in First Army uniforms from moving any further. They looked quite funny, a bit like how the orphanage matrons had to corral her and the other orphans during Butter Week at Kermanzin when she was young.

“I’ve never heard it put that way before. I suppose it does look a bit funny.”

Was she responding to her thoughts? Alina never knew that corporalki could read minds. You think she would have heard about that before.

“That’s not. Um. Oh what’s the point. Sure. We can read minds.”

Wow . That’s so cool. A bit freaky, but neat!

Why were the grisha laughing all of a sudden? Did she miss something funny?

A thought occurred to her. An important, relevant question that she had been trying to pin down but had escaped her until now. “Wait, where are you taking me?”

“The Pavilion,” Ivan grunted, staring determinedly ahead, “the General wishes to see you.”

Oh. Okay.

Wait.

What?

~

Alina blinked as the amount of light in front of her suddenly dropped, sunlight cutting away to the flicking light of several flames burning away in large braziers. The smell of incense was strong, almost overwhelmingly so, the unidentifiable floral note more prominent here than it was in her pendant. 

The tent itself was massive, a circular affair with large colorful banners embroidered with the symbols of the various grisha orders dramatically hanging from the ceiling. 

Crowds of grisha were milling around the edge of the room, a riot of red, blue, and a few purple keftas with varying degrees and types of embroidery. Some were reclined on various cushions scattered around on the rugs covering the dirt floor, others were munching on grapes, oranges, confits; all quieted down as soon as their little group came inside. 

Her eyes were soon drawn to the largest gap in the crowd, a space left in the back of the room for a black chair that could be better described as a throne, a large intricately carved desk, and her heart stuttered to a halt when she saw standing in front of the desk was a man clad in a black kefta.

General Kirigan was alone in the center of the room, his figure framed by a sun in eclipse emblazoned on the large black flag that dominated the back of the pavilion, black leather gloved hands clasped behind his back. His unique black kefta was embroidered elaborately with intricate patterning in shimmering black thread. It was very closely tailored to his person, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and his incredible height. At the sudden decline in chatter from the rest of the grisha, he slowly turned around.

Oh wow you’re hot.

No one had told her that General Kirigan was beautiful . He was young, much younger than she would have expected from one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. His face was all sharp angles and high cheekbones, crowned by rich, perfectly coiffed dark brown, possibly black, hair.

The man in question lifted a single elegantly sculpted brow, his dark intense eyes glaring sharply at the sound of soft tittering that died very quickly when he did, before his aristocratic features quickly smoothed out into a more neutral expression.

“What are you?”

His voice was distractingly smooth and deep. She knew she was staring but she couldn’t help it. No human should be that pretty, it was practically obscene.

This time the sound of stifled laughter was much louder, with some coughing to hide it, others just giving up and outright giggling. She then made a belated discovery.

“Oh,” she realized, “I’ve been talking out loud this entire time haven’t I?”

“Indeed,” the very attractive man confirmed, “focus please, and answer the question.”

“I’m trying,” she was whining a bit but she had to make this terribly gorgeous man understand the true obstacle here, “but your face is really distracting and I keep losing my train of thought.”

“Would it help if I turned around?” 

Wow, beautiful, helpful, and understanding. The Saints were truly generous when they made this one. “That would be helpful, yes.”

The extremely handsome man sighed and then turned back around. 

“This is going nowhere,” he said, “Zoya? You manned the main sail. Report.” 

“We were attacked barely two markers in.” Alina turned to see the beautiful- seriously were all grisha attractive- squaller she had seen board the skiff with them that day step forward and respond to the commanding query. She was not as beautiful as the man in the black kefta, Alina noted absentmindedly, but that was hardly a fair comparison, no one else in the tent was. The squaller- Zoya was it?- glared at her and Alina carefully shut her mouth, before Zoya looked respectfully back at the General. “Someone lit a lantern.”

“And?”

“The volcra went after Senior Inferni Bogomolova first, then the riflemen and infantry. One of the riflemen was fighting in melee with a volcra, and then she,” Zoya indicated, waving briefly in Alina’s direction, “ran in to stab the volcra. There was a searing light. It came from her.”

“Is this true?” The man facing the back wall asked. “Can you summon light?”

Alina blinked and then looked at Ivan who said nothing and just looked stern and frowny, then looked at the healer who looked mildly more receptive. Alina pointed to the unbearably handsome man silently, and then pointed to herself quizzically.

The healer just nodded, her face carefully blank.

“I… don’t think so?” Alina said hesitantly.

“You don’t sound very certain,” General Kirigan mused, “Well then, we will simply check to be certain. Testing you will require that I turn around however. My apologies.”

He spun gracefully on his heel, with an economy of motion that took her breath away ( not that she had gotten it back from the first time she saw him) . A few long, surefooted steps forward then suddenly he was standing in front of her, and she had to crane her neck upwards to keep her eyes on his face. It was such a well formed face, so devastatingly beautiful that it almost distracted her from what happened next.

The General had begun to reach inside of his kefta before stopping, instead lifting his hand up to his mouth and pulling his glove off with his teeth. He held the glove out and Ivan hurried to take it from him before he reached out with long slender fingers and then stopped.

“What is your name?” General Kirigan asked.

“Alina,” she whispered back, mesmerized. “Alina Starkova.”

“Alina,” he repeated, drawing out her name as though he was exploring the taste of it in his mouth. He then moved, reaching over to gently grasp her wrist. She gasped as the world erupted into a world of light , and she was overcome by a connection stronger than steel, a roaring sea of emotion not her own but his .

Righteous-absolute-heartbreaking-undeniable Certainty , star bright, ice cold, the sharp bitter clarity in the brittle air of deep winter’s night. Defiance in the face of overwhelming, neigh insurmountable odds, never to despair. Unyielding Resolve darker than shadow to fight-plot-maneuver-sacrifice, give-no-quarter, do whatever it takes to win to save those who matter. The world will burn before I let the world burn all of them . Wonder . You’re here, you’re here, look at you! Could you be what I’ve been waiting for all this time? Longing , for the day where fear was no longer a certainty, when there was no need to hide, when they could be free out in the open where everyone could see! Truth engraved in bone, more fundamental than blood –

We can be more than this .

If you could distill the feeling that led people to seek, to find, to dream beyond their little worlds into lands unknown, caused kingdoms to burn, made men follow into certain death with their heads held high in the search of a better tomorrow– it was here. This was it.

Alina, tiny frail Alina Starkova, who hid anything and everything meaningful that was hers from the world, could feel her soul reach out to this unerring soul. She was desperate to learn, to share, to feel, to understand this courage to share openly resolution so absolute mountains would give way before he would, death would find him before he yielded. She feels her lines rearrange, a little river unfurling reaching out to a distant starless harbor, welcoming this soul– not fully for he was not kindred, not safe yet–

Hello-little-Grisha, I-see-you, who-are-you, I-want-to-know-you, be-welcome, will-you-come-with-me?

–but he could be, her little sun heart knew. And for now, that was enough.

~

Aleksander Morozov felt exceedingly restless as he waited for the Sun Summoner to be brought to him.

After centuries of occupying an elite position in society, he was no longer accustomed to waiting. His status ensured others were punctual when meeting with him out of respect, fear, or decorum. The nature of his duties meant that there was always something to do, some new initiative to pursue to advance the interests of the grisha and Ravka. The only times he was kept waiting with nothing to do were in the moments right before combat or if the Tsar was feeling particularly petty that day.

Regardless, it took all of his not inconsiderable willpower to keep himself from pacing back and forth. It would not do to expose any weaknesses in front of his grisha, and pacing would only serve to make them nervous. He did not want his grisha to be nervous in front of the Sun Summoner, he wished for them to welcome her.

“Water, moi soverenyi? Grapes?” Fedyor was a very considerate young Heartrender, reliable in a way distinct from his partner and Aleksander’s other adjunct, Ivan. Fedyor had inexplicably come to the conclusion that his General did not take proper care of his own health, and as such was constantly on hand with water, fruits, vegetables, and the occasional recommendation for him to go to sleep. He had recently been reminded of Fedyor’s keen observation skills and resourcefulness when Fedyor’s offerings had increasingly trended towards sweeter fare, as well as when Aleksander learned that Fedyor had enlisted several Alkemi to breed some sort of melon from the Southern Colonies for higher water and sugar content. The first of these ‘watermelons’ were due to be harvested from the greenhouse in a month, and he had to begrudgingly admit he was looking forward to tasting one. He had concealed his sweet tooth for centuries, that Fedyor had noticed so quickly after becoming his personal adjunct indicated he was a dangerous young man.

“Candied chestnut, sir?” Yes, very dangerous indeed. Damn him.

Aleksander took the chestnut.

Just as he popped the chestnut into his mouth, the tent flap opened, and Aleksander quickly spun around so that his back was to the entrance. Their timing was atrocious! He couldn’t possibly greet the Sun Summoner with candied chestnut stuck to his teeth. He had a bit of time before the full escort and his counterpart entered, and if he turned slowly–

The quiet chatter that had permeated the tent died just as he swallowed and Aleksander knew he had run out of time. He swiped his tongue across his teeth one last time and breathed in quietly as he slowly turned around.

A young woman stood in the center of the tent. She was dressed in an ill-fitting First Army uniform, a patch on her left arm indicating she was a cartographer, the lack of patches on her right indicated she had not climbed far up the ranks. She was light skinned, with dark brown hair, and equally dark brown eyes that were staring owlishly at him. She was obviously half-Shu, not unusual for the area, and not displeasing

She was... small . A good foot shorter than he was, and skinny. The part of him that was grisha recognized the signs of emaciation that stemmed from a grisha suppressing their abilities. The part of him that had been on the run for the first three centuries of his life could tell how little food there had been available for her when she was young. The part of him that was a General could tell exactly when she had been put on half rations, and kept there long after the emergency order was rescinded.

It infuriated him. 

His counterpart, his eternal companion, mistreated and half starved, in a nation he had shaped to prevent such an outcome from happening? 

Had his efforts to make a sanctuary for the grisha been so meaningless that the Sun Summoner would rather waste away pretending to be an otkazat’sya than come to the Little Palace?

“Oh wow, you’re hot.”

...What?

Aleksander Morozov blinked at the young girl he had been observing. She was not the first to comment on his appearance– centuries at court had taught him that his features were aesthetically pleasing to men and women alike, and he would be a fool to neglect the advantages that came with beauty. Yet very rarely had he heard commentary on his appearance phrased so...bluntly to his face.

Perhaps the Sun Summoner was simply tired from the battle on the skiff. A demonstration large enough to be visible from outside of the Fold would be enough to exhaust even an experienced summoner and induce momentary slips in composure. If he did not draw attention to it, then the grisha in attendance would follow his lead.

He quickly glared at those who had the poor judgment to laugh anyway before speaking.

“What are you?”

To ask who would be to ask a poor and imprecise question. Could you get the measure of a person in words, to understand the content and strength of an individual’s character through the distorted lens of self perception? What was less complex, such a question merely asked for definitive substance, an objective measure that would reveal concrete information no matter how the recipient answered.

“His voice is really deep.” She was leaning slightly towards Healer Agafonova, who was frozen in place, gaze flitting between the Sun Summoner and his person. The Sun Summoner was speaking in the tone of someone who was trying to whisper and did not know they were failing. “It’s not legal to be that beautiful right? It’s practically obscene!”

Alright, now he was concerned. Flattered. But also concerned.

He attempted to convey with eyes the confusion he felt, hoping that Healer Agafonova would understand what he was asking and spare him the ignominy of asking out loud what was wrong with the Sun Summoner.

‘Concussion,’ Healer Agafonova mouthed silently.

Ah. Well. That explained quite a bit actually. 

“Why are people laughing? I thought only Corporalki could read minds but I see blue keftas too!”

She thought what? Corporalki could not read minds, where could she have possibly acquired such an idea?

“Oh. I’ve been talking out loud this entire time, haven’t I?”

“Indeed,” he had not factored in the possibility of a concussion when he had imagined what meeting his other half would play out, but this was what the Making had given him and so he would have to try his best and play along. “Focus please,” he encouraged, “and answer the question.”

Her eyes grew impossibly larger, more closely resembling a small puppy or a little grishenka when they wanted to get out of bathtime, and– were her eyes tearing up? Why did he feel such alarm at the prospect of her distress? “I’m trying,” she said piteously, “but your face is really distracting and I keep losing my train of thought.”

Everything was hopeless. He should have seen this coming, really. The important events in his life were always either tragedy or farce, and there was very little in between. He could hear several of his grisha giggling and he could not even blame them for doing so. Had this situation occurred to anyone else he would likely have also been amused.

“Would it help if I turned around?” He asked somewhat sarcastically, but regretted opening his mouth for as soon as he said it he knew–

“That would be helpful, yes.”

Of course she would take him seriously. 

He weighed the benefits of just pretending like she had not said anything before realizing he did not have the energy for this. He sighed and turned around. As he turned he looked at Fedyor standing to his right, the corporalki’s eyes bright with mirth. “Not a word,” he murmured to his adjunct, and Fedyor carefully pressed his lips together. Aleksander still saw them wobble ever so slightly, and knew he was going to be the subject of gentle mockery the next time they were alone. Impertinent boy. He clasped his hands together behind his back.

“This is going nowhere,” he said loudly, “Zoya? You manned the main sail. Report.” 

“We were attacked barely two markers in,” Zoya reported. She had done well this last crossing, keeping her head under pressure, bringing the skiff back to dock while under attack from volcra, bringing the Sun Summoner back to safety. He made a note to commend her for her performance at a later date.

“She’s pretty,” he heard the cartographer say absentmindedly. Was she commenting on Zoya? “But not as pretty as the man in the black kefta, but I guess that isn’t fair because no one is.” Apparently she was, but only in comparison to him. Some part of him was inexplicably pleased that he came out ahead in the Sun Summoner’s assessment.

Zoya was quiet for a moment before she continued speaking. “Someone lit a lantern.”

“And?” He prompted.

“The volcra went after Senior Inferni Bogomolova first, then the riflemen and infantry. One of the riflemen was fighting in melee with a volcra, and then she,” Zoya paused briefly for some reason, “ran in to stab the volcra. There was a searing light. It came from her.”

“Is this true?” He forced himself to remain calm, even as he felt his treacherous heart begin to beat faster with anticipation and that wretched emotion, hope . “Can you summon light?”

Another pause. “I don’t...think so?” The hesitant reply came back.

“You don’t sound very certain,” perhaps it was a little cruel to tease a young thing with a concussion but he found the temptation irresistible, “Well then, we will simply check to be certain. Testing you will require that I turn around however. My apologies.”

He spun on his heel and if he did so more flamboyantly than was strictly necessary, no one else had to know. A few steps and he could finally examine her up close. She had a small scar on her forehead, her Shu features more prominent now that he could distinguish the contours of her face from the shadows cast by flickering brazier light. She gaped up at him like a fish, her cheeks flushed with a fetching shade of red. Some would call her plain, but Aleksander knew that would change soon enough with a better diet and regular summoning.

“What is your name?” He asked. What might he call this lovely child, the one who he hoped to give his own name for her to use in the years to come?

“Alina,” she whispered back, eyes wide and trusting. “Alina Starkova.”

“Alina.” Such a lovely name. He reached for the hawk-talon ring that he had placed in the right inner pocket of his kefta before leaving his tent, but then decided otherwise. The ring would have served its purpose, revealing her power with only minor injury, but that was all the ring would show him. This was the Sun Summoner, and this might be the only chance he had to learn more before she learned enough to keep him out. He needed to know more, understand who he was entrusting his hope, his dream, his fate to. Who was Alina Starkova?

He pulled off his glove instead, handing it to a silent but ever watchful Ivan, and then reached out with a bare hand to grasp a far too thin wrist. 

Her mind opened for him, a little garden gate swinging on its hinge. Stone walls battered, broken open, stained black with what he knew intimately, as no one else would know, was merzost. Grooves in the cobblestone indicating paths well trodden, dirt trails showing one? No. Two different sets of footsteps, one with a smaller tread walking here far more often than the other. Lines carved deep into the ground but when a foot approached, they dissipated into sand. Step over and in, into a little broken little fortress with blank white walls, little pictures of many faces mostly grey and only three vibrantly colored, two young men and a woman. Glass littered the floor and a little sun pulsed in the middle of the room. He reaches out–

Alone-alone-alone-little-burden, must-hide, they-always-come-for-me, can’t-let-them-see-me, no-one-wants-to-see-me, have-to-stay-safe-behind-walls-and-lines-and-borders. 

Curiosity, an-intruder? Hello-who-are-you. 

He smiled.

Hello little spark.

You-see-me? Me? Who-no-one-ever-sees-me.

I do. I think you are beautiful.

You-fight-why-do-you-fight?

If I do not fight, then there is no other option but to run or die while watching everyone around me deal with the same. I want to live, and I am tired of running.

Empty-empty, someone-missing. You-feel-the-same? No-no, much-more. You’re-so-too-much? I-can’t-I-don’t-understand. Why-would-someone-like-you-want-anything-to-do-with-someone-like-me? 

Because you are here, because your light is beautiful, because your light is yours, because I love your light and will even come to like you, because we are alike, as no one else is, as no one else ever will be.

He feels his shadows reach out to the little light, feels the little star reach out and touch in return. He watched the light emerge bright and golden from her skin. Where before her power had burned, now all he could feel was the warmth of a gentle spring day as she illuminated the pavilion with a brilliant shine.

I have been waiting a long time for you. 

The light faded as he removed his touch. He smiled as she came back to reality, came back to him.

He raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed the back of her hand.

“It is nice to meet you at last, Alina Starkova.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 4: Revealing Conversations

“What is the point of a journey? Why, it’s the people you meet and the sights you see of course! Where we go, what we do, what we see, who we meet–they form experiences that help us grow, make us better people than we were before. Or at least, hopefully better. Sometimes you eat the bad fish and get run out of town but for the most part– Ivan! Slow– you’re going to choke on your pastry, why are you even eating that fast? No one is going to steal the sweets from the pastry basket, the General isn’t even here!” 

-Fedyor Vladimirovich Kaminsky

Senior Heartrender of the Royal Second Army of Ravka, Senior Adjutant to General Mikhail Kirillovich Demidov-Kirigan

~

“Ivan, Fedyor, bring my carriage around for the journey to Os Alta. The Sun Summoner rides inside with the both of you. Kamenev, Lagunova, Alexeev, Baranov, Bykova, and...Utkin, you will be riding escort. Coordinate the details with Commander Sokolova, quickly now.”

Aleksander offered his arm to Miss Starkova, taking advantage of the fact that she seemed a bit too dazed to register what was happening and using his other hand to slip her arm into his. 

“Os Alta?” she asked.

“Your awakening in the Fold was brilliant in both the metaphorical and literal sense. It is likely that a Fjerdan raiding party or Shu Han infiltrators will have also seen it, and will wish to kill you,” he explained, “The safest place for you now is behind the walls of the Little Palace in Os Alta and that is where you will go.”

“But wait, what about my friends?” Her eyes were clearer now, perhaps the amplified summoning quickened recovery from her concussion, “Petya, Alexei, Mal? And the rest of my unit? How are they? I need to speak with them!”

How interesting. A cartographer with no stripes on her arm felt that she could make demands of a general. Either that was the type of person she was or it was shock, trauma, the connection they had just shared, the concussion, or some combination of the possibilities. Aleksander looked forward to finding out which was the answer.

“Your friends are in First Army Medical,” he told her, “and so is the rest of your unit. When their condition is stabilized and everyone from the skiff is accounted for, I will have a report sent from here to the Little Palace. However, we do not have time for you to speak to your friends without placing you in jeopardy.”

“But–”

“Miss Starkova, look at me,” he bent over slightly to look her in the eyes. “If Ravka is to be free of the threat of the Fold, then you must be trained in how to use your power. The longer you stay here, the more time our enemies will have to prepare an assault, the more the journey to Os Alta becomes.”

She was still not convinced, how to– ah. Her points of concern, her friends, her unit, three explicit names implying special consideration and yet, ‘ how were they .’ A question inclusive of the unit that she tacked on almost as an afterthought, an expression of concern for the wellbeing of those outside of the ones she cared to call by name. Perhaps here was an angle worth testing.

He pitched his voice a little softer. “As a general, I must look after the wellbeing of my men,” he said, “your friends will not become healthier for having seen you, or for you having seen them, their conditions will keep. However, my men will be risking their lives to escort you to Os Alta. The best way I can mitigate the risk to them is if you go quickly.”

"Please," he implored, some part of him being strangely unwilling to command his Sun Summoner, or at least not command her when she was like this. "Let me keep you and them safe."

That did the trick, and he could see the willful look in her eyes fade.

The carriage pulled up in haste, the door flung open by Fedyor as soon as the carriage stopped. An oprichniki fast mobility defensive escort formation led by Captain Molchalin fell into place around the carriage along with the six grisha he had picked out for this mission. 

He glanced at her briefly, and hesitated, as he seemed to be doing with abnormal frequency when it came to his Sun Summoner. She was just so… small and fragile. He shrugged off his kefta and then turned it around. “Here, put this on.”

She stared dumbfounded at him. She was not alone in her surprise. Aleksander was keenly aware that the oprichniki were conspicuously trying not to look at him, and he could feel the weight of many incredulous stares at his back. In the carriage Ivan was showing emotion for once, and Fedyor looked simultaneously like the midsummer solstice festivities had come early and someone had slapped him with a fish. He lightly shook his kefta and it appeared she received the message as she turned around and slipped her arms into the black kefta.

It was...adorable to say the least. His kefta was much too large on her, with a significant portion at the bottom pooling at her feet. The effect remarkably resembled a child swaddled in a blanket, and for a moment Aleksander, the dreaded seven hundred year old shadow summoner wanted in five different countries, was almost tempted to do something as inane as coo over the sun summoner drowning in his kefta. 

“The kefta is bulletproof,” he told her as he helped her into the carriage, “wear it until you arrive at the Little Palace. Ivan, inform the staff that she is to be put up in the Vezda Suite.”

“But what about you,” Miss Starkova asked.

“I have matters to attend to here, so I will stay behind. As soon as I wrap up my affairs, I will catch up to you on horseback,” he smiled at her slightly, and was delighted to see her blush once more, “do not trouble yourself about the kefta, I have spares.” He stepped back, but held up a hand before Fedyor could close the door. “Just a moment. Healer Agafonova,” the blonde healer hurried to his side, “join them please, and do see to her concussion. While her honesty was very charming, such transparency would serve her ill at Court.” He faced his sun summoner and gave her a short bow before he signalled for his driver Viktor and Captain Molchalin to move out.

He lingered momentarily to watch the convoy leave the encampment, but as he turned to return to his tent to finalize operations he was distracted by a commotion coming from the First Army.

“Alina!” A young man had broken free from the oprichniki security cordon and seemed to be limping after his Sun Summoner. He would not get far, not with what appeared to be a head injury, a dislocated shoulder, and a large gash in his left leg. “ALINA!”

Aleksander watched and then motioned for Sokolova to join him. “Who is he? Do we know?”

The Commander of his current rotation of oprichniki shook her head, “I do not recognize him, moi soverenyi. I shall make the necessary inquiries.”

“The name you are looking for is likely ‘Alexei’, ‘Petya’ or ‘Mal’, I suspect the last is a diminutive.” The patch on his arm indicated membership in a tracker unit, the silver button some measure of seniority. A recently injured young man motivated enough to defy the oprichniki, to chase after a carriage in spite of his condition, and call for her with only her first name? Someone who was on the skiff and was devoted to her then. Such a relationship that would likely have merited being named individually. ‘Alexei’ was a common masculine name throughout the kingdom. ‘Malyen’ was less popular but it was common enough in the western half of the country. ‘Petya’ was less certain. While most commonly a diminutive for Pyotr, and therefore masculine, the southern Rhyrem River Valley region ranging from Tsemna to his own domain of Caryeva also traditionally bestowed it upon woman as a full name, making the name unisex. He would need to have someone investigate all three names in any case, better to inform Sokolova of all three names now in the interests of being thorough.

The crowds began to thin as the convoy disappeared into the woods. He watched oprichnik finally peel off from the security cordon and attempt to detain the tracker, only to be rewarded with a punch in the face. The oprichnik moved out of the way from the slowly thrown swing and a swift kick to the back of the knee had the tracker crumble to the ground.

“Have the tracker detained under the authority of the Second, find out who he is and his relationship to the Sun Summoner. Send a courier to my tent ready to carry a priority missive to Balakirev, and have someone pull the personnel files of Alina Starkova and her unit, I want them on my desk in the next ten minutes.”

“Yes, moi soverenyi.”

Aleksander did not wait to see Sokolova leave before he departed for his own tent. He had much to do, meetings to call, missives to write, and he wanted it all done as quickly as possible. He trusted Fedyor and Ivan to escort the Sun Summoner to Os Alta, but it would ease his mind if he was there to see her to safety personally. As he strode towards his tent, oprichniki falling into step behind him, a troubling thought occurred to him.

Where does Ivan keep my spare kefta?

~

“There, that should do it.”

Alina blinked as the pale hands obscuring her vision moved out of the way. Healer Agapova? Aksakova? She could not for the life of her remember the Healer’s name, and she felt rather guilty about that. After getting into the carriage, the first order of business the Healer had insisted on was treating her concussion.

“Orders are orders, ” she had said, her words crisp but kind. “ Concussions are difficult to heal, and the mind is a complex organ filled with delicate workings we don’t fully understand. It’s going to take a bit of time and I’ll need you to be quiet so I can focus. You won’t feel any pain, so just relax and let me do my thing .”

“How do you feel?” she asked now, “Can you run through the same check with me that we did last time? Follow my finger please.” Alina obeyed, moving her eyes as directed. “Feel anything?”

“No,” Alina reported, “I’m good, thank you so much…”

“Ekaterina,” the Healer stuck out her hand. “Ekaterina Konstantinovna Agafonova.”

Alina took it and they shook hands. “Alina Starkova.” She looked across the carriage at the dark haired corporalki who had perked up as soon as Ekaterina stopped healing her.

“Fedyor Vladimirovich Kaminsky,” the man who she had been thinking of as ‘Not-Ivan’ said cheerfully. His words were colored by an accent she had only heard actors performing period dramas at Duke Keramsov’s fetes affect. “I am one of the General’s adjutants. Call me Fedyor!”

Out of politeness, Alina reached out a hand for him to shake and was bemused when Fedyor clasped her hand with both of his and gave her a brief, but very enthusiastic handshake. Then she, and well, everyone else in the carriage looked at the last person left who had yet to introduce himself. 

The man turned away and looked out the window instead.

Fedyor jabbed his elbow into his ribs and he grunted before he said shortly, “Ivan.”

Alina nodded politely while Fedyor across from her sighed and she took a moment to study the occupants of the carriage. 

Fedyor was a handsome– was beauty even worth noting at this point when it came to grisha? They were all so attractive that beauty must be endemic to grishahood or something. Even Ivan could be considered handsome if you were into the surly kind– younger looking pale skinned man with neatly groomed dark brown hair that was stylishly parted and slicked back. Ekaterina was a fair skinned slender woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was more or less the epitome of Ravkan feminine beauty ideals, and Alina felt a pang of envy just looking at her. Ivan was… Ivan. He looked just as Alina remembered him from this morning, still hard faced, sharp featured, with closely shaved brown hair, a closely shaved beard, and a disdainful look in his brown eyes. Alina wasn’t quite certain why Ivan was looking at her like that, she to her knowledge she hadn’t done anything to offend him so.

All of the other occupants of the carriage were wearing red keftas, however there seemed to be some differences between them. Fedyor and Ivan’s keftas were largely the same, with elaborate black patterning running up the front of the jackets and around the collar. The pattern on Ekaterina’s kefta was stitched in grey and was less complex, taking up less space proportionally on her kefta.

“Only one thing left to check,” Ekaterina said, slightly nervously this time. “What do you remember of the events after you left the skiff?”

Alina thought for a moment. Thought a little longer. Then felt her face turn bright red before she attempted to bury herself inside her kefta and die.

Oh Saints, she was wearing his kefta!

She heard bright peels of laughter emanating from Fedyor’s direction, giggling from Ekaterina next to her. Ivan was silent, but from what Alina knew of the man, he was probably smirking or at least enjoying her embarrassment. 

“Miss Starkova, I am so sorry,” Fedyor hiccuped after his laughter had died down to a wheeze, “it was terribly rude of us to laugh at your predicament.”

Alina made a high pitched noise of dismay. The kefta was nice and soft and lovely but really wasn’t helping with the dying thing.

"Don’t worry, almost everyone at the Little Palace had a crush on the General at some point growing up,” Fedyor tried to reassure her, “I remember one time, when the General came by to watch the Etherealki practice, Zoya wanted to impress him so badly that she summoned a particularly strong squall. Only she forgot to brace herself accordingly and blew herself backwards into the lake.”

Zoya… wasn’t that the squaller from the tent? She was so elegant and poised even injured, it was hard to imagine what she would look like young and waterlogged.

“Why even Ivan– oomph!” Alina peeked out from behind her shield of fabric to see Fedyor wincing, hand rubbing his side with Ivan glaring to his right. Fedyor looked so wounded and betrayed that she couldn’t stop herself from giggling.

Fedyor looked pleased at the sound of her laughter, eyes brightening, lips turned upwards in a warm smile. “See? Laughter suits you Miss Starkova,” Fedyor said, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone in the Second has had their fair share of embarrassing moments and tales. Besides, it is completely understandable that you were not at your best. Not only did you have a concussion and were exhausted from summoning for the first time, but you also went through the Fold without a Scent Ward, which takes quite a toll on a grisha.”

“A Scent Ward?” Alina said, “Is that–” she fished out the silver necklace that had been hanging around her neck, the one that smelled so pungently of floral scents and an unknown citrus.

“Indeed!” Fedyor beamed, “a handy invention borne from the joint cooperation of the Materialki and the Order nearest and dearest to our hearts, the Corporalki. After much testing, we found that a specific combination of scents helps grisha cope with the effects of the Fold. You’ll have to wear it at least until we arrive at the Little Palace, possibly even longer if the Healers,” he nods at Ekaterina who smiled and also nodded her head slightly, “say you should keep it on.”

“Oh! Speaking of the Fold, Dammit I knew I was forgetting something,” Fedyor suddenly fretted, “the grapes! We left them at camp!”

“What’s so important about grapes?” Alina asked as she watched Fedyor frantically searching through compartments she didn’t know existed underneath the black velvet benches they sat on.

“It’s not grapes in particular, just any sort of easily digestible sugar,” Ekaterina explained helpfully, “the Resonance is especially difficult on grisha, something to do with our innate connection with the World. It exerts a stronger effect on our minds, leads to much more impulsivity and stress even when wearing a Scent Ward. Keeping up blood sugar levels and being relaxed seem to help both with coping and recovery.”

Oh. Was that why she felt better the night before when Mal brought those grapes? 

“Point to Miss Katya!” Fedyor proclaimed cheerfully, if a bit muffled being bent over a basket on the floor, “someone’s been reading their theory. Aha! Found some!” Fedyor hoisted a basket onto his lap and began distributing sustenance, “Katya, have a biscuit, you must be peaky after all of that healing. Miss Starkova, grapes for you,” Alina might have made a slight wheezing noise when a very large bunch of grapes were deposited in her arms, “and Ivan, look, pickled herring!” Ivan perked up at this announcement.

“Fedyor, not the herring please,” Katya looked a bit green, “if you open the jar it’s going to make the carriage smell!”

“Oh this is true. Sorry dearest, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for the apple piroshki.”

“I don’t understand how you like herring so much Ivan,” Ekaterina said, “we eat it so often, how are you not sick of it?”

“Herring is nutritious and practical,” Ivan said, “and is symbolic of a correct set of sociopolitical ideals and normative standards.”

Herring represented a set of what now?

“Grisha eat herring?” Alina asked in between munching on grapes because wow she was hungry. Her last meal was...lunch. Or was it breakfast? Before a failed Crossing, a volcra attack, her life being upended by turning out to be a grisha, a legendary type of grisha, meeting the Black General and calling him pretty to his face before being shoved into a carriage on a trip to the capital of Ravka. I didn’t know it was possible to get into so much trouble in a day, Alina thought glumly.

“Oh yes,” Fedyor said absentmindedly as he pressed another biscuit into a perfectly receptive Ekaterina’s hands, “quite a bit of herring at the Little Palace. The General insists that the core of our meals be pickled herring on rye. We eat the wholesome food of the people to remind us who we seek to defend, prevent our surroundings from getting to our head, and remind us of the days when our people were on the run and could only afford to eat herring on rye.”

Well, that went from surprisingly wholesome to a bit depressing. 

“It also symbolizes grisha ingenuity,” Ivan said resolutely, more animated than Alina had seen him be the entire ride, “cheap, easy to preserve and transport. Herring saved Ravka from the famine of 1721, when the Tidemakers and Materialki figured out how to get the waters of the Innys near Ejora to mimic coastal waters and reintroduced a viable herring population.” The man sounded as though he was giving a lecture to a class, or perhaps like a very passionate textbook.

“Yet another one of the General’s hairbrained schemes that somehow worked out. I don’t know how he looked at all of the waterfalls and thought, yes, this would make an excellent spot to breed herring.”

“At least it isn’t the beets,” Ekaterina chimed in. 

“Don’t get me started on the beets. He’s going to drive the Alkemi insane with that project, and soon he’s going to drive me insane. I swear there has to be something personal going on, he is obsessed with making beets grow in mountain soil. Mountains!”

“So grisha don’t get fresh grapes as part of their rations?” Alina asked, slightly crestfallen. She had heard stories of how well the grisha ate, the best cuts of meat and finely crafted sweets served on gold plates. Mind you, herring on rye was still better than most of what she got in the First, but after seeing the luxuries of the pavilion in Kribirsk, it was still not exactly what she was hoping for.

“Oh no, definitely not,” Fedyor said, “Could you imagine? Grapes at the Fjerdan front?” 

“Would make it more bearable,” Ekaterina remarked idly.

“I’m afraid the only time we get such nice accommodations is in Kribirsk and that is due to the effects of the Fold,” Fedyor told Alina, “everywhere else we get about the same food as the First, though the General attempts to send additional supplies to us to make combat rotations more bearable.”

“Come to think of it, our tents are nicer than First Army tents,” Ekaterina observed.

“First and Second procurement are done separately,” Ivan said gruffly, “Second Army supplies are made in house at Balakirev. First Army goes through Nesterov.”

Ekaterina made a noise of sudden understanding and sighed. Alina looked at them quizzically, “who’s Nesterov?”

Fedyor and Ivan glanced at each other briefly before Fedyor sighed. “Deputy Minister of War Nesterov is in charge of First Army procurement,” Fedyor said carefully, “The First pays the Duke of Chelny to produce tents for the First at the same rate as Second.”

Alina had lived inside a First Army tent for years at this point, and been inside Emiliya’s standard issue Second Army tent. Even without the mold and mildew that had been Alina’s special privilege, the two were in no way comparable in quality.

“The Duke produces substandard quality and pockets the difference doesn’t he,” Alina said quietly. The rest of the carriage said nothing, but she knew how this game was played. Plausible deniability, merely citing known information would not get them in trouble in the same way stating the implication would. “And the Tsar allows it?” Right there? Right under his nose?

“Duke Nesterov of Chelny is married to the Tsar’s sister.”

Ah. Of course. Good old fashioned corruption. “Because of course he is,” Alina muttered in disgust.

The mood was somber for a moment before Fedyor shook his head. “No, no, why are we being so down and talking about such depressing things? We should be happy! The Sun Summoner, found at last,” Fedyor smiled, a warm honest expression that made Alina offer a small smile back even as she recoiled inwards from the dreaded words sun summoner . “You’re a very special girl, so how has no one looked twice at you before?”

Because people looking meant danger, because people looking meant seeing half-Shu and nothing else. Because Alina only wanted other people to see what she wanted them to see, that way other people couldn’t spit upon what was really truly hers. 

“Why look twice at me when there’s people like Ekaterina walking around?” Alina said wryly instead.

Fedyor laughed obligingly at her joke, but shook his head. “While it is true that Miss Katya is undeniably charming,” Fedyor gave Ekaterina a mock bow and Ekaterina melodramatically swooned making Alina laugh a little, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder and is not a competition Miss Starkova. At least, it should not be, especially when everyone is beautiful in their own way. But that would be digressing into the debate over Ravkan beauty ideals and power. A recurring complex debate that the knowledge circles have, and we shouldn't get into them now. My point, Miss Starkova,” Fedyor was serious now, eyes earnest and honest, “you mean a lot to the grisha. Our kind has had myths of a summoner like you. It was a Grisha who created the Fold, and the Otkazat’sya have never forgiven us since. If a Grisha destroys it, maybe… maybe we wouldn’t need to be afraid anymore.”

– when there was no need to hide, when they could be free out in the open where everyone could see –  

There was a poignant silence as Alina looked at Fedyor with all of the hope in his eyes and felt her heart break. She was Alina Starkova, the failure, the burden. She was just a cartographer, she had no idea that she was a grisha. She didn’t even know she had powers, let alone how to use them! She wasn’t some savior, how could she be? 

How could she save anyone when she couldn’t even save herself? 

The moment of silence went away when Ivan made a loud disparaging noise. Fedyor glanced at him before winking at Alina. “Don’t worry about him, he thinks I’m far too optimistic.”

“Otkazat’sya were burning us before the Fold appeared though,” Ekatarina said softly, face shaded gently by melancholy. “I don’t know if getting rid of the Fold will mean they’ll stop being afraid of us, not when they know what we could do.”

Monsters. Unnatural Abominations.

Alina tightened her grip on her borrowed kefta, and said nothing. The carriage went silent.

~

“–the rest will have to wait until I arrive at the Little Palace and can send further correspondence. That is all.”

Aleksander waited for his command staff and the First Army officers to file out of his tent before taking a seat in the chair behind his desk. He impatiently motioned the two oprichniki standing in the shadows forward. “Well?”

Sokolova placed a grey folder on his desk, opened it and slid the folder towards him with the contents facing his direction. “Malyen Orestev, age 20, Senior Tracker with the 22nd. Agent Dobrynin was the oprichnik assigned to his case.”

Aleksander flicked his fingers and Sokolova moved to the side and stood at attention. Agent Dobrynin came forward, an unassuming young man whose features were intensely forgettable, usefully so. “Malyen Orestev was singled out by embedded assets at Poliznaya for possible recruitment into the oprichniki , and sent to Kribirsk for assessment. Under standard procedure, I approached Orestev with the codename, ‘Tyoma’, to conduct preliminary psychological evaluation. Due to lack of emotional control and indications that he harbored prejudice against the grisha, he was eliminated from candidacy and sent onwards to Chernast. Orestev distinguished himself at Chernast, and was noted to have demonstrated leadership, excellent combat skills, as well as a preternatural tracking ability. He was pulled mid rotation to Kribirsk for further observation for entry into the Special Assets Division.”

Aleksander flipped the page in Orestev’s file and stopped himself from grimacing at the sight of a mask contorted in sorrow, the sigil of the Special Assets Division. A garish title for such a useful program. 

The Oprichniki had three faces. The first was infamous, the charcoal greatcoats, long shoulder capes, black furred hats. His personal guard and enforcers: precise, disciplined, with strictly regimented rules and regulations. They were meant to be overt and menacing, a visible symbol of his power and a signal of his reach. 

The second was covert. Operating in the shadows of their more visible counterparts, the Second Branch of the Oprichniki infiltrated both domestic and foreign institutions, gathering information while conducting threat and risk assessments that would inform his and his command staff’s decision making. They were his knife in the dark, precise and deadly. They monitored and eliminated threats to his person and his plans, a far more efficient and effective force than the Third Section , the Tsarist regime’s pitiful attempt at emulating this branch of the oprichniki.

The last was...odd. While the other two branches of the oprichniki were very distinct operationally, the nature of the two branches meant that the types of personalities that worked best within them were the same: precise, obedient, amenable to structure and hierarchy. Not everyone was willing, capable, or best utilized under those conditions, and thus the Special Assets Division was born. 

Originally an initiative conceived and run under the auspices of the Oprichniki Second Branch, the Special Assets Division functioned as a collection of handlers, managing assets whose efficacy would be compromised under the rigidity of the other two branches. Oftentimes, the assets believed themselves to be mercenaries, serving a series of clients that were in fact rotating SAD agents in disguise, or perhaps agents to other entities, ones less infamous than the Black General’s Oprichniki . Some assets were aware of the true nature of their employer and were considered part of the SAD proper. These agents were granted a certain degree of leeway in recognition of their...unorthodox methods so long as they continued to deliver results. 

The operations that came as a result of the SAD’s creation were chaotic to say the least, and occasionally their methods were so baffling or absurd, it made for mission reports that were quite the entertaining read. To this day Aleksander had no idea what had possessed Lustig to con his way into vaults of the Bank of Ketterdam in broad daylight while wearing bright pink, however the results were spectacular enough that the next time the Kerch Ambassador appeared in Court Aleksander had been able to leverage the subsequent instability and embarrassment over the affair to negotiate down the interest rate on the debit accrued by the Crown. If the next installment had been paid with the very same money Lustig had absconded with, well. Gold bullion was easy enough to convert into Kruge through Ketterdam’s own blackmarket backchannels, and the ambassador left none the wiser.

It was missions like Lustig’s and many others that convinced Aleksander and the upper ranks of the Oprichniki that the SAD deserved its own branch, however by that point the oprichniki had coined the SAD moniker and the name had stuck. His oprichniki might be fearsome but they also had a childishly straightforward sense of humor and Aleksander just let it be. Allowing his ordinarily serious oprichniki a little indulgence like this from time to time gave them a sense of agency, made them feel a little more camaraderie at no expense to himself.

He just wished they had picked something more...dignified.

“Why was Orestev on the skiff?” Aleksander asked.

“Senior Agent Lokpukov determined that Orestev was a borderline case. His aptitudes were still too unrefined to know if he would be worth the investment of sending him to Balakirev. Agent Hound in Khorva has been looking to retire, and asked for permission to groom him as his successor if he passed muster.”

A replacement for an asset on the other side of the Fold if Orestev had what it took, minimal loss of investment if he died en route or failed. Efficient.

“And his relationship to the Sun Summoner?”

“Childhood friends. They grew up in the same orphanage in Keramzin. Orestev enlisted at sixteen, the Sun Summoner enlisted the year after at the same age. They have been in touch through the post.”

Aleksander mulled this over in his head before he came to a decision.

“Call for a heartrender to join us here, anyone will do. Then bring Orestev to me. I wish to have a word.”

~

Malyen Orestev was deeply afraid.

He was sitting in the dark of some storage tent in the Second Army encampment, hands tied tightly to the heavy tent pole. The adrenaline from seeing Alina be carted away had long worn off, and he was left alone with only his thoughts for company.

They were not nice thoughts. He had attacked an oprichnik , one of the Darkling– no, that word was too dangerous to even think now, not when there could be demons listening for such an insulting thought– Black General's personal guards. Their authority was his authority, to strike them was to disrespect him . 

Everyone knew what happened if you disrespected the Black General when the oprichniki were around.

It would be the little things at first. The price of produce at the market would go up, the post would cost more to use, and the tax collector would say you were a bit short even though you just watched him count out every ruble in front of you and half the village.

But if you kept going, then the real trouble would start. Your livestock would be targeted for first pick when the Tsar’s men came to requisition supplies. Your neighbors would be told not to associate with you, an agitator against the state. Then your family and friends. You would become a pariah, too dangerous to be around.

And if you did something really bad, you would get a knock on the door, a visit from the monsters in charcoal in the middle of the night. No one would ever see or hear from you again.

The tent flap opened, and an oprichnik stepped through. Mal almost relaxed when he saw him, the oprichnik looked almost like Tyoma. Then Mal saw the look in his eyes, the cold dead stare that told him he meant nothing, was nothing, was less than nothing, and felt his skin crawl. He was holding a length of fabric in his black gloved hands. “Senior Tracker Malyen Orestev?” Mal nodded in confirmation at the implicit question and then sat very still as the oprichnik tied the fabric around his head covering his eyes. A blindfold he realized belatedly. He felt the sweat trickle down his spine as he felt the displacement of air from the looming figure passing by and–

–untying his hands?

“Get up.” The nightmare’s boot, black as sin, pushed against his leg roughly. Mal scrambled to his feet, and stood at attention. “Follow me.”

Mal followed.

~

The oprichnik had him hold onto one end of the rope as he led him on a circuitous route through the encampment. The route must be a security measure, Mal had seen the encampment from the outside and it was not large enough for this route to be a direct path to anything. 

“When I tug, you stop, understood?” The oprichnik ’s voice said gruffly.

“Yes sir.” Mal knew when to pick his fights. He was not interested in digging his grave any deeper.

They walked only a bit further before Mal felt the tug, and he halted immediately. 

“Guardsman Lukov bringing Orestev.” Mal shifted on his feet as they waited for some signal he couldn’t see. Lukov must have received whatever signal he had been waiting for as he heard the rustle of fabric. “Inside the tent Orestev. Walk forward until I tell you to stop.” 

He did as he was told.

“Stop.”

He stood still and waited as someone, Lukov presumably, reached over and took the blindfold off his head. He blinked.

Mal was standing in a very large circular tent, bigger than any briefing tent he had ever been in. It was the sort of space that could easily fit thirty people comfortably, and from the looks of the long table and the number of fancy looking chairs currently set off to the side, it often did. A large floor to ceiling curtain partitioned the back away from the rest of the tent, likely keeping personal sleeping quarters away from prying eyes. The tent was also strangely...messy? As though someone had haphazardly gone through the tent looking for something and was not terribly neat when putting everything back. Lustov was standing at attention directly to his right, posture sharp and stiff. In front of him a female oprichnik was standing off to the left, high ranking by the looks of the tabs on her shoulders, a commander if the insignias were roughly equivalent to the First’s. Her eyes were cool and assessing, a perfunctory look over that turned challenging when Mal met her gaze.

Mal had nothing personal against female commanders. One of the best commanders he had was a woman, they were just incredibly rare. First Army promotions had a habit of going nobles first, men after, women if there were no other possible options. At least, that’s how it worked at Chernast.

The man standing next to her made his hair stand on end. Black embroidery on a red kefta meant Heartrender, and you did not mess with those. A man could scrap with etherealki maybe, and still get out with only minor injury, but Heartrenders were different. A sane man did not mess with demons who could tear a man’s heart out his chest from a distance just by waving their hands.

But he didn’t have time to think about the lady commander or the heartrender. What caught his attention and held it were four major observations.

First. The tent was Black.

Second. The walls were draped in black banners and flags all stamped with the insignia of a black sun.

Third. There was an intricately carved ebony chair in the middle of the tent behind an elaborately decorated ebony desk.

Fourth. The chair was occupied.

A man in a black leather surcoat with silver buckles running down the front sat languidly in the great chair, one leg crossed over the other, black gloved hands clasped in his lap, demeanor poised and self-assured. He was terrifyingly beautiful, almost unnaturally so, immaculate in his appearance save for a missing kefta that was nowhere to be seen. The man looked young, far too young to be the only grisha who was allowed to wear black, who had been Lord of the Second Army for longer than anyone could remember. Had this been any other place, one could be forgiven for mistaking him for some bored lordling playing at being a soldier to score points with Os Alta. 

His eyes gave him away. Sharp, focused, dark. Ancient and terrible in their intensity. Dangerous. 

The King of Monsters sitting on his Throne.

The tent was silent and belatedly he realized they were waiting for something. He stiffened and snapped to attention. “ Moi soverenyi,” Mal said, putting as much  respect in his voice as he could muster.

Dark eyes looked him over and a long slender hand flicked sharply, “at ease.”

The oprichniki in the room both relaxed slightly, their posture shifting so that their shoulders were still straight and their hands were tucked behind their backs. Their movements had been synchronised, precise and coordinated in a way that indicated intense shared training practices. After a moment studying them, Mal copied their stance and followed suit.

“Malyen Orestev, age 20, Senior Tracker with the 22nd,” General Kirigan began, “An orphan from Keramzin, enlisted at age 16, trained at Poliznaya then deployed to Kribirsk. Sent to Chernast after getting into a fight with two of my grisha, but was commended for excellent performance in combat after leading the charge against the Fjerdans after your direct commanding officer died in battle. Now tell me,” the General uncoiled in his seat and leaned forward over his desk with a predatory grace, “what specifically in that history led you to find the energy to break through an Oprichniki security cordon, chase after my carriage while injured, and punch one of my guards in the face?”

Mal was so screwed. “ Moi soverenyi, I sincerely apologize,” Mal was not the kind to grovel but he was in over his head, “Alina was my best friend, my only friend at Keramzin. We hadn’t seen each other for years before yesterday and I thought I would lose her when the volcra attacked and when I woke up and saw Alina was missing I was desperate to find her that when I saw her being taken away, I just…” he trailed off at this point helplessly, unable to explain his adrenaline maddened desperation fueled actions any further.

“You care for her,” General Kirigan stated softly, head tilting ever so slightly.

“Yes sir,” Mal’s voice was steady. 

“Even though she is grisha?”

“She’s not!” Mal felt sick at the idea. “Sir, there has to be some sort of mistake, I knew her for years, she never showed any sign of being a grisha, not once!”

“No signs at all?” the General’s tone shifted ever so slightly colder, enough to make Mal feel uneasy, “she was not sickly as a child? Lights never flared when she lost her temper, she never had difficulty eating or sleeping, and she never shivered even in the height of summer when alone?”

“How did you–” Mal whispered. 

“I am a grisha, I am the defender of our kind,” General Kirigan said with grim certainty, “I know exactly what a grisha suppressing her power to stay hidden looks like.”

 “But we were tested–”

“Ah yes, you two were tested and somehow the testers missed you,” the General’s eyes narrowed and he stood up abruptly and stalked around the desk, “how is that, I wonder. Did you run? Hide?” Mal stiffened as the Black General walked past his right to somewhere he could not see, “no, you cheated the test somehow did you not? Well, maybe not you. But Alina.”

Mal did not like the proprietary way the General spoke Alina’s name. Something Mal did must have given him away however, as he heard the General breathe, “ah, so that is how it was. Interesting.” 

The General strode back into sight on Mal’s other side to his desk, where he leaned against the edge, looking, watching.

“But that is besides the point for the moment. What she did in her past does not change what she is, what she must do. The question here is will you have a part in that future. Tell me. Do you care for her enough to protect her? Enough to fight for her?”

“Of course I do, of course I would! ...Sir,” Mal added belatedly.

“Enough to die for her?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. He knew this was his truth, one held closely to his very soul. Alina and Mal. Mal and Alina. If she needed him to die for her, he would. “She was all I had once. She protected me. It’s about time I protected her.”

The General said nothing, merely crossing his arms over his chest and looking at the Heartrender Mal had almost forgotten was there.

“Nothing, moi soverenyi,” the Heartrender said, “he speaks the truth.”

General Kirigan said nothing for a moment, before speaking, “then the matter is settled. You wish to protect her? Then you will do so as one of my oprichniki, under my orders, and you will work to get rid of that prejudice against my people.”

“Or?” The General’s words was overtly an ultimatum, and he knew he was being stupid by pushing, but he had to know what he was getting into.

“Or you walk away and go back to your posting in the First and serve out your time quietly. Miss. Starkova will be training her skills to better serve Ravka. She will need all of her energy for her lessons, and will not have the luxury of thinking or dealing with a young otkazat’sya who could not look past his prejudices to be placed in a position to protect her.” Mal watched as the General came up to him and held out his hand. “Well?”

Mal should have hesitated. The Oprichniki were demons that ran alongside witches, men who had sold their souls to their Dark King. But this was Alina, the girl from the meadow, the one who stood between him and Igor when they were young even though the brute was three times her size. Whether she was grisha or not, he would be there for her. He would make up for his mistake. He took the General’s hand and shook it firmly. “ Moi soverenyi,” he began formally, “I will join your Oprichniki.”

“And your attitude towards grisha?”

“I’ll–,” he hesitated and looked at the heartrender, considering his words carefully. “I’ll try.”

The General looked at the heartrender who nodded. General Kirigan sighed and went to stand behind his desk, “you will have to do more than try if you ever wish to see Miss Starkova. But for now, that will have to do.” He reached into one of the drawers of his desk and lazily tossed a small dull grey object at Mal. Mal caught it and saw that it was a small dull grey theater mask made out of metal whose mouth was carved into an exaggerated frown. 

“Thank you Kliment, you may go.” The heartrender bowed with a murmured moi soverenyi , before he walked out of the tent. “Agent Tyoma, take Orestev and begin the onboarding process.”

“Yes , moi Soverenyi. ” Mal was startled when another oprichnik materialized out of the shadows of the tent.

“ Tyoma?” Mal hissed incredulously. 

Tyoma, the man who bought him a beer last time he was in Kribirsk after losing a  round of Zemani Snap shook his head. “Not here,” he whispered and jerked his head in the direction of the tent flap. Mal took one last glimpse behind him, watched as General Kirigan sat easily back into his great ebony throne, posture graceful in repose. The grisha flicked his wrist and began twirling a knife in his right hand idly. His dark eyes were watchful. Waiting. For what? Mal could not tell.

And so the rabbit left the lion’s den, unharmed. 

For now.

~

“You have a question for me?” Aleksander allowed his eyes to wander away from the closing tent flap to Commander Sokolova. She had been on his personal guard detail long enough for him to know her tells and right now her left arm was ever so slightly tensed.

“Yes, moi soverenyi ,” she said. She was not afraid when she admitted she had a question, Aleksander had long encouraged his more senior aides to ask questions freely, so long as they learned from his answers. “Handshakes are generally not offered to recruits.”

“No,” Aleksander agreed, “while testing the Sun Summoner for her gift, I noticed traces of another amplifier forming a rudimentary bond, the kind only a human amplifier could leave.”

“Orestev?”

“Indeed.” Aleksander drummed his fingers with his free hand on his desk, “have that noted on his file and sent to Captain Volkov at Balakirev. Orestev can join the latest batch of irregulars in their training.” 

“Yes moi soverenyi. ” Aleksander watched Sokolova hesitate, a rarity for such a decisive woman. “ Moi soverenyi , I must confess I have reservations about Orestev.”

“Go on,” Aleksander prompted, interested in where Sokolova would take the conversation.

“He is an unknown quantity, an orphan with no other meaningful pressure points, other than perhaps two others in his tracking unit.”

“An orphan with no connections has never been an obstacle to the Oprichniki,” Aleksander noted, “ordinarily it is considered a desirable trait.”

“Only when they can be cultivated into loyalty. His first loyalty would not be to you, it would be to the girl.”

“The Sun Summoner,” Aleksander corrected. After seeing Sokolova nod in understanding he continued, “an orphan noted for his excellence in combat and having demonstrated leadership in battle, enough to have his unit follow him after their captain was killed, not the next most senior officer in the unit.” 

“That sort of man is dangerous.”

“But could also be useful,” Aleksander said, “the boy is disdainful of authority and determined to be by Miss Starkova’s side. I have lived long enough to know those are the troublesome ones, the ones that will not stop until they get what they want unless they are dead, and will stir up dissent along the way. I have no intention of soliciting ill will from the Sun Summoner by arranging for the boy to die, nor am I interested in creating a martyr for my enemies to capitalize upon. No, Orestev will serve where I can see him, and if Volkov does his job well, the boy might one day even thank me for it. Besides, so long as the Sun Summoner is loyal, we need not worry about Orestev.”

“And if the Sun Summoner turns on you?” Sokolova asked.

“We should hope it does not come to that,” Aleksander said drily, “but if it does,” he stabbed his knife into the ebony of his desk and smiled when Sokolova just barely kept herself from jumping, “then they will have each other’s safety to consider.”

“Have a mixed escort ready for departure, we ride out in twenty. Oh and Sokolova?”    

“Yes moi soverenyi? ”

“Do any of the oprichniki have a cloak in my size?”

~

Once the occupants of the carriage shook off the funk that the previous conversation had left them all (or at least three of them) in, the carriage ride went by surprisingly quickly. Fedyor and Ekaterina ( “Please, call me Katya!”) were excellent conversationalists and Ivan was there. She learned much about the Little Palace from the two who were willing to talk to her (“ A beautiful palace,” they had both agreed. “ Too large though ,” Katya said, “ I keep getting lost”) , such as what a knowledge circle was ( grisha aren’t allowed to enroll in Ravkan universities, Fedyor explained, and it’s too dangerous for us to go abroad. So we made our own! Sort of. You’ll see when we get there, it’s a bit hard to explain.) , what the ‘Vezda suite was’ ( “I’m sleeping where, near who???”), and other such topics. Fedyor and Katya were noticeably careful to keep the conversation lighthearted and innocuous, as if afraid to overwhelm Alina with too much too fast.

It was a four day carriage ride to Os Alta, even going at the breakneck pace the convoy was travelling at. They had stopped each night at seemingly random clearings off the side of the road, but ones that the grisha and the oprichniki knew well enough to set up camp quickly.

“The General often gets sent to Kribirsk,” Fedyor had said, eyes darkening with a stifled rage that had Alina eyeing him in alarm before he was suddenly very cheerful again. “ We’re lucky we arrived so recently, the carriage hadn’t even been unpacked yet!”

It was the morning of the third day that would prove to be an eventful one.

Katya and Fedyor had been arguing over the merits of vatruska versus pryanik as the better dessert ( “I like kurabiiki to be quite honest,” Alina had said when they turned to her for support and had to stifle a laugh when they both gasped in horror), when the carriage suddenly stopped. Fedyor and Ivan immediately tensed, hands flying up at the ready.

“A blockage on the road! Fjerdans!”

“I sense eighteen heartbeats outside of the convoy, they’ve surrounded us," Ivan reported briskly, "They’re moving fast. Druskelle .”

Druskelle, the Fjerdan grisha hunters she had fought near Ulensk were all there way down here, in the Ravkan heartlands?

“It’s too dangerous to risk a run for the treeline,” Fedyor decided, “Stay in the carriage, the walls are bulletproof. Katya, stay with her.”

“Sir!” 

Fedyor and Ivan stepped out of the carriage and shut the door behind them while Katya pulled out a sharp short blade from her sleeve and pulled the dagger from her belt.

“Here,” Katya passed Alina the dagger, “just in case.”

Alina nodded and held the dagger with one hand, drawing her service pistol with the other. The air in the carriage was tense as they waited, listening for signs that the carriage would be breached.

They heard shouting, gun fire, the harsh syllables of Fjerdan. Fedyor shouting for squallers.

Alina couldn’t help but gasp as an axe brutally ripped into the carriage door. The entire carriage shook as the axe was yanked out along with the wood. The head of a large burly black haired druskelle loomed into view and Alina did not hesitate. 

She fired point blank into the man’s skull. 

The druskelle toppled over headless and Alina only had a few moments to roll out of the way of another axe when she felt more than saw the sunlight from the window behind her be interrupted by a silhouette. 

“Move!” Alina screamed at Katya. The healer bolted for the opening and Alina quickly jumped out of the carriage after her. The area was in shambles, smoke canisters belching smog everywhere. Two druskelle , one on each side charged out of the smoke and lunged with their axes. Katya stood at her back and blocked one of the druskelle with her short sword. Alina tried shooting her gun only to feel a sharp chill down her spine when she realized–

– the fucking cartridge was empty! She never reloaded her weapon after the volcra attack!

She threw the pistol at the druskelle ’s face and brought the dagger up. She wouldn’t win a parry, not when the druskelle was fucking enormous , but if she could dodge and let his weight fall on the dagger…

An enormous gust of wind blew across the battlefield, the smog cleared and as soon as they were revealed a wave of darkness flew across her field of vision. She screamed when the druskelle charging her suddenly fell apart, cut neatly in a diagonal, the axe now missing her entirely. 

Her heart was pounding, the adrenaline in her veins bringing everything into hyper clarity as she stared uncomprehendingly at the bisected corpse. She looked up when a man clad almost entirely in black strode up to her. General Kirigan.

Even after joining a pitched battle, General Kirigan was immaculately put together, black cloak and leather undercoat pristine, leather boots and silver buckles polished to a shine, not a single hair out of place. His mount cantored to a stop behind him. It was the largest horse she had ever seen, a black stallion that snorted and stamped impatiently at the ground before settling when the General slowly patted his neck. The General never once took his intense brown eyes off of her own.

“Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Alina said panting heavily, still trying to catch her breath, she scanned the area, “the druskelle, are there–”

“The druskelle have fled now that they know I am here,” the General said, voice calm and assured. Alina could feel herself relax at the utter certainty in his voice. 

“What was that wave, how did you cut that druskelle in half?” He cut the man in half from a half a dozen paces! Surely Emiliya would have mentioned if that was a standard issue grisha skill.

“I am a shadow summoner,” the General said, as if that explained anything , “I simply compressed the shadows into a thin blade and let go.”

Alright. Alina had no idea what he was talking about, but grisha magic. It didn’t have to make sense if it worked.

General Kirigan must have sensed her resignation as his lip briefly twitched upwards in a little smile and Alina felt like she had been briefly dazzled by the sun (oh the irony). “The Cut is an advanced technique that any summoner could theoretically accomplish, but it takes tremendous skill.” My my, was the General bragging? “Any summoner,” he repeated softly, staring into her eyes. 

Wait. Surely he wasn’t implying?

“So what now?” Alina asked. The carriage was broken, and the convoy was scattered. She could see that the General had brought reinforcements, and both the General’s escort and the convoy that had been travelling with her were slowly regrouping.

“The Fjerdans will not have been the only ones to set up an ambush. The carriage will no longer do, its structural integrity will not withstand another assault should it happen. No, we will be better off using it as a decoy.”

“What about me?”

“You will ride with me.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 5: On Suffering

“Learning other perspectives is not just an exercise in gathering intelligence, it is also an exercise in empathy. Learn how they think, think about what they say. Grow from what they give, especially what they did not mean to give away.” 

-The Twelfth Lesya

~

They did not ride away immediately. General Kirigan was still a general, and as such still needed to see to his troops before he left.

“Ivan, casualties?”

“Three moi soverenyi ,” Ivan reported, “Two fatalities, one injury. Inferni Lagunova and Guardsman Sidorov are dead. Guardsman Mirov will make a full recovery.”

Two people died to protect her . She could see the bodies being picked up now and moved next to each other. A tall pale skinned inferni with brown hair wearing a blue kefta with whorls of flame stitched in bright orange thread, a young shorter tan man with slightly lighter brown hair in oprichniki charcoal. She had not known them, not with the brutal pace that had been set and her being kept inside the carriage, but she had seen them at night setting up camp or keeping watch.

Lagunova. Sidorov. She would remember their faces. She would remember their names.

Alina watched grief flicker ever so slightly across the General’s face, so brief that anyone not paying close attention would have missed it. After a brief moment of silence, he sighed quietly and looked down the road. “Balakirev is not far from here, two of the oprichniki can ride there with the bodies on a stretcher between them. Have the dead brought to the estate for last rites. I will write the letters after we arrive.”

“Sir.”

General Kirigan placed a gentle hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “Everyone in the convoy did well. An ambush where the druskelle outnumbered you and only three casualties is a feat to be proud of.” Alina watched as Ivan and those listening in straightened ever so slightly, the words resonating deeply, “Lagunova and Sidorov did not give their lives freely and their sacrifice will be remembered. Any recriminations you may have will have to wait until we arrive, we are not safe yet. The work remains.”

“Until all is dust,” Ivan murmured, his words echoed by the other grisha in the party. He looked up. “Your orders, moi soverenyi ?”

“Take the carriage on the southern roads along the Vy, head directly to the Little Palace. I will take the Sun Summoner north to Balakirev and we will spend the night at the estate before taking the northern road to Os Alta in the morning.”

“You plan to approach from the west entrance?”

“Yes.”

“Very good sir.” Considering the way the conversation had been going up until now, Alina would have expected Ivan to leave at this point and relay the order to the rest of the party, however Ivan stayed where he was.

General Kirigan raised an eyebrow, “is there something you need Ivan?”

Ivan surreptitiously looks around before observing quietly, “ moi soverenyi, you are not wearing your kefta.”

“Ah. Yes. I felt under the circumstances an element of stealth would not go amiss and the oprichniki cloak would prevent me from being identified from a distance.”

Ivan seemed unimpressed by this explanation. “You could not find your spare keftas could you, sir.”

The General was suspiciously quiet, his face carefully neutral, and Alina silently looked back and forth between the two men.

Ivan studiously looked around and then said quietly, “I keep your spare keftas in the compartment underneath your bed, in case this information is ever relevant in the future.”

“...thank you Ivan, you may go now.”

“If you need a kefta you can have yours back!”

The two men looked at her as she quickly shrugged out of the black kefta. It was beautiful, a work of art. Glittering black thread was carefully stitched on the exterior of the kefta forming intricately branching needlework that mimicked the canopy of a winter forest at midnight. The inside was lined with soft black sable fur and shimmering black silk. It was the nicest piece of clothing Alina had ever had the privilege of touching, let alone wear, even temporarily–

–but it wasn’t hers. It was the General’s. More than his rank and title, it was his kefta .

Most grisha aren’t allowed to own property . The resignation in Emiliya’s voice haunted her still. Only grisha who are part of the nobility can legally own property, and even that right is a source of tension in Os Alta. Everything we have is courtesy of the Second Army and can be repossessed by the chain of command. Our tents, our bedrolls, our rooms– if the Second needs it for a different purpose we must let it go where it is needed. The only object that belongs only to us and will always belong to us is our kefta and our kefta alone.

“I know...a friend told me how important kefta are to grisha,” Alina said, “if you need your kefta back, it’s only right for me to return it.” She turned the kefta around, offering it to him in a mirror of how he had offered it to her two days ago. The symmetry pleased her as she shook his kefta lightly and smiled.

The General looked at her, eyes intent and…faintly startled? Ivan was glancing oddly between his general and Alina, seemingly perplexed by something. What that something was, Alina could not tell. 

She faltered slightly. Had she done something wrong? Was her gesture offensive? Were they surprised by her mentioning the importance of kefta? Oh no, did she get Emiliya in trouble for having an otkazat’sya friend or for telling said friend information she might not have been supposed to? 

“And leave you unprotected?” General Kirigan said eventually, and Alina was taken aback by how sharply he said it. The line of his mouth and his posture softened, “no, the journey ahead will still be dangerous. You will need to keep the kefta on to protect yourself in the event of another incident.”

“If I may,” Fedyor stepped forward from where he had been observing the exchange from a few steps away, “ moi soverenyi, a possible solution may be for you to take your kefta back and for Miss Starkova to make use of Miss Lagunova’s kefta.” 

At the suggestion of the General taking back his kefta, she perked up and held it at the ready. She was, however, taken aback by the rest of Fedyor’s suggestion. “Are you certain?” Alina said worriedly. Given how important kefta were to the grisha, taking a kefta from one who died, especially one who died to protect her...the idea sat ill.

Fedyor smiled, only slightly tinged with sadness, “the needs of the living take precedence over the needs of the dead, it is one of our core tenants Miss Starkova. So long as there remain grisha to be protected, the work remains,” his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence before returning once more to the tenor Alina had become familiar with during the carriage ride. “Lagunova would understand.” Fedyor looked to General Kirigan, “sir?” 

“Yes, that is...sensible.” Alina squinted. On any other person she would have described his expression as ever so slightly...pouting?

No, surely not. The idea was too absurd. She was just seeing things. Maybe Katya hadn’t gotten rid of the concussion after all.

One of the new arrivals, a Zemani male dressed in etherealki blue threaded with squaller grey needlework, came over with Luganova’s blue kefta. The kefta was stained with blood. Luganova had been shot in the throat, however it was mostly clean after the tidecaller Utkin removed the worst of the bloodstains. Fedyor took the kefta from him with a nod and then held the kefta open, forming a strange little train of Fedyor waiting to help Alina into a kefta while Alina was waiting to help the General into his kefta.

The General sighed, running his hand through his hair, hair that looked so soft–no! Stop it, Starkova. Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough? Besides that thought was so inappropriate–

“You are a bit shorter than my normal attendant,” General Kirigan said, the faintest hint of a teasing smile on his lips. “I can take my kefta and dress myself, I do not necessarily require aid.”

“I’m not that short,” Alina muttered. So maybe she had been eyeing his shoulders and calculating how high she would have to jump if he didn’t bend down a bit. She looked around and her eyes landed on the ledge of the carriage door. Alina hopped onto the ledge and crowed, “aha!” victoriously before holding out the kefta in triumph.

General Kirigan cleared his throat and looked away, though if Alina really paid attention, she could see the smallest of smiles on his face. Fedyor’s eyes were wide and shining, his lips pressed together. Ivan just looked irritated. After a moment the General said, “if you insist,” and stepped over. Alina helped him into the sleeves of his kefta and brought the front edges around his torso. A brief pull by the General made the kefta settle on his shoulders the way it was undoubtedly tailored to do so, silver pendent dropping into place, and the man was as sharply dressed as she had first seen him in the pavilion, though his kefta was little rumpled from the way she had wrapped it tightly around her in the confined space of the carriage. The real takeaway however was that Alina didn’t need to jump to help the general, only stand on her toes for a moment, and she considered that a victory. 

She did however end up hopping off the ledge to walk over to where Fedyor was standing and the heartrender kindly helped her into the blue kefta. It was smaller than General Kirigan’s, the hem only reaching her thigh as opposed to swallowing her entirely and trailing behind her, though it was still too large on her frame. It was sturdy in terms of construction, well padded and made of some woven material –corecloth she supposed –that felt solid in a way the cheap thinner linens of her uniforms had never been. It was not nearly as nice as the General’s had been, but Alina supposed that was only to be expected.

The General shook his head, “we ought to get going, we have lingered here long enough as it is.” He looked at her. “Miss Starkova, do you know how to ride?”

Alina blanched and shook her head vigorously. While theoretically it was mandatory for First Army soldiers to know how to ride, in practice her riding lesson had been twenty minutes long and fifteen of them had been dedicated to staying upright before the instructor had given up on her as a lost cause and told her to stick to the wagons.

General Kirigan took the reins of his great black steed and held out his hand, “Then Miss Starkova, after you.” Alina took his hand feeling a bit foolish and uncharacteristically shy. The general kindly said nothing as he helped her onto the saddle. He was also polite enough not to comment on how her face flushed a bright scarlet when he pulled himself up and around, settling into the saddle behind her.

She tried not to think about the way General Kirigan enveloped her smaller body, how his leanly muscled thighs caged her own and kept her upright, how he smelled of winter pine and clary sage, how the warmth of his body warded off the cold of the early Ravkan spring and sank into her bones. A girl could get into a lot of trouble not thinking about Generals , Alina thought.

“Do not fear,” the General murmured softly into her ear, “I will not let you fall.”

Not exactly what she was worried about, but good to know.

With a curt nod to the surrounding grisha and oprichniki , General Kirigan lightly pulled on the reins and nudged the horse forward. They were off.

~

The ride was fine. After a tense first hour in which Alina was trying to avoid bodily contact with General Kirigan and not to fall off, she gave up and let her body just move with the horse. If that meant momentum made her bump into the General every now and then, she just hoped he wasn’t offended by her presence. 

Five hours in however, with no end to the forest around them in sight, she had to throw the towel in. She was cold, she was cramped, and she was very very sore. 

“Can we stop please?”

General Kirigan looked down at her, eyes unreadable. “Why?”

“My tailbone is killing me.”

“Just a little further then, if you can bear it,” the General said, “we are almost at the edge of the White Forest. The oprichniki run regular patrol routes through that section of the woods, we will be safe to rest there.”

The edge of the White Forest. Given that they had traveled northeast through the woods after parting with the convoy, that placed them on the southern edge of Balakirev. At the rate they were travelling it would take them roughly an hour or so to reach the city the province was named after  if she was calculating the distances correctly and General Kirigan didn’t decide to take a more circuitous route. 

She didn’t have to wait long. Perhaps about twenty minutes later, she felt the arms around her tense and the horse beneath her slow down from a gallop to a cantor to a walk. He led the horse to a clearing off to the right of the side road they had been taking before they stopped. Alina attempted to dismount gracefully but very quickly accepted the best she was going to be able to do was fall off. 

She stumbled over to a fallen tree and sat down. “Ow.” Alina just sat on the log and focused on her breathing for a moment, trying to center herself after riding on a horse for so long. She swore she still felt as though she was riding even though she was stationary, it was a bit disconcerting.

She blinked as an uncapped dark green water canteen moved into her line of sight. She looked up to see General Kirigan standing in front of her, arm outstretched in offering. “Thank you,” Alina said, taking the canteen and drinking a small sip of water and blinking when she realized it was flavored with something herbal, almost bitter.

“Tulsi leaf,” General Kirigan said in response to her unasked but likely obvious question, “from Bharatam far to the south. Harmless, but perhaps beneficial to one’s health. The Corporalki and Alkemi acquired a cultivar recently and believe that steeping the leaves in water might help to mitigate infection or disease.”

“Does it?”

“I am not certain. Grisha ordinarily do not fall ill.”

“So why?”

“I was not the intended recipient,” the General said, “I may have taken the wrong canteen.”

Maybe it was the stress of the day, maybe it was the adrenaline finally fading away, maybe it was the insane notion that the Black General had made what could be construed as a joke, but Alina cracked right then and there and started laughing hysterically.

She laughed and she laughed and she laughed and she laughed so hard that she was crying, and at some point she registered that General Kirigan was watching her carefully with what appeared to be concern. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice that she internally winced at. She cleared her throat, brushed away the tears that were forming in her eyes, “I’m so sorry. I just– I don’t...”

“Don’t be.” He says this but Alina is fairly certain this is the first time she’s ever heard this man use a contraction. “Your life has changed significantly in a short amount of time, it is only natural to feel overwhelmed.”

“I,” Alina shook her head and gave the General a wobbly smile, “I–I’m sorry, I’m not normally like this.”

“But these are not ordinary circumstances,” General Kirigan, and she was startled to see that he had moved to kneel before her and was holding out a black embroidered handkerchief, “it is alright to act, to feel accordingly.”  

“But I can’t– I can’t, not in the open. Not where–” she bit her lip to stop her from talking and dabbed furiously at her eyes, breathing heavily to hopefully calm herself down.

“Where others can see? Where I can see?” The General reached out slowly and gently held her free hand in his, “once long ago, I spent my entire childhood running, hiding from those who sought to kill me for what I was. Many grisha in the Little Palace can tell you similar stories, of hiding who they were in order to survive. My life’s work has always been to create a space where in the moments grisha can snatch for ourselves we can let ourselves just be . To feel without worrying that vulnerability would invite harm or worse. Here and now, where there is no one but us, no duties at this moment beyond ourselves, I will not judge you for feeling, for taking the time to be who you need to be.” 

Alina stared uncomprehendingly at this man, the second most powerful man in Ravka taking the time to comfort her, an orphan, a junior cartographer, a nobody. She somehow felt him, felt his certainty raise her up, warmth spreading across her skin and into her heart.

“I have seen who you are, Alina Starkova. The girl who stabbed a volcra who all hope seemed lost and faced off against a druskelle with a dagger and a snarl, who insisted on helping me with my kefta because it amused her, who bravely tried to smile even as she was obviously hurting. I see you, and I will never turn away. I promise you this, I never will.” His words lingered in the air and she could feel his truth resonate with something deeper, something ancient . He then grinned impishly, “especially when she is calling me handsome.”

Her face immediately turned scarlet. “Oh saints .”

“I can not say I minded being complimented by a lovely young woman.”

“I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“Your concussed mind had excellent taste, and ought to be commended for it.”

“You’re not that pretty.”

“That is not what you said three days ago.”

“No really, I’ve seen prettier.”

“I do not need to be a heartrender to tell that you are lying .”

Alina could tell she was not going to win this one, so she just shook her head and laughed. Guess the Black General was like other humans after all, a bit of a peacock when complimented. She was going to have to be more circumspect in the future, she could already tell his ego was quite healthy and did not need any more nourishment.

“Alina,” she said impulsively, “call me Alina.”

She knew she made the correct decision when she was rewarded with a brilliant, almost boyish smile. “Alina then.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence. Alina took a moment to steady herself, to collect her thoughts despite the dust and debris that cluttered the lines in her mind. General Kirigan had gone into his saddlebags, passing Alina a few strips of dried meat that she nibbled on while he himself opted for some dried nectarines.

Just as she was about to let him know that she was ready to continue, she saw a stack of– was that a stack of paper? Nailed to a tree in the middle of the woods?

“What in the world is that?”

“Hmm?” General Kirigan turned around and saw what she was staring at. “Ah. I believe I know what it is.” He walked over to it and carefully eased the nail holding the paper to the tree out, flicking the rusted nail away. “Are you religious?”

“Uh, no not particularly,” Alina admitted, “I wasn’t very healthy as a child, and all the fasting they made the orphans do just made me fall asleep during mass.”

The General frowned, “the priests should not have required someone with your weight to fast, nor should you have been compelled to do so under the 1734 Decree Providing for Childhood Welfare.” 

Alina shrugged, “laws are only as strong as their enforcement. No one cared about a few orphans, especially not to tell priests what to do. So they didn’t, and I fasted.” Those had been the darkest nights, when her stomach felt like a yawning black pit she would never climb out of, and she was forced to lie awake, holding the depths of sleep at arms length in fear that they would not let her go come dawn.

General Kirigan was silent, brow furrowed, right fist clenched tightly. He looked...angry. But he said nothing, merely walked over to where she was sitting and turned the pages towards her so she could see the words on the front.

“Sixty-six Theses Contesting the Nature of Suffering and the Istorii Sankt’ya,” Alina read aloud, “thesis the first, the nature of saints is not in their deaths but rather their defiance of the cause for their ends, ignorance and an imperfect world, in the hopes of survival and furthering the salvation of the people.” She looked up sharply, “These are arguments from the Fracturing, the Disputation of Pya!”

The Fracturing, the Schism that might have been but never was. In the days after the Fold, countless theological debates raged across Ravka. Doomsday cults preached that The Fold was a sign, heralding the end days were imminent, while the established priesthood scrambled to account for the new theological landscape. A breakaway faction based in the old city of Pya claimed that the Ryevostian Church was heretical, releasing the Disputation as arguments meant to persuade the masses of their reasoning. The then Paterfamilias of Ryevost convinced Tsar Anastas and later his son, Tsar Vasily I, that permitting the church to fracture undermined royal authority, a dangerous proposition in a time of such upheaval. The Tsar agreed and the Edict of Ryevost was issued, making adherence to the Pyian Mysteries illegal. Those who refused to recant and remained in Ravka instead of fleeing were either forcibly converted through ritual purification or were executed by the Holy Inquisition. For his efforts in service of the Church and the Crown, Paterfamilias Alexius Donskoy of Ryevost was appointed the first Apparat, Alexius the Wise. 

The General raised an eyebrow, “and how does an orphan who fell asleep during mass learn of the Disputation of Pya?”

“I didn’t fall asleep everytime ,” Alina huffed indignantly, “there wasn’t much to do in the orphanage and there were only so many maps to memorize. The Disputation was mentioned in passing in a few of the older texts, and it’s easy enough to reconstruct what they’re referencing based on what they’re critiquing and how they go about it.” Alina frowned. “How is this here if it is influenced by the Disputation? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Indeed it is,” General Kirigan confirmed, “city guardsmen have standing orders to burn pamphlets such as this one whenever they see them. But these are dark times. The wars against Fjerda and Shu Han along with an ailing economy mean that some will turn to religion for guidance, and alternatives to the sanctioned religion when they cannot find the answers they want. The more converts, the more people put up pamphlets, and the more difficult it becomes to ensure every single pamphlet is removed.”  

“That makes sense,” Alina hummed as she continued to read the first page. She stopped however when she remembered exactly whose company she was in. “Should I be reading this? Won’t I get in trouble?” 

“I do not see a reason why not,” General Kirigan said, “the Theses are not entirely based on the Disputation, and contain content which has not been explicitly outlawed yet. Additionally I believe you will find that grisha are not the most religious sort and could care less about enforcing religious prohibitions that benefit the Ryevost School. Something to do with how the Apparat insists that we are demons walking around in human skin.”

Yeah, that would do it. 

Though hmm, that's odd. Did he say the Ryevost School? It took her a moment to register the name. The Ryevost School was the very old historical name for the sect that Alexius the Wise had headed, but ever since the Apparacy was established and moved to Os Alta, the official liturgical name was the Royal Orthodoxy. No one called the modern church the Ryevost School outside of scholars speaking of historical contexts. It wasn't incorrect Alina supposed, just a little strange. Like calling rain boots galoshes or cholera, consumption, that sort of thing.  

“Why the interest in theology if you claim to not be religious?” General Kirigan asked.

“The orphanage matrons encouraged me to study theology.” Piety is a virtue, Matron Dema had said. Alina quoted her now to the General. “Fidelity and obedience to the Saints ensures peace between men. To each their place according to the Will. ”  

“And yet somehow I doubt that you were an obedient child.”

“And what gave you this impression?”

“Call it a hunch. Was I correct?”

“When I wasn’t sick I was usually in trouble,” Alina admitted, “I felt like I had to make up for lost time.”

“But that was not the only reason, was it?” General Kirigan said, “had it only been the orphanage matrons encouraging you, you would not have delved deeply enough to reach critiques of the Disputation, let alone dedicate the effort to reconstruct and remember enough to recognize its influence on sight.”

Damn. He had her pegged and this was what, the second, maybe third time they had spoken? 

Alina should be wary. This was the Black General, the man who everyone knew was the one really in charge of Ravkan grand strategy. Compared to the complexity of coordinating both border wars, how difficult could it be to unearth every secret that Alina buried and guarded behind barbed wire and steel?

And yet…

Hello-little-Grisha, I-see-you, who-are-you, I-want-to-know-you, be-welcome, will-you-come-with-me?

I see you, and I will never turn away. I promise you this, I never will.

“I wanted to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why I was born,” she said softly, carefully, cautiously, eyes not daring to look at him until she steeled herself for judgment and looked up, “why I was brought into this world to be so sickly, to be laughed at, to be so...I don’t know.”

Shu Bint, Half Breed, grisha-tumbler, freakshow. 

What else could she be in a world as cruel as this one other than a burden.

“ Cuius regio, eius religio,” General Kirigan said and Alina blinked at the seeming non-sequitur, “whose realm, whose religion, a governing principle originating from the Diustisc Princedoms west of the Wandering Isles. The religion of the ruler ought to determine the religion of the ruled as to ensure stability within a single sovereign territory. Of course in the Princedoms the intention was that if one’s own religion did not align with their rulers then that individual would be allowed to simply travel to a territory that did. In Ravka where we all live under the rule of a single Tsar, the phrase is used as a way to justify a unified state religion.” The General leaned down and gently flipped the page. “We do not have the time right now to get into the merits of such a principle, however I often wonder what is lost when other viewpoints are suppressed.” He tapped a line halfway down the page, “tell me. What do you think of this?”

“Thesis the twenty-third,” she read, “suffering with only contemplation and without change is meaningless. To live is to strive for joy even in the face of suffering, to strive for joy in place of suffering. To heal, to make whole, to make better, for ourselves and for others, is to come ever closer to the sacred.”

“Well?”

“I…” Alina hesitated.

“I will not judge you for your opinion Alina, not on this.”

“I can’t say I know enough to decide one way or another, not without understanding the full implications and context of the clause,” Alina said.

“But?”

“I think a religion based on healing is preferable to one based on suffering.”

The General smiled. Alina was starting to think she maybe was getting a read on his expressions, and this one was undeniably approval, the sort that made her feel warm on the inside. “Well said. I am inclined to agree.” He winked, “but keep this between the two of us, won’t you? Grisha are considered demons by the Church, wouldn’t want to be promoted to devils for promoting heresy now do we? Or demoted as the case may be.”

Alina laughed and grabbed his hand when he offered it to help pull her to her feet. She really did need the help, Saints her legs were sore.

“Come, we will not be riding much longer. Have you ever been to Balakirev?”

“No, I’ve never been.”

“Then I have a surprise for you. You will know it when you see it.”

~

The moment they emerged from the White Forest she knew exactly what he meant.

“Oh wow ,” Alina breathed.

Rows upon rows of flowers and plants all in brilliant shades of yellows, oranges, reds, indigo, and lots and lots of green, all planted in bands across fields as far as the eye could see. Dirt roads leisurely wound their way through the fields, and streams of crystal clear water burbled through the flowers, shining in the afternoon sun.

“The Flower Fields of Balakirev,” the General said from behind her, “Indigo, hollyhock, woad, yarrow, all modified by Alkemi to survive here in Ravka as well as for shorter, earlier growing seasons and earlier harvests.”

“It’s beautiful,” Alina said, fighting to keep her eyes open as long as possible to take it all in. She could see farmers tending to the plants stand and wave as they galloped past.

“It is.” He sounded so proud when he spoke, and why wouldn’t he be? Everyone knew that Balakirev was his fief, his duchy, the headquarters and training grounds of the Oprichniki , one of the wealthiest cities on this side of the Fold. “Had we passed through in the summer, there would be far more colors to see. Pink Zinnias, purple Ravkan Sage, Dahlias of every color, every shade. Members of the Court often come to see the fields in bloom.”

“Is that why you planted them? For tourism?” That didn’t sound right, not with this man who she was beginning to realize had three reasons for doing anything.

“Not exactly. Tourism is merely a beneficial side-effect. The plants you see are all dye plants. If it was not for Balakirev, dyes would have to be imported from overseas and then across the Fold and would be prohibitively expensive for most. Instead, Balakirevan dyes are some of the finest in the world, a very lucrative business venture and also very cost efficient for the Second. You might have noticed, we are very attached to our colors.”

“Color coded for your convenience,” Alina murmured. Corporalki red, etherealki blue, darkling black, oh my. 

Shadow summoner, she corrected firmly in her head. It wouldn’t do to call him by the slur his enemies used against him, no matter that she had heard it bandied about so often by the priests and soldiers in training at Poliznaya. Not when he had been so patient with her. Not when he had been so kind.

But if the flowers glinted like gems in the sun, then the crown jewel in the center and slightly off to the right of it all was the city of Balakirev itself. 

The City of Flowers was built on a massive gently sloping hill that dropped off precipitously on one side, giving way to an exposed beige stone cliff made of travertine or a limestone of some sort if she was recalling the descriptions from the Duke’s library correctly. To be more specific, most of the city was built on the hill. Alina could see from where they were riding newer neighborhoods with unusually straight roads sprawling outwards from the hill where the city was fast outgrowing the historic great stone walls. When she looked upwards into what she knew to be the Old City, she could see some of the upper levels, where people bustled about cobblestone roads that snaked organically in between beautifully maintained houses made of beige stone and brick with burnished copper tile roofs. At the very top was a great castle fortress that sprawled outwards and upwards, taking up the top quarter of the hill with massive enclosed courtyards while also reaching high into the clear blue sky with soaring buttresses and sharp gothic towers. 

To house so many people while ensuring the fast and smooth flow of people through the streets in the way she was watching them go about their business– it was clear to her city was a civil engineering marvel, with old and new flowing into each other in a way that made the cartographer in Alina itch to wander through it all and mark it down, one pen stroke at a time.

But alas, it was not meant to be. The flower fields fell away beneath their mount’s hooves as General Kirigan took them around the city walls, away from the main gates. This close to the walls, she could see that they were decorated with small intricate carvings of flowers on vines, looping, curling, intertwining, a symphony of motifs that were elaborate, but not to the point of being overly busy. Up ahead, she saw a smaller set of gates of wrought iron vines and silver plated flowers in bloom open up to a ramp that was wide enough to fit two carriages side by side but would only be taking the two of them on a single horse up a path that spiralled around the hill. The carvings on the wall and even on the bricks below them were even more elaborate here than they were on the city walls and were even painted, depicting flowers of all colors floating on sea green waves and on swirls of grey winds, flame licking the edges of select flowers dotted every so often. No matter how long she looked, she could not see a single flower that was exactly the same as the others, and Alina felt as though she could have spent days marvelling at how the petals looked so lifelike except a second set of gates, gleaming pure silver in the sunlight and the most elaborate so far, were opening in front of them allowing them entry into a large circular courtyard. Her eyes were drawn to the large black eclipse inlaid in mosaic tile that demanded attention across the center of the courtyard as they thundered through before she noticed a small group of people in black and silver livery standing at the bottom of a black marble staircase leading to a set of enormous ebony doors with an eclipse carved in the center. The great black steed underneath her snorted as they slowed down and then came to a halt. 

“ Moi soverenyi,” an older gentleman with a rather dapper mustache and greying hair combed neatly back said as he bowed, “an unexpected pleasure.”

“Just for the night Radomir, I apologize for the lack of notice.” Alina blinked incredulously. Did she just hear General Kirigan apologize? As far as Alina was aware, the ability to apologize to the peons was lost somewhere after reaching the rank of lieutenant, let alone general. She could feel General Kirigan swing off his horse behind her and she watched as he handed the reins to a young uniformed stableboy who by her reckoning looked no older than fifteen? Somewhere thereabouts at least. “Extra treats for Omen tonight, Danya. I have put him through his paces this time and he performed beautifully.” The General stroked the horse–Omen was it?– rather affectionately on his long nose and murmured, “lovely boy” at a volume that made her suspect he had only meant for the horse alone to hear. The horse nickered, a pleased happy sound that nonetheless sounded tired even to her ears.

He then raised his voice and continued giving orders to the waiting household staff. “We will be leaving at dawn, please send for a quick supper in the solarium, something simple. Bring a set of night dress and traveling clothes for my guest, and have someone pull a bath for myself and another for Miss Agafonova. The Sunflower Suite will do for the night.” Miss Agafonova? Wasn’t that Katya’s last name? 

The General turned to offer her his hand to assist in dismounting his mountain of a horse and as he did, he winked at her. Ah, a fake name. Got it. From even his own servants though? She took his hand and slid off the saddle, only to stumble when both of her boots touched the ground, sore muscles giving way.

He caught her.

“Careful now,” General Kirigan murmured, a warm hand touching the small of her back holding her upright, the other still on her hand from where he had guided her down from his horse. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, I’m fine,” Alina stuttered, oh Saints her face was red wasn’t it. “Just tired.”

“Our journey was long and intense,” General Kirigan noted, “one that would have been difficult even for an experienced rider.”

“Even you?” Alina asked cheekily, trying desperately to divert attention from the slip in her composure. Not that it really mattered considering her brilliant track record with the man so far, but it was the principle of the matter.

She was rewarded with a short bark of laughter. “Even me,” he agreed. He moved his hand away from the small of her back now that she was no longer at imminent risk of falling over, though he still allowed her to lean against his other arm. If she leaned a little more than was strictly necessary, no one had to know.

“Chatelaine Nada will escort you to your rooms for the night,” General Kirigan nodded to a beautiful, elegant middle aged woman dressed in a black dress that resembled a military dress uniform on top with silver braid looping across her chest and under her arm that billowed out into a wide skirt. She was whipcord thin, her grey hair neatly tied back in a tidy updo amber eyes as sharp as steel that softened when she noticed Alina looking at her. The lady gracefully curtsied to Alina– and wasn’t that bizarre, a lady with a title she had never even heard of before curtsying to her. 

“Miss Agafonova, if you would come with me,” Chatelaine Nada said, offering her arm in support that Alina took after glancing at General Kirigan and receiving a nod of encouragement to do so. The Lady started making her way up the black marble staircase, past two guards in oprichniki grey standing at attention at on either side of the grand doors, and Alina went with her, glancing one last time at the General who was speaking lowly to Radomir outside before the Chatelaine led her into a parlor and she could no longer see the man in the black kefta.

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 6: The Nature of Things

“ Novelty is the spice of life! Why bother sticking to old tricks when you can experiment with the innovative, the brilliant, and reap the rewards of vast bounty! But do be careful, not all that glitters is gold. Sometimes you end up with seventy pounds of pyrite and a dead body... ” 

-Leonid Ivanovich Lukov, 

The Honorable Count of Sankt Germanus

~

Let it not be said that the Lord of Balakirev lacked commitment to a particular aesthetic, be it his own, or his city’s, or, in the case of this particular castle, both. 

Everywhere she looked were flowers on vines or eclipses. Inlaid in black marble, carved into travertine, worked into stained glass, the motifs were everywhere. This was not to say it was garish in any way, on the contrary, the effect was stunning and tastefully done. 

“Caryevan marble ,” Lady Nada had said when she noticed Alina peering closely at the beautifully veined black and white tiles. “His Grace is fond of promoting his domains wherever he holds influence. If you look ahead you can see an example of Ejoran water carving, in which tidemakers use their talents to shape stone in much the same manner as a river might wear away rock to create a gorge… ”

The ceilings were painted in the same rich midnight blue as the night sky, constellations outlined in metallic gold paint and the stars represented by shining flecks of embedded mother of pearl (“ sourced from the shellfish farms of Ejora ,” Nada told her). Carved beige stone vines framed tall lancet windows that let sunlight shine gently on elegant richly upholstered wooden furniture that were just on the right side of ornate to be pleasing to the eye. And that was just the hallways and random parlors or sitting areas alone. At one point near the center of the castle she looked inside a set of grand wooden doors carved with the image of two overlapping asters at the top of a grand staircase and had to slow down. The doors were open and revealed an enormous library, the largest she had ever seen.

It was gorgeous. Three floors of what could only be described as an enclosed interior courtyard, lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed full to the brim with books, scrolls, and were those stone tablets underneath glass enclosures? Set above it all was a large rose stained glass window thirty-five feet in diameter in the center, bathing the entire room in multi-hued light. Dark wooden tables, leather sofas, and plush black velvet chaises dotted the space tastefully, forming lounge spaces and social areas, but also nooks and crannies for the quiet reader to secret themselves in and lose themselves in their books. 

At this particular moment, Alina wanted nothing more than to lose herself in one of these books, but where her heart really and truly stopped was the sight of maps, an entire map collection teasingly just peeking into view on the left side of the second floor.

“Admiring the library I see.” Lady Nada’s clear contralto brought her back to reality and Alina sheepishly smiled at the older woman when she realized that she had stopped completely without realizing and so Lady Nada would have had to have stopped as well or risk stumbling over her skirts. Or more realistically caused Alina to get pulled off her feet considering how little Alina weighed and how deceptively solid the Chatelaine felt, both in terms of her physicality and her presence.

“It’s beautiful,” Alina said, trying her hardest to keep her eyes on the Chatelaine but failing as her gaze kept being drawn to the books and the maps–

“Normally I would say that you are free to explore the library if it would please you, however I suspect that you would not be doing much exploring and fall asleep before you could get to the bookshelves. Or possibly just fall over.”

“No! I can do it!” Alina was being stubborn but maps! Books! She could do it, a little bit of stiffness in her legs from three days of non-stop carriage sitting or horse riding would not get in between her and–

“Ok, ok, no no no I lied, please don’t let me stand on my own,” she babbled quickly, flailing to keep her balance as Lady Nada started to casually step away. 

The Lady smiled, amusement clear in the lines of her face as she obligingly moved back to support Alina as a crutch. “The library is part of the Duke’s exchange system. You can simply lodge a request for any books within the catalogue with your branch librarian. Where are you stationed?”

“Um. I don’t know?” The General had not mentioned where she would be stationed. Given what he and the others had said about the Little Palace it was highly likely she would be stationed there for the foreseeable future, but assumptions were dangerous and she was not about to tell Lady Nada her guess as fact. Something about the way the Lady held herself, serene yet disciplined, told her that the Chatelaine did not tolerate supposition. 

“Hmm, that would be a question to ask His Grace at supper then.”

“Supper?” Alina squawked. She heard him say something about a meal in the solarium but surely he hadn’t meant for her to join him.

“His Grace has sent for supper in the solarium but did not specify a separate supper to be sent for you. As the Lord is not the sort to let his guests starve, this implies that he would like you to join him for supper, though I imagine he will send Radomir to confirm the details. But for now, a bath. I imagine you will want to feel clean after such a long journey.”

“Supper with the General? I couldn’t possibly, I wouldn’t know what to do!” Alina felt panic squeeze at her lungs. She had seen the Duke Kermasov’s table at the charity galas, how the nobility made table manners into some arcane ritual with ridicule of the highest order reserved as punishment in the event of even the slightest misstep. She couldn’t fall back on her experiences in the First Army, grunts and officers didn’t even eat in the same mess! How in the world was Alina going to avoid making a mistake if she was summoned for supper? What if she accidentally used the salad spoon for the dessert course? Did table settings even have salad spoons ?

Maybe it was foolish to be worried about having supper with a man who had already seen her lowest, concussion and nervous breakdown both, who had peered into her soul (which was also brought up a very important question now that she thought about it: how did he do that?) and had been nothing but understanding through it all. But somehow there was a difference between sharing dried meat with the man in the forest clearing and having supper with the Lord in his Castle.

“His Grace requested a ‘quick supper, something simple,’” Lady Nada said quoting General Kirigan from earlier, “it is his way of informing us to forgo the formal dinner service that is customary for an individual of his rank. The Duke is also a fair man, he will not hold you to standards he could not reasonably expect for you to know or abide by.”

This...sounded true. Beyond the confidence in which the Chatelaine spoke the words, it somehow fit within the topography of the man she was slowly compiling in her head. Her gut instinct told her that the General might be a demanding man, one who set and held himself and his subordinates to high standards, but behind closed doors, petty niceties were beneath his concern. 

“We’re here.” The Lady walked past an on-duty oprichnik to pushed open a whitewashed wooden door with sprouting sunflowers growing up from the bottom painted in gold.

The inside was beautiful, the walls decorated with a sunflower yellow wallpaper with metallic silver damask patterning. The ornate light yellow furniture with cherry wood frames sat artistically arranged on top of an elaborately woven rug depicting overlapping sunflowers in bloom covering the center of the travertine floor. Dried sunflowers sat on various surfaces: in the far corner on top of a small cherry wood table, on the low table in front of the low slung sofa, on the nightstand next to the four poster bed. The bed was draped in buttery yellow gauzy curtains with white bedding, white pillows, and a sunflower yellow coverlet. The just barely yellow light of a sun that was just beginning to set filtered in through the four lancet windows that flanked two large windowed balcony doors and bathed the entire room in a gentle glow. 

“Oh wow,” Alina knew she was staring at the room like a wide eyed ingenue in much the way that she had been all day, and she was definitely going to have to work on that, but entering Balakirev had been like entering a whole new world, stunning and vibrant and alive in a way that the rest of Ravka had not been. Like seeing sunlight pierce through the grey stormcloud, or the colors of spring sweeping across the land after a long winter.

“You guys are really committed to the flower thing. And the color scheme I guess.”

“His Grace has very strong opinions on color coordination as a core component of any proper aesthetic philosophy.”

Alina thought back to black boots, black undercoat, black kefta, black horse, black carriage, black flags, black sun motifs, black marble, black furniture, color coordinated grisha orders–

–yup. Color coordination. Got it. Very strong opinions indeed. Wait. Did that mean she was going to have to adopt a color scheme? What color would she even wear, yellow? Did Alina even look good in yellow? She had never had yellow clothes before, or any dyed clothes other than the olive drabs of the First for that matter. Neither the orphanage nor the army were exactly concerned about fashion. Though if the General’s own attire was any indication, she would likely be in safe hands in the couture department.

“One moment.” Lady Nada leaned outside and spoke rapidly in a very quiet tone to the oprichnik standing outside before helping Alina waddle over to the bathroom. 

A white tub with strange brass fixtures sat invitingly in the middle of the circular room with a metallic mosaic sunflower surrounded by copper tiles covering the floor. A white divan sat in one corner, a small table with a vase full of dried sunflowers sat in the other.

“Come, take off your clothes, I’ll have them washed and sent on to the Little Palace after you leave tomorrow.”

“Then what will I wear tomorrow?” Alina asked, already bending down to take off her battered boots. She was really eager to be clean, okay? She hadn’t had a wash in ages, much less a proper bath all to herself . The orphanage washed the children in batches, and the First Army usually just pointed at the nearest stream and said, ‘good luck, don’t contract any waterborne diseases’. Occasionally they might get a crack at new Durast made ‘showers’, handcranks and all, but that was if they were lucky and even then, they didn’t get very much time inside. 

“A maid will be up with a set of travel clothing in your size. It will be plain, but clean which is the priority as of now. Unless you are particularly attached to your current attire?”

“Oh, absolutely not .” Maybe she said that too quickly. She cleared her throat surreptitiously, “I mean, not particularly no.”

That Lady Nada was still there while she was getting undressed didn’t bother her really. If nothing else, being in the First had gotten rid of any notions about body modesty very quickly.

Lady Nada fiddled with the strange brass knobs and Alina watched astonished by water pouring into the bath, and was that steam ?

“Amazing! How in the world does this work?” Alina paused in the middle of taking off her– Lagunova’s kefta, to poke at the, oh ouch hot! 

So poking at the pipe carrying steaming hot water was a bad idea. She instinctively lifted her hand to suck on the scalded finger but stopped and sheepishly smiled when she noticed the Chatelaine giving her a look as Alina hastily continued to undo the fastening on Lagunova’s kefta.

“Indoor plumbing. I can not in all honesty tell you how it works, you would have to ask the Durasts for an explanation. The Little Palace also has indoor plumbing.”

“Where should I put this?” Alina asked, holding up Lagunova’s kefta.

“I can take it for you. As I said, I will have it sent to– hmm, this is not your kefta.”

“How could you tell?” Alina said, alarmed. 

...Crap, she just gave herself away didn’t she. Aww, man. The General all but said to keep her identity a secret, but she was a cartographer, not some sort of spy .

“Keftas are tailored by the Materialki,” Lady Nada said. “This kefta is a combat kefta judging from the interior lining, and yet it goes to your midthigh when regulation length is to the waist. Additionally, the shoulders are far too wide on you.”

... Busted. “It’s Inferni Lagunova’s,” she admitted, “she died during our escort and I was told I should wear it for protection.” There, that was vague enough right? And also strictly speaking entirely true. The General only concealed her name, and Fedyor did tell her to wear it for protection. If she didn’t give away how many people were escorting her or let slip that she was the su–. Grisha, then everything would be okay.

Right?

“I will have it sent down to laundry for a rush cleaning,” Lady Nada decided.  “Here, some soap.”

Alina blinked at the strong scent that came from the soap. "Lavender?" 

"Correct. Flowers grown here are primarily for dye production, but what is not or can not be used for that purpose is redirected into various other ventures, such as soap and perfume production."

"Huh." Efficient. 

"I am afraid we do not have that much time to linger, His Grace will be expecting you shortly. Do you mind if I help you bathe?" 

"What? How? Oh you mean help me scrub?" At Lady Nada's nod Alina shook her head, "no thank you I'm good. I was Fir- I mean, I know how to wash quickly. Thank you." 

"Very well. Do you have any questions for me?" 

Alina thought for a moment as she vigorously scrubbed the aftermath of a volcra attack, a Druskelle ambush, and three days of continuous travel off her skin. "What is a Chatelaine? I've never heard of that title before."

"Chatelaine is a title from Gallia. His Grace traveled there once and was impressed by the way the grand Madams of the great estates there managed their affairs. He believed that the title was a very apt description of what I did for him."

"So you manage… His Grace's estates?" 

"As a grisha and an active member of the military, the correct spoken style for you would be the General or moi soverenyi and sir where appropriate," Lady Nada corrected. "His Grace and associated styles are meant for addressing his Lordship in his capacities as the Duke of Caryeva and Balakirev, and the Earl of Ejora, which, as a grisha, will always be secondary to his station as Lord General of the Royal Second for you. That said, I do not oversee all of his estates, just the one you find yourself in. Ejora and Caryeva are managed separately." 

Huh, good to know. " Moi sove-ren-yi ," Alina said quietly, sounding out the unfamiliar word on her tongue. " Moi soverenyi ." 

“Lady Nada," Alina said, louder this, but still uncertain as she tried to piece together what she was hearing. "If you’re the Chatelaine, why are you helping me get washed and dressed?”

“It is not my place to speculate about my Lord's intentions," Lady Nada replied.

Alina flinched at the clear reprimand- stupid girl what are you thinking, asking a nobleman's staff to speak about their Lord, presumptuous, "I'm so sorry-," she said in a small tone of voice, but she cut herself off the moment the silver haired Chatelaine raised her hand in a gesture for silence. 

"His Grace requested that I assist you, and I am perfectly amenable to doing so," Lady Nada said in an even voice, but one that seemed gentle, the sharp lines of her stern face softening ever so slightly. "This is hardly the first time I have performed such a service for him, I was once a member of the maidstaff myself in my younger days.”

A loud knock made both of them look towards the door. "Ah, that would be the clothes. One moment."

The Chatelaine left briefly and returned holding three sets of clothing on hangers in one hand before hanging them on some sort of rack that Alina hadn’t noticed until now, the brass melding into the background discreetly. One was a plain linen dress, and the usual split crotch bloomers and stays that would go underneath. Alina could see a light blue inferni kefta behind the skirts of the dress. The second was a standard issue First Army daily work uniform, clean and in good condition, the way her own hadn’t been since the first week of Poliznaya. The last was strange, some sort of small apron with cloth strings over a plain blue robe in a style she had never seen before. “Which one would you like to wear to supper?”

Alina instinctively reached out to the First Army uniform but then hesitated. “What do you think I should be wearing to supper, Lady Nada?” Alina asked. She didn’t exactly know what the protocol or etiquette was in this case. First Army regs didn’t exactly specify how to have a theoretically casual supper with the General of the Second Army.

...Saints, what was her life turning into?

“Either the kefta or the First Army uniform will do, it is your decision as to which.”

“The uniform I guess.” Alina stepped out of the bathtub, taking the white towel offered to her by the Chatelaine and dried herself off. The uniform wasn’t exactly her favorite, but it was familiar. The kefta looked nice but to wear it when she didn’t have the faintest idea of how to be a grisha, what it meant to be a grisha–it would feel too much like fraud, like playing dress up.

“Very well. When you’re ready, I’ll take you down to the solarium.”

“Thank you Lady Nada, for all of your help and time.”

“I was only doing my duty.”

“Regardless,” Alina said, “thank you.”

“Of course, it was no trouble at all.”

~

“Here we are.”

Four walls consisting solely of enormous window panes kept upright by a pot iron support structure arched into a glass dome over the room on the fourth floor of the fortress keep. The yellow orange hues of the early sunset filled the room with a warm glow. Divans, daybeds, and small velvet footstools were spaced around the room, a sitting area with two massive couches and a low table in the center of the room. A smaller table with two chairs was sitting in the midpoint of the room against the wall of glass, with plates, cups, and utensils laid out waiting for use. A large tree of some sort covered part of the ceiling with what appeared to be the beginnings of green buds. The beige travertine tiles felt pleasantly warm even through the soft cotton slippers she had been provided, and yet the room itself was pleasantly cool on her skin, and she could feel a slight breeze coming from somewhere. A room with this amount of glass in direct sunlight should be uncomfortably hot, and yet it was not. Was this yet another wonder of grisha science?

“The tree is a wisteria, one of the last remaining specimens in Ravka ever since war with Shu Han broke out,” Lady Nada said, “in the late spring and early summer those buds will bloom into a lovely shade of purple.”

“How is it so cool?” Alina marvelled. She felt a bit like a cat, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to curl up on one of the daybeds and bask in the sunlight.

“The iron structures holding the glass in place are hollow and pipe water through to regulate the room temperature, cold water for the summer, hot water for the winter. A system of vents and fans keep the air flowing and at an even temperature all year round.”

Amazing. Alina walked over to the window and marvelled at the view of the vast flower fields spreading outwards all the way to the hills and the forest edge. She could see the city of Balakirev sprawl outwards below her, how homes looked like little toys, how people seemed like tiny ants scurrying about, how the streets weaved together into a beautiful tapestry…

“The Duke will be in shortly. Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Agafonova?”

Alina looked at the city below her, looked at a small velvet footstool just sitting there, and then looked at the Chatelaine.

“Do you have a pen and paper I could use?”

~

“Drawing, I see.”

Alina looked up from where she was perched on her purloined footstool as the General walked in through the tall double doors, which the oprichniki guards closed after him. His eyes glanced at the paper on her lap.

“A map?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Balakirev is so beautiful,” Alina said, “the way the streets twist and and turn in the Old City and then transition into the New City beyond the walls.” She waved a hand helplessly at the window, “amazing.”

“Thank you, it was quite tricky to plan.”

Alina blinked, “ you made the plans?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“No! I mean, just, when did you have the time?”

“Ravka has not always been in the dire straits it is now. It was not terribly long ago that our kingdom had an uneasy detente with Fjerda and Shu Han, and I could dedicate time to other matters. Balakirev had long been outgrowing the Old City, and so the New City was planned along a grid pattern that was very in vogue at the time with civil engineers. It took some work to line up the streets in a way that would allow easy flow of traffic between the Old and New cities but I am quite pleased with the results.”

“It’s incredible.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” the General smiled and Alina smiled back. “I apologize for the wait, I had to make arrangements for our departure,” he waved at the table set for dinner, “Shall we?”

He walked over to the table and chairs waiting for them, pulled out one of the chairs, and waited, raising an eyebrow when she just sat there blinking. 

Oh. Alina stood up and hurried over to sit, holding onto the seat in surprise when the General pushed her chair in.

“Thank you,” Alina murmured, and the General nodded as he took his seat across from her.

At some unknown signal, a small side door that she had not noticed before swung open quietly, and Radomir pushed a small cart containing six covered dishes and a small basket of rye bread on the bottom two shelves with an elaborately decorated silver samovar, a glass jar filled with tea, a kettle, and little pots of sugar and milk on the top shelf. 

Alina eyed the cart. Six plates most likely meant three courses, three dishes for her and three for the General. General Kirigan did not strike her as the kind to allot himself more food as an expression of power or status, he had been a courteous host thus far and she had not yet found his hospitality wanting. That this was to be a three course meal was still insane. Alina had never had that much food in one sitting outside of a gala, much less for a supposedly simple supper . She had seen families in the village of Keramzin proper have meals like this, lunches mostly if she remembered correctly, but she never imagined she would be able to eat like this. Was this actually what passed for ‘a simple supper’ for the nobility?

The two of them waited silently as Radomir filled the kettle with water from the samovar and set it down on the top shelf. He then placed the sugar and milk on the table, along with the basket of rye bread and two of the covered dishes from the middle shelf. 

“Borscht?” Alina said when she saw red soup with a dollop of perfectly smooth sour cream flecked with chopped dill and parsley floating serenely on top.

“Correct, Miss.” Radomir smiled, “the ingredients are all sourced from Caryeva, the finest produce in Ravka.”

Caryeva, the City of Abundance. A city of marble nestled in a sprawling mountainous river valley with lush terraces carved into the cliffside, every inch covered with vineyards, orchards, rice paddies, golden fields of wheat, and rows upon rows of vegetables, some of which could only be obtained on this side of the fold from Caryeva. The impossible city, where crops grew faster than anywhere else in the country and grew in ways that they should not be able to. The Breadbasket of Ravka.

“Are these beets from the mountain project?” General Kirigan asked, pushing at the beets in his own soup with his spoon.

“No, I’m afraid these are from the normal stock, my Lord. Your Grace will in all likelihood know exactly when the Alkemi have achieved a breakthrough, long before the kitchens will have a chance to incorporate it in your soup.”

Alina hid her smile in her spoonful of borscht. The subtle exasperation on Radomir’s face was hilariously similar to that of Fedyor’s back in the carriage, and the big bad Black General was most certainly pouting this time. It was very faint, almost imperceptible but somehow Alina was starting to get a sense of how to read this admittedly opaque man.

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was skill honed after what must have been a long and storied career considering whose majordomo he was serving as, however Radomir somehow decided that this was the moment in which the tea was ready, and poured the tea into the small, extraordinarily thin and delicate porcelain cups waiting at the side of their plate.

“Thank you Radomir, we’ll serve ourselves from here,” General Kirigan murmured, and the older gentleman bowed in response.

“My Lord,” Radomir murmured softly, “Miss.” He nodded to her and she smiled as he turned and left the way he came.

As soon as the door closed behind Radomir, Alina could help but ask. “So...beets?”

As soon as he perked up Alina knew she had made a mistake. “Such a versatile vegetable! They are very nutritious, an excellent source of fiber that can be roasted, boiled or steamed and eaten warm, cooked, pickled, and then eaten cold…”

Alina nodded politely and sipped at her soup and tea as he kept chattering animatedly about the merits of beets as food and the...history of beet cultivation? This was the most enthusiastic she had ever seen him be about, well, anything so far. It reminded her a bit of Ivan with his herring.

“...and the mass introduction of a specific breed from Eames Chin made beet cultivation possible in nearly all of Ravka and influenced Ravkan culture and historical development for the last two centuries…”

Wow, this was good tea. Nothing like she’d ever tasted before, notes of lavender, orange blossom, and vanilla mixing with a perfectly steeped black tea in a way that made her feel calm and relaxed. Alina thought that it might taste even better with a touch of sugar, but she couldn’t see any on the table, just the pot of milk. How odd, she could have sworn Radomir had put a little pot of sugar on the table earlier.

“...that they can grow in such varying degrees of sunlight makes production quite flexible and efficient, which is why beets are such a valuable food crop.”

Alina waited politely to make sure that he was finished with his lecture before pointing out something that had been bothering her. “But you haven’t eaten your beets.” His bowl was in fact empty, save for two perfectly boiled beet quarters that he had maneuvered his spoon around. 

“That would be because I am not fond of eating them,” General Kirigan said, “they are not my favorite.”

Alina stared. “But you just gave me a ten minute lecture on the wonders of beets.”

“Ah. My fascination with them would be for... personal reasons." It would seem that Fedyor was correct, as the General's hand fell ever so slightly from where he was holding his cup of tea, his normally intense sharp gaze clouded over ever so slightly with an old, terrible sorrow.

He looked up and smiled, an obvious artifice that made her heart ache for a way to do something, anything to get rid of it. "But enough about beets. Tell me, where did you learn about the importance of keftas to the grisha?"

Alina leaped at the subject change, eager to walk away from the obvious emotional minefield she had accidentally stumbled into. "Before I was stationed at Kribirsk, I was posted at a minor outpost northeast of Ulensk. There were four grisha stationed there, Makari, Irina, Dmitri, and Emiliya.”

“Makari, Irina, Dmitri, and Emiliya,” the General repeated the names to himself, brow furrowed in concentration before smoothing out quickly, “ah yes, the four assigned to Outpost 32 maintaining the defenses around Halmhend, Senior Squaller Dmitri Romanovich Lavrov and his combat squadron. Quite the unit, with an extraordinarily high mission success rate. What of them?”

He recognized the names of four grisha assigned to a minor outpost on the Fjerdan front off the top of his head? What exactly was going on in that brain of his? 

“I was friends with one of them, Emiliya Larissovna Grigoriyeva.” Alina paused as a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. “You know her.” Not a question but a statement. Somehow Alina knew that General Kirigan knew who Emiliya was.

The General inclined his head slightly in assent, “I am familiar with Emiliya Larissovna, yes. She is, shall we say, a protege of a close associate of mine.”

That was vague as blight, but okay. Still, that was something new to consider. Emiliya had never mentioned a mentor, much less a well connected mentor who was on good enough terms with the General of the Second Army to rate the title of ‘close associate’. What did ‘close associate’ even mean in this context?

“Emiliya and I fought together for two rotations, and we became friends. She let me stay in her tent, told me stories about when she was young and a little about the grisha.”

“Oh?”

“I promise she didn’t say anything that could harm the grisha,” Alina was quick to make certain he knew this. She didn’t want Emiliya to get in trouble for disclosing sensitive information. “She was very clear that there were certain topics that were off limits.”

“And you respected those limits?” He kept his voice carefully neutral but some part of Alina bristled anyways.

“Of course I did!” Boundaries, borders, lines-that-could-not-be-crossed, how could she possibly overstep?

Especially not with grisha truths. Not when they had nothing else to their name. No right to own property, no right to autonomy, no right to free movement, no right to live anywhere outside of Ravka, and more specifically the Second Army, without hiding who they were or else run the risk of dying or enslavement. All grisha had were the keftas on their back by grace of the Second Army, and the ways of their people, kept alive by secrecy and faith.

“Grisha truths belong to the grisha,” Alina said firmly, “as an otkazat’sya, I did not have the right to those truths. Not unless she gave them to me willingly.”

“You have never been otkazat’sya,” the General said sternly. He cleared his throat and looked away when she flinched. “A person is either born grisha or is not. You are grisha, and you have always been.”

There was something deeper there, some truth that she was missing that caused him to react so strongly to assertion that she had ever been otkazat’sya, and she filed this away for future examination. “But I didn’t know that then,” Alina tried to explain, “I thought I was otkazat’sya.”

“But you are grisha. Our truths are your truths, and you have a right to them, as all grisha do.” General Kirigan relaxed in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table, a seemingly unconscious action, but Alina was wary of assuming this man did anything without thorough consideration of all possible ramifications. “That said, ordinarily I would ask you precisely what topics you discussed while Emiliya was... under the impression of your being otkazat’sya. However, if Emiliya Larissovna was the one to instruct you in our ways then I am inclined to trust her judgment for the moment. We hardly have the time to do such a thing now in any case.” He motioned briefly to her bowl, “finished?”

Her bowl had been scraped meticulously clean until the porcelain was gleaming in the fiery rays of the setting sun. “Yes, thank you.”

“The main course then.” He slid the bowls into the empty spots that taking them out had left behind, before going for another set of covered plates on the same midlevel tray. He placed one in front of her and the other in front his seat before taking off the lids and returning them to the cart. “Ah, kotlety.” The oval meatballs sat next to a pile of perfectly smooth mashed potatoes. 

Alina took a bite. “It’s still warm!” Between the lecture on beets and their conversation about Emiliya the trays had been sitting on the cart for ages. How had it not gone cold?

“A Durast invention,” General Kirigan explained, “the middle tray conducts heat from the samovar to keep the trays warm, with the dome trapping heat near the food. Do you see how the bottom third of the cart is a different color?” So it was, a subtle blue sheen compared to the rose copper sheen on the rest of the cart. “The color represents the change in material, where the bottom does not conduct heat and therefore can be used to transport dishes that should be served cold or at room temperature.”

“How clever,” Alina said admiringly. Such a practical design!

“Indeed,” a note of pride and maybe even fondness had slipped into his voice, and his eyes had certainly softened with affection, “a certain Durast noticed that I had a habit of working past my mealtimes and forgetting that a meal had been sent up from the kitchen. So he invented this cart so that my food would not go cold by the time I took a moment to eat.”

“He sounds like a very considerate person,” Alina said carefully, giving the General a small smile when he startled slightly, as though he had forgotten who he had been speaking to.

“Yes. He is.” A moment of hesitation, indecision warring across his face before he said quietly, “his name is David. I think the two of you would get along quite well, if you are willing to make his acquaintance.” 

“I’d like that,” Alina hoped she didn’t sound too eager, but part of her was intrigued by the person who could make the Black General sound like a proud father. “To meet him, I mean.” 

A small smile slowly appeared on the General’s face, and she was once again struck by how young he seemed when he let himself relax. But he went back to being serious soon enough.

“I should really get to the reason why I called you for supper. Ordinarily considering how strenuous your journey was so far, I would have let you rest, however under the circumstances I feel as though I should warn you what to expect when we arrive in Os Alta.”

“What is going to happen to me in Os Alta?” Here it was, the other shoe dropping.

“Upon arrival? Nothing of immediate import. Os Alta is roughly a day’s ride from Balakirev. If we depart at dawn we will arrive near sunset, far too late for propriety to allow for the Court to be called into session. That will leave enough time to eat supper in relative peace, take a bath, and be well rested for the next day. That is when trouble is likely to occur.”

“What do you mean by trouble?” Alina asked warily.

“The Tsar will in all likelihood summon you for an audience.”

The Tsar? The Tsar of Ravka. Wanted to see her ? What kind of nightmare mirror realm had she dropped into?

One in which she was some sort of mythical sun grisha. Right. 

“But why?”

“You are the sun summoner,” the General said simply as though it explained everything when it really explained absolutely nothing , “as the one prophesied to destroy the Fold, you are of great religious and, by extension, political significance.”

“Religious significance?”

“The Apparat has been speaking publicly of your arrival for some time now, I suspect he will quickly move to declare you a Saint.”

“A Saint?!”

She knew she sounded like a bad echo, but she couldn’t help it! Saints were the mortal representatives of the Will in the Illuminated Heavens. They were powerful grisha who made miracles happen. They weren’t Alina Starkova, a raggedy nobody from an orphanage in the middle of nowhere!

And...they all died. Miserable, horrible deaths. Sankt Emerens lowered into the silos of grain to ward away rats, only to be left behind to suffocate when the townsfolk ran to celebrate their saved festival instead of hoisting him up as they promised. Sankta Anatasia, with her healing blood, bled out drop by drop for the people to save themselves from plague until she was nothing but a shriveled husk. Sankt Vladimir who held the waves of Os Kervo back to allow for the construction of the great harbor, only to be left to drown when the work was complete. They weren’t just Saints, they were martyrs. 

Victims. A little voice, a blasphemous voice, said very, very , deep down. Grisha turned pawns once discovered, entrapped and used. 

“Sankta Alina of the Fold,” the General said, “It is the way of the otkazat’sya. We are demons until we are needed, until we are the only solution left. Then we become Saints. Until we are no longer necessary, or until we fail.” His voice was cold, bitter, dark in a way that told Alina he spoke with the heavy weight of experience.

“I don’t know how to use my powers! They’re expecting too much of me, I can’t possibly hope to succeed!” Alina was on the verge of hysteria, but how could she not be when so much was at stake?

“You are the sun summoner–”

“– I’m not ! I can’t be! I’m just a junior cartographer, I'm not some sort of Saint!” Useless little girl , waste of food and space, the Will must have made a mistake when they made you. She felt out of control, the little light at the core of her bursting at the seams. Too visible, far too noticeable, and yet she could not get it to stop, to go away and hide like she used to. It made her skin itch, her muscles ache, her head pound. “There has to be some sort of mistake, isn’t there anyone else more suited to be the sun summoner? Can’t you just take this power from me and just give it to someone else–”

“– ENOUGH!” The shadows flared, covering the glass walls and plunging the room into darkness. Alina flinched as the General stood abruptly, his chair falling over forgotten behind him from the force of his sudden movement. He slammed a clenched fist on the table, rattling the plates and silverware, his voice raised above a conversational level for the first time since she had met him. “Our gifts are a part of us , who we are as grisha, as integral to our being as the lungs are to breathing, the mind is to thinking, the heart is to living ! They are not something that one can just – have cut out, amputated and thrown away like so much refuse! Do you think that our gifts are something that can be given away so easily? Is being a grisha so shameful that you would rather mutilate yourself than acknowledge who you are ?” 

“That’s not what I meant!” Alina cried out. He was being unfair, she didn’t mean– she would never! “There’s nothing wrong with being a grisha!”

“To ask for your powers to be removed is a desecration of all that we hold sacred. It is to look at our connection to the Making at the Heart of the World, at the ability to behold the truth of everything that is and has ever been, and say that it is wrong. Never ask such a thing again, am I understood?”

“Yes, moi soverenyi !” she gasped, as she burst out into tears. 

The room went silent for what seemed like an age as she cried and why wouldn’t she cry? She was angry, angry at him for yelling, angry at herself for being so damned stupid . She had inadvertently insulted the General, insulted the Grisha, insulted Emiliya in the most fundamentally offensive way possible. She knew how important their abilities were to the grisha, she knew better than to ask for them to be removed, she should have thought twice before opening her stupid mouth –

“Oh, Alina.” Her hiccuping sorrow eased ever so slightly as she blinked back tears to see the shadows recede and the last light of the fading sun illuminated the solarium once more. The General stood in front of her, face soft and open, eyes shining with compassion and regret. His hand was extended, holding out a black handkerchief identical to the one he had given her earlier today. “I shouldn't have yelled at you. You’re so young. You’ve been hiding all this time, burying a part of yourself and fooling yourself into believing that you were otkazat’sya. How could you have possibly known better?”

“There’s nothing– nothing wrong with. Being a grisha,” Alina said haltingly in between desperate gasps of air. She took the handkerchief and started dabbing at her tears. A cup of tea was pressed gently into her free hand, and she shakily brought it to her lips and took a long sip to calm herself down, setting it aside when finished the cup. “Grisha are people. They matter , they– grisha aren’t lesser for having their gifts, for being grisha. It's not about being grisha! It's just–,” she shook her head.

“Just what?” General Kirigan said softly, kneeling in front of her, holding her free hand and stroking the back of her hand with his thumb gently.

"How could it possibly be me?" she looked up at the man whose eyes were shining with remorse. "General Kirigan, why does being the sun summoner matter so much?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Why does it have to be a sun summoner who banishes the fold? Couldn't you do it? You're the Black General!" 

"Oh Alina, do you think that I would not have done something about the Fold by now if it was within my power to do so?" He said softly, "the volcra are drawn to my power and The Fold prevents me from summoning inside of it. I would be torn apart immediately.”

"Then what about the inferni? Don't they create light too?"

"Hmm, the answer to that is rooted in theory and best explained through that lens.” He stood up slowly to lean against the glass wall, crossing his arms. “Have you ever heard our gifts referred to as ‘the small science’?”

“Of course.” Who hadn’t?

“The term is...not quite a misnomer, but it is a bit of an obfuscation. Both the ‘small’ and the ‘science’ aspects of the phrase.”

Huh?

“Tell me, what do you think happens when a grisha uses their abilities? When the healer heals, durast make. When the inferni call the blaze, squallers, the storm, tidemakers, the waves?”

Alina thought for a moment but shrugged helplessly. The precise mechanics of grisha abilities had never really been a line of inquiry she was particularly interested in. They waved their hands and things happened, that was about as much as she needed to know in the First. 

“Some posit that the etherealki, materialki, and corporalki control matter, manipulate the base particles that comprise all creation, atoms,” he explained, gesturing with his hands every so often from where he was leaning against the glass wall. “Durasts rearrange atoms to control solids: metal, wood, glass, and so on, in much the same way as a corporalki might manipulate living cells, and etherealki manipulate their respective elements. In this sense, our gifts could be described as ‘small’, though ‘small’ is a relative measure, and insofar as the scale may be small however the implications…,” the General shook his head, “a discussion for another time. For our purposes today we ought to focus on how this explanation begins to break down when you look a little closer. If corporalki can control living cells, why do their abilities only work on humans? If Durasts rearrange atoms to control and change materials, why can they not do so for the wind, for the waves? Are gases and water not also made of atoms? Or in the case of your question–” 

“–why can an inferni create fire but not summon the sun?”

“Precisely. What is fire but a chemical reaction that turns fuel into heat, light, and miscellaneous byproducts? The inferni produce fire that burns gas alone and can manipulate the direction and location of flame, though not the direction and location of wind. This implies that they control the heat and light of the flame, the energy rather than the fuel that is being burned. Why then can they not isolate the light and summon it alone? There are a few plausible explanations, with the most popular and most conceptually sound explanation being that the nature of our connection to the Making is a specialized one. Individuals have affinities that limit their ability to manipulate the world in specific ways, and so durast can only rearrange the atomic structure of solids into other solids, corporalki can only manipulate the living cells of humans and not animals, and inferni must summon fire as a reaction rather than any of the constituent parts in isolation.”

“Like specialized tools,” Alina reasoned out loud, “with dedicated functionality that can’t be changed without changing the tool itself.”

The General grimaced, “Not entirely inaccurate, however I would urge you not to make that comparison in front of the others. It is far too reminiscent of how the laboratories of Shu Han regard our kind.”

Alina winced, “I’m so sorry,” Inanimate objects, things to be used. She could see how that would go over badly.

The General waved his hand, “forgiven. Simply be conscientious in this regard going forward.” He straightened, pushing off against the glass wall, all six feet and some change of him uncoiling with an unconscious, predatory grace. “Returning to the point, I said that this explanation was the most popular and most conceptually sound. However, it fails to account for several questions, for example how would corporalki abilities account for the difference between animal and human cells, however the largest shortcoming is that it fails to account for an entire set of abilities.”

“Which one?”

“My own.” 

Shadow summoning. The rarest grisha ability of them all ( second rarest , a little voice said deep down inside. Shut up , Alina said back). Passed down through a single family line, there was only one known shadow summoner in the world at a time. What even was shadow summoning classified as? It would be...Etherealki, right? Alina somehow couldn’t imagine him in a blue kefta. 

“What makes it different?” she asked.

“What is a shadow?”

A shadow is a shadow , Alina’s dumb brain came up with reflexively, before she bit her tongue to prevent something that stupid from escaping into the open. She frowned. What was a shadow? Wasn’t it just–

“It’s light isn’t it?” she said slowly, “areas of decreased light in comparison to others?”

“Correct.”

“Then why can’t you summon the light?”

“That,” he said, “is the million ruble question, isn’t it.” He shrugged, a long, sinuous movement that she could not look away from. “I do not know.”

“Huh?” Some part of her was aware that he was not omniscient, that there were things he could not possibly know about, but when it came to this man who seemed to hold all the cards, plan for the most minute detail, have an answer for every question, the words ‘I do not know’ seemed like a foreign language on his tongue, ill fitting garments on a man she was accustomed to seeing in an aggressively tailored kefta.  

“I do not know,” the General repeated, “I have tried, and I have not succeeded.”

“But that doesn’t make sense? Why would you be able to control shadows but not light? They’re basically the same thing!”

“Correct. In terms of the physical, shadows are simply varying degrees of light, defined by areas of contrast. The shadows of a very bright desert can contain even more light than light filtering through tinted windows, yet I would be able to control the former and not the latter. This led me to conclude that there is an alternative explanation for the nature of our powers.”

“What?”

“The Making at the Heart of the World does not operate under mundane scientific principles. It deals in concepts.”

Concepts?

“Have you ever read the work of an Aroanian philosopher by the name of Aristocles?”

“No,” she admitted, “the orphanage library was a mess of donations and the church didn’t have anything outside of theology.”

“Aristocles’ work actually influenced the Ravkan conception of the Illuminated Heavens quite significantly, as well as the work of Sankt Dmitri of the Scholars, particularly in his treatises on Metaphysics and the soul. However the… Royal Orthodoxy has developed quite the nativist streak as of late, and denies such ties. They would rather claim that Ravkan Saints created knowledge from whole cloth than admit that they could have ever been influenced by foreign ideas.”

“That’s…” Alina frowned, wrinkling her nose, “really gross.”

“Indeed,” General Kirigan said, and she pouted at the note of amusement that slipped into his voice. “But I digress. Aristocles once posited that all things had an ideal Form, one that resided in a realm one step removed from ours. These Forms contained the true essence of the object it represented. Objects in this world are therefore only pale reflections of what exists in the Realm of Forms.” His lips twitched upwards slightly, “shadows, if you will.”

Alina nearly groaned. That was a surprisingly lame joke. Maybe he was a father after all.

...Why did that idea disquiet her?

“This applied to physical objects as well as ideals. To Aristocles, all trees imitated the Form of a tree, all water imitated the Form of water. But so too did concepts, such as all justice imitating the true Form of justice.”

“And what is the true Form of justice?”

“I’m afraid we hardly have the time for such a discussion now,” he motioned to the window, “it is getting quite late, and we still have dessert. If you are interested in exploring this question then you can seek to join the philosophy knowledge circle, should you find the time to do so. However, to circle back around to why I brought up Aristocles in the first place, I believe that the Making might operate on similar principles. Grisha abilities operate by leveraging our connection to the Making at the Heart of the World, and imposing our will on the material world around us. I posit that connections function within the limitation of some subset of those concepts. The Durast’s abilities are confined to the rearrangement of solids because their connection conforms to the concept of those solids grouped together as a category of object, and abilities such as shadow summoning can be constructed around shadows as an idea, rather than as physical entities.”

“So you think my light is like your shadows?”

“Yes. You are a sun summoner because you have an affinity for light. But it is not just the light that will matter I suspect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Should a failed Crossing have the good fortune to return, oftentimes we will find volcra corpses on board. Yet this time, there was nothing.”

“And you think my light had something to do with that?”

“Nazyalenskaya reported that the volcra were disintegrated entirely and that was the reason for why there were no corpses on board. Yet it is impossible to believe that you disintegrated the volcra through the purely physical aspects of light, otherwise none of the First Army soldiers, Bogomolova, or Nazyalenskaya would have survived. Your powers likely entail a purifying aspect, or at least a specific characteristic that counteracts that of the Fold.”

“That sounds like you’re talking about magic at this point,” Alina was really out of her depth now. Emiliya had always emphasized how their gifts were based in the manipulation of things that exist and here was the Black General, talking about a hypothetical world of concepts and purifying light.

“All of the facts point in this direction. Your powers would not be the first to have characteristics not readily explained by mundane science.”

“Oh?”

“If shadows are just areas of decreased light, then how would you explain this?” General Kirigan lazily waved one hand at his long forgotten but still overturned chair. Alina watched, eyes widening as tendrils of shadow slithered around the legs and arms of the chair and picked it up, placing it upright before receding into the ground. The General then proceeded to sit down on the chair relaxing into a self-assured sprawl, quartz grey eyes meeting hers as he opened his hands in a way that said ‘tada’ without him needing to say it. 

Grey eyes? Weren't his eyes…

It must have been a trick of the light. His eyes were dark brown now, just the way she remembered. 

“But shadows don't have mass?” Alina said.

“No. And yet.” He motioned to his seat. “Concepts. Even though they might align with mundane science, it appears they are not limited to those rules.” He then smiled, a sad, rueful thing. "But please, do not tell outsiders of this."

What? "Why?" Alina asked.

"Small Science. To be small is to be harmless, to be science is to have tangible rules and limitations that can be quantified, understood," General Kirigan replied, "tell me, what would happen if the masses pulled back the curtain to realize that our gifts are so much more than that?"

Curiosity, she wanted to say. The need to discover more, understand truth, to do more for others and the future. What could grisha powers do if they weren't limited to mundane science? 'Mundane' science was already so wonderous, what could grisha powers do in conjunction with ordinary science?

But the more cynical part whispered what might come before, what might prevent such a dream from happening.

"...grisha...they scare me a bit. That kind of power is still dangerous, and when people have that kind of power, it gets to their head. The idea that they can just you know–” Mal's voice echoed in her head, his image faint in her memory, the way that he had waved his hands, “and kill someone is… I don’t know. Unnatural."

Panic, greed, envy, fear. More familiar than hope.

...Hope.

“So it has to be me then,” she said quietly. Powers beyond the mundane, sun spurring hope. If it was not just light that would banish the Fold, but specifically something about this light...

“Confronting the Fold?” The General hesitated, looking away briefly and bringing a hand to his chin. “...In theory no. Perhaps there will be another sun summoner, perhaps another type of summoner will have an affinity that holds a similarly purifying effect on the Fold, perhaps I will spontaneously be able to summon the same light as you.”

That’s a lot of perhaps. “Ravka doesn’t have that kind of time, does it.” 

“No.” Cold, grim certainty. 

“And what happens if I fail?” she asked quietly.

“You will not.”

“But what if I do? They’ll make me into a Heretic.”

She knew her history, her theology. Those who were venerated but fell short, who committed great evil, who did not fulfill the mission set before them by the Will were all condemned as heretics. If they lived, they were subjected to the worst tortures imaginable, their deaths prolonged and made excruciatingly painful. Their names were erased and cursed, their souls damned for all eternity, and everyone connected to them tainted by association.

The General would know. Everyone knew whose descendent he was. Whose legacy he and his forefathers had struggled to atone for even after all this time, four centuries after his ancestor’s sin. The Black Heretic must have had a liturgical name once, a real name even further back than that. He must have done something good to have been beatified. Then came the Fold, a country split in twain, and now his legacy was nothing but ash, smoke, darkness, and death.

Would that happen to her?

“If you believe anything, believe I will not let that happen.” There it was again, that blade sharp, winter forged, cold fire certainty. The way the full force of his personality surged to engrave the words in her mind. When someone like that turned his full attention on you, how could you do anything but strengthen your resolve and trust ? “You are one of us now, one of mine . Trust that I will not let you walk into danger unprepared, especially not by yourself. We will change the world, Alina, and the Second will support you, help you learn, be there for you. You are grisha, you are not alone .” 

There it was again, that cadence, that tone, the one that she had pinned as ‘reserved for mysterious grisha things’. “You people really like your mysterious sayings,” she said quietly. “Someone’s going to have to give me an introductory handbook or I’m going to be so lost .” 

General Kirigan laughed, a rich, pleasant sound that made her try her best to smile in return. “Much of our culture is oral, passed down through our sayings,” he explained with a small smile, “quite a few speak to the nature of our gifts, and so are spoken of with a particular significance. You will learn them in due time, until they become second nature to you as they have to become to everyone in the Second. Besides,” his dark eyes glittered with mischief, “an air of mystery has upon occasion proven very useful.”

“Oh?” Alina asked.

“The First Army General Staff may believe that I need to ‘commune with the darkness’ after midnight.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, it’s called sleeping.”

This time it was Alina’s turn to giggle, and his small smile in return took her breath away.

“Here.” The General stood, swapped the plate in front of her for the new one and removed the lid to reveal a generously thick slice of cake. “I find a little dessert always raises one’s spirits. This is Bird’s Nest cake,” General Kirigan said, pointing at each of the perfectly even layers, “the thin bottom layer is a vanilla sponge. The top layer is the ‘bird’s milk’, a light mousse that is a bit like a marshmallow, the outer shell is a chocolate glaze.”

Alina stared, mesmerized at the confection in front of her. She had never seen anything like it, much less eat a cake like this. She had heard stories about chocolate and vanilla, ingredients that were so expensive an orphan like her could never even hope to see them, let alone know what they tasted like. What even was a marshmallow? She looked at the General carefully, trying to see– was this a test? No. She could see it in his eyes, in the way his body language was open and forthcoming. This was a peace offering.

She took a forkful, felt like she was cutting through a cloud and almost as though she was committing a sin for ruining such perfect layers. She put the fork in her mouth.

Dark, intense, sweet, smooth on the tongue, saints-what-even-is-this-flavor, then underneath, something lighter, soft, melding beautifully with the stronger outer shell, mellowing everything out just in a way that accentuated the contrast and enhanced the flavors. A light airy sponge rounded out the entire bite, giving the bite a bit of texture and grounding her in something familiar, preventing her from being overwhelmed.

“Do you two need some time alone?” 

Alina paused, fork hanging out of her mouth as she looked at General Kirigan who was looking back at her, dark eyes twinkling with amusement. He had, at some point, put away the two finished plates and had his own slice of Bird’s Milk cake in front of him that was somehow already halfway eaten.

“It’s good,” she said honestly, “really good.”

“Good, I am glad that you are enjoying yourself,” General Kirigan said, “if it pleases you then, I will let the kitchens know to have some on hand whenever you would like a slice.”

“I thought grisha were supposed to eat herring?”  

“Ah so you have heard of our ways,” the General said amicably. “Herring will be a staple of your diet, true. However a little bit of sugar is the right of every grisha, and you have– how old are you, seventeen?”

“Nineteen sir.”

“Nineteen years of sugar to catch up on then.” He then mumbled to himself, “nineteen, how? Nineteen?”

“How old are you sir, if you don’t mind me asking,” Alina asked, curious now.

“I am not entirely certain these days,” General Kirigan mused, “I stopped keeping track of my exact age rather early on, age means less and less the longer time goes by. But if I were to guess, I would say that I have been around for the past hundred and twenty years or so. Give or take a decade or two.”

One hundred and twenty??? This man looked like he was in his mid twenties to mid thirties at most and here he was saying he was over a century old?

“The more powerful grisha are, the longer they live,” the General said simply, “and the healthier and more beautiful they become. With regular summoning and a steadier diet you will notice this for yourself.”

Is that why all grisha were so beautiful? That was… actually really cool. Also felt a bit like cheating, but for once the game was rigged in her favor as opposed to against her. Alina had been called plain and ugly all her life. That she might look even a little like the beautiful grisha she had come to know over the past few days? That would be...something. Something good.

Beauty is a blessing, Matron Demina told her once, as they watched a girl who had only been at the orphanage for less than a month chatter away with her new family. The beautiful ones always get adopted the fastest. (Alina, who had by that point been at the orphanage for three years, had said nothing.)

“Your powers will come with time and practice, as is the case with all grisha,” he continued, “Would you look at an unknown land and despair at the magnitude of all that is uncharted? Or do you steady your resolve and begin drawing one geographical feature at a time? Take new developments step by step. Being overwhelmed by the circumstances around you serves little purpose other than to distract and invite failure.”

One step at a time, one geographical feature at a time. Her heart soared at the notion that someone understood, someone cared enough to phrase information in a way that would resonate with her mind and soul–

Oh. She had almost forgotten in the tumult of the conversation that they had. Her mind, how had he peered into it?

“It is getting quite late, I believe it is time that we ought to retire for the night,” General Kirigan said, standing up from his seat, “leave your plates and utensils as they are, a member of the staff will be by to clean later.” He raised an eyebrow at her hesitation, “Unless you have any further questions for me?”

Alina tapped her foot nervously. She could ask about the connection, about what she had seen in that tent three days ago. But that could be a long conversation, one that might be difficult if she didn’t step carefully. It was late, the sun had long since set and the moon was high in the sky. The connection, much as she wanted to know more about it, was a question that could keep. It had happened, and she wanted to know how sooner or later, but right now she had a different inquiry, one that was much more time sensitive.   

“Just one more. When you said you would write the letters earlier, did you mean…?”

“Letters to the families of the deceased, yes. As the officer who gave the command for this mission, it is my duty to inform living relatives when one of my soldiers is killed in the line of duty.”

 “...they died to protect me,” Alina said softly, staring down at her plate. She looked up at the General. “If it is possible, could I also write to the families?”

She could see General Kirigan studying her carefully, “their mission was to protect you, even at the expense of their own lives,” he said bluntly, “I will not forbid you from writing to them, however I need to know that you understand that they died fulfilling their duty, and are not writing to assuage a misplaced sense of guilt.”

Alina felt her temper flare at the implication that she would be the kind of person to do such a thing but she shoved it down immediately. Getting offended would only serve to prove the point that he was trying to make: This wasn’t about her. “I understand. I would still like to write the letters, to honor what they did for me.” 

The General inclined his head in assent. “Very well. I will have stationary sent to your room upon arrival at the Little Palace. For now, get some rest. We will be leaving at dawn. The oprichniki will escort you to your rooms.” Alina stood and curtsied, the way that she had to Duke Keramsov so long ago. General Kirigan gave a shallow bow in response, and walked over to open the doors. “After you.”

Alina walked out of the solarium. “The Sunflower Suite,” the General said to the pair of oprichniki standing at attention outside. He turned to her. “Have a good night, and pleasant dreams Miss.”

“And you as well,” Alina replied lamely, feeling as though she had forgotten something as she watched him nod in acknowledgement, then turn to walk briskly away, posture ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back.

Oh.

"Wait!" She blurted out, and she felt more than saw everyone's eyes focus on her- the Oprichniki stationed in the halls, the pair assigned to escort her. But her eyes were on the man who had stopped halfway down the hallway and half turned to look in her direction.

"Yes, Miss Starkova?" General Kirigan asked.

"Thank you," Alina said, feeling flustered for some reason all of a sudden. She shoved her hands in her pockets and bit her lip, hoping to the Saints that she didn't sound like an idiot. "For saving me."

General Kirigan blinked once and Alina felt her heart lighten when his lips turned slowly upwards in a small smile. "Of course." He inclined his head at her and then walked away.

She watched him leave, feeling lighter than air, comfortable in her skin for the first time. She then remembered that the Oprichniki were standing waiting for her and she quickly flushed red. "Sorry," she said to them. The tall one on the left smiled while his shorter companion decidedly didn't but radiated amusement. "It's quite alright Miss. Shall we?" He gestured and Alina nodded before  following the Oprichniki back to her rooms in the opposite direction that the General had taken.

A short walk in which all of the energy (or was it adrenaline?) that she had felt around the General disappeared, a door was opened courtesy of the guardsmen in charcoal, and Alina just barely had enough energy to murmur a thank you to the Oprichniki before she was kicking off her slippers, and collapsing on the bed. It was the softest bed she had ever been in, and she just managed to wiggle under the sheets, as the door shut with a soft thud. Then she was out like a light.

~

As it transpired, when the General said, “dawn,” he was not, in fact, like Colonel Chenkov who said, “dawn” but really meant, ‘all of you peons get to stand around at dawn while I show up an hour later for inspection’. When the General said, “dawn,” what he actually meant was, ‘everyone get up well beforehand so that you are dressed, present, and ready for departure at dawn. ’ Alina supposed she should appreciate demonstrated respect for everyone’s, and by extension her, time, as well as the practical decency and efficacy of such instructions.

In practice, she was just cranky. It was way too early for any of this, advanced warning or not.

She kept her grumbling to herself though as she was very much not alone in the courtyard. There were eight others. Eight very creepy others.

They all looked like her and the General. Four pairs of a woman roughly her height with her hair color and somehow her face? Same went with the four men looking like the General. The only way she could tell them apart was that they were all wearing different permutations of clothing. One pair standing next to a chestnut horse were dressed in what she would reasonably expect the well to do of Keramzin Town to wear, another were sitting on a black stallion wearing a blue kefta and a black kefta. Yet another pair, also by a chestnut horse, were wearing a black kefta and a black oprichniki cloak, and the last pair were wearing two black oprichniki cloaks standing next to a grey mare. 

“Good morning Miss Agafonova,” Alina shuffled around to squint at a man in a black kefta approaching her, the young stableboy from yesterday, Danya, leading a black horse following behind him.

“Good morning,” she muttered, rubbing her arms for warmth in the cold of the early morning. She blinked when a familiar black kefta was draped around her shoulders.

“My winter kefta,” General Kirigan, and yes she was fairly certain now this was the actual General Kirigan, said. “Inferni on average run hotter than other grisha, but given how thin you are and what I know of First Army health practices, it is best if you are kept warm on the journey to Os Alta. It would be deeply unfortunate if we were to arrive at the Little Palace only for you to fall ill.”

Okay, that sounded pretty reasonable. She also wasn’t about to complain, his keftas were really nice . She burrowed into the kefta, relishing in the smooth silk and soft sable fur lining, sighing in bliss from how warm she suddenly was.

A horse snorted gently in her face. She blinked. “Hello.” Alina stood still as the horse sniffed at her hair. “This isn’t Omen.” For one thing, Alina was fairly certain this horse was shorter than the one she had become acquainted with yesterday. For another, this horse was a mare, not a stallion.

“Omen has earned his rest and will be staying here in Balakirev for the moment. I am certain I will miss him dearly and will have him sent to me at the Little Palace soon enough. This however is his sister. Her name is Nightmare.”

“Is that supposed to be a pun?”

“I am capable of making them, yes,” the General said primly. He gestured to the coterie of eerie lookalikes. “Everyone else here will be acting as our decoys. Their faces have been Tailored to look like ours.”

“Tailored?” From the way he said it, probably some sort of grisha ability. Given his lecture yesterday evening...was it a corporalki subtype? She knew Heartrenders and Healers were corporalki but she had never heard of a tailor before. 

“A Corporalki specialization that enables the temporary surface level alteration of the human body. In this case, their faces and hair were altered to pass for our own temporarily, as to better confuse our adversaries. It is something that is better experienced than explained, and you will meet a Tailor soon enough. Miss Safina is an extraordinary young woman, and I think the two of you would get along quite well.”

So that’s why they looked so similar to the two of them. Alina thought it would have been strange if eight people with their features just happened to reside in Balakirev. Convenient, if a bit creepy, but still, strange. 

Safina, another name on the list of people to meet. She was going to have to acquire a notebook at some point, she was meeting more people now then she had met since she finished basic at Poliznaya.

"Two pairs will be riding directly to Os Alta, taking the central and southern roads. The other two will be doubling back and going through the White Forest to meet with the Vy River. We will be taking the Northern road, through the Seven Hills.”

“Along the Mavysk Valley?”

“Correct. You know your geography well.”

“Cartographer.”

“An excellent one I imagine. Come, I will help you up first.”

Alina may have whined a bit as she settled into the saddle. A night of sleep had not been enough to make the soreness go away. Maybe if she tucked the kefta underneath her in a certain way she might be able to avoid the chafing that happened yesterday? She really hoped after they arrived, she wasn’t going to have to ride a horse again any time soon.

The General swung himself up behind her and then nodded to Radomir who had been waiting on the side. The gates opened, and the first of the other pairs began to gallop away. Then another. Then it was their turn, and Nightmare began to gallop down the path.

Alina watched the sunrise over the flower fields, the light of dawn bathing everything in a rich golden hue. The morning dew glinted on green leaves and multicolored petals as we raced by. The scent of flowers filled the air, and she could even smell it past the smell of horse and General Kirigan’s scent of winter pine and clary sage. She stared enraptured for as long as she could and then some, well after the fields of Balakirev disappeared behind the thicket.

They were just riding over the ridge separating Balakirev and the Valley, when she heard the General say, “you can sleep if you want.” 

“Hmm?” She mumbled, barely able to keep her eyes open. A lake shimmered at their right and she glanced up at the General, his profile illuminated by the morning sun reflecting off the water’s surface. 

“Rest, Alina,” he said soothingly, and she could feel the words rumble from where she was clutched to his chest. “I will not let you fall.”

“Okay. Wake me up when we get there?”

“I promise.”

Alina allowed herself to drift off then, slipping away to the sound of horse hooves pounding against the ground, and a steady heartbeat in her ear. 

~

She stirred some time later, emerging from the darkness of sleep into the light of the waking world. She shifted, peering at the position of the sun in the sky. It was low on the horizon, meaning that she had slept for quite some time even though she felt like she could sleep for a lot longer.

“You’re awake.”

Alina looked upwards. General Kirigan's focus was on the road ahead of them but he glanced downwards at her briefly. “We are almost there. Os Alta is right up ahead.”

She sat up as best as she could while being jostled by Nightmare’s galloping stride. All her life she had spent on the outskirts of Ravka, the orphanage at Keramzin, Poliznaya, Kribirsk, Outpost 23, and technically Adena. They weren’t much to write home about. 

...Okay so maybe Adena was surprisingly nice. It had surprisingly good road planning, and if she didn’t know better she might have thought that they were new. Come to think of it, the more she thought about Adena, the more something niggled in her brain, like she was missing something. Something about that town felt vaguely familiar...

The thought slipped loose and she was left to stand on the shore watching the ripples from where it escaped into the sea of her memories. Perhaps she would find it again some day.

But for now, she shook her head. Balakirev had been a fantastic surprise, nothing she could have imagined and then some. Now they were approaching Os Alta, the capital of Ravka, the City of Dreams, the greatest city of them all. What would it...look…like?

“What is that ?”

Cobbled together wooden shacks, iron slats piled on top of crumbling loose bricks. A shanty town surrounded a run down ghetto, filled with poor Ravkans. There were some who possessed the pale skin and brown hair that were the dominant characteristics of the white Ravkan majority, but they were outnumbered by tanned Suli faces, emaciated tanned and dark skinned men and women from Novyi Zem, who looked… Emiliya. 

Every so often she would see black hair and features only found on people with blood from Shu Han and she wondered, did she look like them?

“A refugee camp,” General Kirigan said grimly. “The border wars inflict suffering on everyone, and yet the burden is not equally shared. Peasants near the border are forced to flee their farms and while the well-connected may yet find new roots, the resettlements often cause others to become displaced and dispossessed. As you can see, this trend disproportionately affects the poor and ethnic minorities. They come to Os Alta in search of a new life, for jobs that might sustain themselves and their families. But there are none. Not for people like them.”

“This isn’t right,” she said, appalled. How could anyone live like this? How could anyone allow people to live like this? “Why isn’t anything being done to help them?”

“Something will be done, but it will not be to help. I imagine the Mirror Division will be deployed to clear out the area soon enough.”

The First Army, First Division, nicknamed the Mirror Division for how their insignia played up their status as ‘First in the Nation’, a pair of ones mirrored over the Great Lake of Os Alta. The Pillars of Os Alta, the Mirror Division answered directly to the King, and were stationed around Os Alta as the last line of defense.

“It is a cycle without end. The wars rage on, civilians get caught in the crossfire, their property burned to the ground. They flee to cities across the Kingdom and some cities take them in as best they can, Balakirev, Caryeva, and Ejora among them, but those cities can only do so much. With others, well. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“That’s horrible,” she whispered.

They galloped past, and soon the shanty town was left behind. Streets were cleaner here, but not by much. It looked a bit like Keramzin town, but she could see newer buildings dotted around the vicinity. People were cleaner here, dressed in clothes that were plain but at least appeared well maintained, free of visible tears. What really stood out to her was the size of the neighborhoods. From where they were galloping along the tops of the Seven Hills, she could see into the basin below how the neighborhoods of Os Altas sprawled outwards in every which direction, along the Seven Hills all the way to the River Vy which she could barely see sparkle in the distance.

How was this Os Alta, the Crown Jewel of Ravka? How was this the city that the orphanage matrons gushed about in her childhood, that the Duke’s guests boasted about staying for the season when they came to the Duke’s charity galas? How was this the City of Dreams? 

Was this what she had been fighting for?

“We’re almost there,” General Kirigan said, “not much longer now.”

A gilded bridge loomed into vision. Guards in ornate uniforms stood at attention on the bridge, but quickly moved out of the way when they saw the black horse thundering towards them. Was the General really that recognizable?

Black horse, black kefta. You would have to be suicidal to pass yourself off as the Black General.

The houses here were not houses but manors and townhouses in the original sense of the term. White washed walls, if not marble ones. Gilded ornamentation appeared on some of the houses in a tasteful manner, deployed strategically to great aesthetic effect, but soon became garish, encroaching grotesquely onto every conceivable surface. Green topiaries cut into increasingly ludicrous shapes accompanied their journey as they passed by men and women dressed brightly in colorful silks and satins, decadently wide skirts made voluminous from what she had to imagine were undergarments constructed with excessive amounts of fabric. Further down she could see the glittering blue green shoreline of what had to be the Great Lake. 

A large building loomed ahead, larger than anything they had come across since leaving Balakirev. It was long and low, two stories at most, but long enough that she knew several hundred people could fit inside without much fuss. The walls were white, and the gilded exterior designs tastefully done, and windows ran down the entire length of the building. Carefully tended hedges surrounded a surprisingly vibrant garden, one filled with what even she could tell was a rather eclectic assortment of plants.

“Is that the Little Palace?”

“Hmm? Ah, no. That would be the Old Orangerie.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“The Orangerie. The Tsar had it built for the purposes of growing oranges in the winter. It’s original purpose was rendered obsolete quite quickly after planning permission for the Alkemi greenhouses was granted, much later than they should have been.”

“You're kidding." An entire building of that size, with that many windows, and that amount of ornamentation dedicated to growing oranges, only be rendered obsolete?

How many people could have been fed with the money used to purchase even one of those windows? How many of the people she had just seen could have been housed with the cost of constructing this building? 

"I'm afraid not. We have taken over the space as overflow for the alkemi greenhouses, but the Royal Family will still use the space for the occasional tea party or soiree when the mood strikes them."

The road sloped downwards suddenly and Alina yelped at the steep decline. 

"My apologies," he shouted, but Alina could see he was grinning, urging Nightmare on, faster and faster! "I had forgotten this area had been dug out to reinforce the foundations of the Grand Palace gardens. Hold on!" 

Alina yelped and clung to the General as the black mare pounded against the dirt road and picked up speed before they leapt over a burbling creek. 

Alina couldn't feel her stomach.

"We're joining the main road now. Look."

A road leading into a quiet woods, the noise of activity growing louder, trees lining the sides of the path arching overhead to form a passageway of green foliage. Pillars were placed every so often, topped with statues of mythical creatures carved from marbles of various shades. Flowers lined the pathways as well dotting the ground in between the trees so that the area looked as though they had entered some sort of enchanted wood, the kind found in fairy tales.

Then, emerging from the woods, though looking as though it was part of the nature surrounding them, was the most beautiful palace she had ever seen. 

Dark walls made of some material she had never seen before shaped into bricks surrounded a massive palace made of dark wooden walls, tall arching windows, and golden domes. The walls were covered in intricate carvings of birds, flowers, twisting vines, magical beasts, inlaid with mother of pearl so they sparkled in the light of the setting sun.  If she had thought Balakirev was beautifully decorated, the elegant estate in front of them took her breath away. How could she have ever mistaken the Orangerie for the Little Palace when the place looked like this?

“The Little Palace,” General Kirigan said proudly. “Home.”

Home. An impossible, loaded term, but one he said so easily. Alina felt a pang of longing. She had not had a home, not since the childhood she could hardly remember, since the friend who had left her behind. What was it like to have a home, a proper place that she could call her own?

What was it like to know that you had somewhere that you belonged?

Nightmare slowed down and came to halt underneath an arched entry gate next to a great rounded tower before a group of grisha of varying ages in the full spectrum of colors, some of whom she could see murmuring among themselves. Several oprichniki stood at attention in the fanciest dress uniforms she had seen so far, even fancier than the oprichniki stationed at Balakirev had worn. The General dismounted easily and helped her dismount as well. This time, she kept her own footing. She looked up at the General, whose posture was stiff, precise, and closed off in a way that it hadn’t been in the forest or behind closed doors at Balakirev. A loose curl of hair hung out of a place just above the General’s brow, the only curl to escape the perfectly tidy hairstyle that the rest of his jet black hair had been slicked back into, though he seemed to not have noticed.

“The oprichniki will lead you up to your rooms, I recommend you go to bed early tonight, tomorrow will likely be a busy day, keep in mind what we spoke of last night.”

“Yes, moi soverenyi .” Alina said.

“Oh and Miss Starkova?”

“Yes sir?”

“Welcome home.”

... Oh . Something warm spread through her chest and she watched, stunned, overwhelmed, and quite possibly gaping like a fish as the man turned on his heel, black cloak and kefta swirling dramatically behind him before he disappeared into the other door, followed by the group of grisha, a few of whom occasionally glancing behind them at her, and a sizable group of oprichniki marching in precise lines.

... Home. Could this really be? 

Could it?

~

She followed the oprichniki up to the fourth floor. She had learned from Fedyor that the Vezda Suite was traditionally the rooms set aside for the second-in-command of the Second Army, but had been empty for some time due to a recent vacancy in said position after Senior Heartrender Romanov had been killed in action on the Fjerdan front. 

A clean death at the very least. Fedyor had said somberly. A combat death, rather than prolonged torture or a parody of justice. Ivan had just scowled even deeper.

The rooms were a set of apartments, one of very few in the Little Palace proper. The majority of the inhabitants lived in residential halls within the compound but behind the Little Palace itself, each hall corresponding to a particular order. The Little Palace was the Second Army command center, housing various war rooms and meeting halls, but also various communal spaces such as classrooms for inter-order instruction and the dining hall where all grisha ate together. The Vezda suite was one of two living spaces on the fourth floor, the rest of the floor occupied by the only other occupant just down the hall. The General.

The oprichniki had come to a stop outside a set of cream doors accented in gold, a depiction of the sun in gold leaf. The doors opened. Various hues ranging from lavender to pale orange to harvest gold to lightly tinted cream shaded the wall gently, creating a lovely gradient effect that made the room appear as though the dawn was just on the horizon. Cream furniture with gold damask patterning were artfully set around the room. A four poster bed with delicate airy nigh-translucent harvest gold curtains. A cherry wood desk with ink and fine parchment off to one side, a wardrobe of a similar color engraved with scenes of the forest and flowers in bloom standing right next to it. Through the doorway she could see the bathroom with white marble tile waiting for her, a grey robe hanging on a hanger. 

The bath was just similar to the one at Balakirev and as nice as, and she fiddled with the gilded fixtures, trying to mimic what she saw Lady Nada do the night before, raising a fist in victory when she felt warm water flow out of the pipe. 

She looked around. Hopefully no one saw that.

She took her time in the bath tonight. There was no Duke waiting to have supper, no deadline she had to meet save for the one in the morning. The warm water lulled her into a sleepy sense of comfortable happiness that she felt almost guilty for. 

She eventually pulled herself out and dried herself off, pulling on the grey robe that had been waiting for her ( Saints was that velvet?) . She was suddenly feeling very tired, her body aching and mind exhausted despite sleeping through most of the ride to Os Alta. She pulled the plug on the bath and let the water drain before making her way to the four poster bed. She slipped under the covers and sunk into the plush budding. 

She had seen so much, her entire life had changed in the span of four days. The attack on the skiff, the carriage ride that had been interrupted by druskelle, the beauty of Balakirev, the ostentatious opulent splendor of upper Os Alta and the fantastical elegance of the Little Palace. It was a lot, especially for Alina, the orphan whose entire life experience had been Keramzin and the marching orders of the First Army.

And yet lying in her sumptuous bed, she could only think about the refugee camp huddled on the outskirts of the capital. How sunken faces and hunched backs betrayed the bone deep despair of men and women and children who had lost everything. Here she was, in the heart of the capital, in a room more opulent than anything she had ever seen before, but barely twenty maybe thirty, miles away people starved .

As she fell asleep, heart troubled, all she could think of was a single thought, a single plea.

We can be more than this. We have to be.

Right?

~

In a stately office sequestered near the heart of the castle, an elegant middle aged woman sits down at her desk to write a letter by moonlight.

Chatelaine Nada. A name she had not heard for years. It was her own, yes, but a specific permutation that infrequently used, especially when it came to that man and it took on a specific meaning when he did.

Chatelaine, a title referring to the Lady of the Household, in charge of the servants who kept the estate clean and operational. As the Duke of Balakirev was a bachelor and often preoccupied elsewhere with his many duties as General of the Second Army and Lord of two other provinces, she served in this capacity as well as the governor of the Duchy in his absence, thereby resembling the masculine variant of the title: Chatelain, or Castellan. It was an accurate title, one most descriptive of the duties she performed on the Duke’s behalf, however as Miss Agafonova observed, it was more or less unheard of by the average Ravkan. 

Which is why she did not use it. Not in daily business nor on official documentation. The people of Balakirev knew her as Lady Nadezhda, and in her interactions with Os Alta she was the Lady Steward of the Balakirev Kremlin. 

That the Duke introduced her as ‘Chatelaine’ was a signal. She was to welcome Miss Agafonova, offer her hospitality and see to her needs. But that she was to be the Lady of the Household, and so was charged with checking if said charge belonged in said household. 

In other words, was she Ravkan? Or was she a spy? 

Nada was almost certain the latter was not the case. The girl was far too honest to be a spy, and had let slip details that were consistent with what Nada could glean from her attire. Moreover, she had not shone even the slightest hint of recognition at the dudou undergarments from Shu Han. While this did not rule out other countries as potential places of origination, it would be highly unlikely for them to train a mostly Shu or Shu passing asset to not infiltrate Shu Han as well. 

It was these thoughts that Nada was tasked with sending a report to her Lord, one that was also to contain her impressions of the girl who was most certainly not Miss Agafonova. 

She had met the real Ekaterina Konstantinovna Agafonova once not so long ago, at the height of that incident. It may have been a few years, but it was not so far in the past that she would mistake a black haired brown eyed half-Shu girl for the tall, blonde haired blue eyed corporealki. It was possible that the Duke had forgotten she had met the true Miss Agafonova, but she doubted it. The Duke was a shrewd man, ceaselessly calculating and plotting to ensure that he would come out ahead. That steel trap of a mind had yet to blunder so obviously, and she would be foolish to rely on such a possibility. No, the Duke either wanted her to know that the name was fake or could not care less if she did. 

And yet, Nada. A Ravkan diminutive, but for her in this context, a Suli name. Not the true name she had entrusted to her Lord in secret, but close, so very close. It was a code name from the earliest days of her career, back when she was just one oprichniki knife among many. That he would use that particular name indicated that she was to be kind, to lend the girl a sympathetic ear, that the girl was special and important to him in some way. That made her curious. Just who was this young lady? 

A question for another time. Here and now she had an assignment to complete. 

In her stately office sequestered near the heart of the castle, penning a report neatly in black ink under the light of the moon, the Lady Of Ten Thousand Faces smiled. It had been a while since she exercised this part of her skillset. It was good to know that she still had what it took to participate in the Game.

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 7: The Importance of Appearances in an Appearance

“Be careful with beautiful things. Sometimes they are exactly what they appear to be and can be enjoyed for what they are. But in nature, beauty can be used to disguise danger, and so it can be with mankind and the webs we weave. Why do I believe this? Oh. No reason.” 

- Evigenya Leonidovna Safina

Royal Tailor to the Court of Ravka

~

Alina startled awake at the sound of loud knocking on the door before the entrance into the Vezda Suite banged open and a flock of women in cream dresses and frilly aprons marched in. She had never seen people dressed in the exact uniform they were, but had seen the maids at Duke Keramsov’s mansion dress similarly. One woman pushed a cart that looked exactly the same as the cart Radomir had brought supper into the solarium on at Balakirev, silver samovar and all. Another carried a large leather briefcase that they quickly deposited gently on top of a nearby vanity. Yet another hung a white garment bag on a hook that had been very cleverly concealed on the front of the wardrobe in the form of a stag’s antlers. They were followed by the second most striking person Alina had ever seen.

The young woman was dressed in a cream colored kefta with gold buttons, gold cuffs, and shimmering pearlescent embroidery weaving together to form what appeared to be wings made of thorns. Her hair was bright red, glossy waves that turned into perfect curls at her shoulders cascading down to the small of her back. The locks framing her face were pulled back away from her face and pinned behind her head. Her pale skin was perfectly smooth, not a single blemish in sight. Sharp cheekbones and picture-perfect brows and lashes framed brilliant amber eyes. Even though beauty was apparently universal among Grisha, the woman standing in front of the wardrobe was beautiful in every sense of the word, more so than any Alina had seen so far outside of the General.

“Looks like you’ve bathed recently.” Alina blinked at the woman’s blunt pronouncement of her hygienic practices. “Good, that makes things easier. We’ll still have to work on your face though.” The young lady waved over the woman standing behind the cart filled with food, “we do have some time however. The General said you didn’t answer the door for supper last night.”

Oops. She did just keel over almost as soon as she crawled out of the bathtub. Sure she had stared up at the ceiling for a bit but her body had been so sore and her mind so tired that sleep seemed very nice.

Her stomach growled.

“Yes, I think breakfast is in order. You, eat. I’ll start working on your hair, maybe touch up your face.”

“I would fix her eyes first if I were you, Miss Safina,” one of the ladies standing nearby said in Old Ravkan. Miss Safina? Wasn’t that who the General—“make her look less Shu.”

What did she just say? “ Excuse me?” Alina said incredulously, “there is nothing wrong with my eyes. You come barging into my room to what, stand around and make snide comments on my face? What are you even doing here anyways? If you’re just going to be rude you can leave.” Half of her then immediately wanted to shrink into her blanket and bang her head on the headboard behind her. This lady was a servant of the Royal Household, which meant that she was way higher up the pecking order than Alina, orphan soldier peasant brat, oh what was she thinking mouthing off here again, was Katya certain that she had gotten rid of the concussion—

Safina clapped her hands twice. “Everyone out.” Alina watched as the women began to file out. The one who spoke in old Ravkan sniffed and was the last to turn to leave but stopped when Safina began to speak once more. “Ksenia, think about who exactly you insulted today. I’m certain the Apparacy would love to hear about the maid who thought it her place to comment on the Sankta’s appearance. I suggest you apologize before someone were to tell any tales.” 

The woman, Ksenia, reddened, then paled dramatically, dropping to her knees and pressing her head against the floor. “Blessed Sankta, forgive my transgression,” she recited, voice panicked and rushed, for all the ritualistic formality of the words, “I apologize sincerely for critiquing your holiness, and submit myself to your judgment. My sin is ever before me, I beseech the Sankta to cleanse me of my unrighteousness.”

“You’re forgiven,” Alina said hurriedly. She felt her heartbeat thump rapidly, her stomach drop, her skin crawl as she looked away, anywhere but at the woman who was bent and bowed, the way she had once been forced to kneel before the altar. “Please leave.”

“You heard her. Go.” Safina dismissed the woman who hurriedly stood, gathered her skirts, and fled. As soon as the door closed, Safina rolled her eyes and sighed in what sounded like relief. “Thank you, I’m so happy to get rid of the miserable shrews,” Safina said, grabbing an armchair and swinging it over next to where Alina was still seated in bed, before sitting down gracefully, “They’re my staff, but I don’t get to pick them. The Tsaritsa assigns them to me, mostly to spy on me, partly to make me miserable by being their harpy selves.”

“Was that really necessary?” Alina asked hesitantly, motioning helplessly in the general direction of the door, “to make her do...that?”

“I will admit, I did not expect her to be so over the top when asking for forgiveness,” Safina said, clasping her hands over her lap, a thoughtful expression on her face, “I hadn’t realized how devout Ksenia was. That said, it was important to establish boundaries early, make sure there was none of that ludicrous Shu prejudice flying about here of all places.”

“Please don’t change my eyes,” Alina said, “they’re perfectly fine the way they are.”

“Of course,” Safina said, “I don’t care that you’re part Shu, I just care that you look alright, but not spectacular. Besides, you’re hardly the only grisha around here who has Shu heritage.”

“What really?” Alina blinked, “there are other Shu grisha at the Little Palace?”

“Of course. You didn’t think you were the only one with Shu blood among us, right?”

...So maybe she had been preparing herself to be the outsider again. Keramzin had been in the South but not far enough so that half-Shu were as common as she had heard they were in the border towns, and then she had been deployed to the Fjerdan with the First instead of going south with the other half Shu. Petya fought tooth and nail to keep her in the cartography unit and also because the infiltration officer had taken one look at her sallow skin and her physical exam results before shrugging and letting it happen, which in any case possibly made things worse, because then she was stuck in a place where she was surrounded by meatheads whose only knowledge of the Shu were the propaganda posters disseminated by the Ministry of Information depicting the Shu as an alien race of inhuman butcherers. At this point, she was really not used to anything good coming from her “heritage,” just trouble.

“Grisha are taken in from all over Ravka, including the border regions where before the border war intermarriage was quite common,” Safina said, “besides, grisha are rescued from everywhere in this corner of the world. We take in refugees from Shu Han quite often, though they don’t often stay here at the Little Palace proper.”

“Why?” Alina frowned, bracing herself internally for the casual, unconscious bigotry she had heard her entire life, the little slights spoken so casually, so naturally. Had she gotten her hopes up too early at the prospect of acceptance?

“If they make it to Ravka from Shu Han, they tend to be not in the best health,” Safina explained, “grisha are rounded up in Shu Han, stripped of citizenship and personhood due to their nature and sent to the state-run laboratories which experiment on them to investigate the source of our powers. So if you were a grisha from Shu Han proper, alive, and here, that means that you either escaped the laboratories, usually not without significant injury or trauma, or hid well enough to avoid the Kē Xué Bù Mén Duì in the first place, usually by suppressing your power and suffering the health defects as a result. While the Little Palace is certainly large enough to accommodate refugees, being in the middle of Os Alta is not an environment considered conducive to recuperation from injury. The General usually sends them on to Ejora, where the waterfalls, larger living quarters, and wide open spaces are considered much more therapeutic.”

“What was that ke Xie...something that you said?” Alina said, tripping and stumbling over the pronunciation.

“Kē Xué Bù Mén Duì of the Gōng’ān Bù” Safina said flawlessly, words flowing smoothly off her tongue, “soldiers of the Scientific Division for the Ministry of Public Security. Dogs of the Tanban regime, ones specifically trained to hunt and transport grisha.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Under normal circumstances I imagine you would have been sent on to Ejora as well, except you are the Sun Summoner.”

“Too dangerous?”

“That, and a few other reasons.” Safina stood up and rolled over the cart with food, as well as dragging over a small table to Alina’s bedside and grabbing the leather suitcase to place on top of the table. “I won’t lie, part of it is bigotry,” Safina said frankly as she moved things around, “though not by anyone in the Second. Most of us couldn’t care less if you were Shu or Suli or whatever, what we care about is if you are grisha and everything else is secondary. The Grand Palace however is right next door, and the Royal family upon occasion will wander by to…‘inspect the troops,’ and the Royals both do not like seeing faces from Shu Han or imperfection in the ranks.”

Alina’s eyebrows shot up to the sky. That was a very disparaging tone that Safina used to describe the royals there, so much so that one could even call it critical . Not that she hadn’t cursed the royals before when she had been freezing her ass off in the permafrost for the same two inches of bloody soil, but that was behind closed tent flaps with only Alexei and Petya as witnesses, the White Coats of the Third Section nowhere near enough to hear her, and here Safina was, speaking openly about the Royal Family with distaste.

“The Lantsovs have a very particular view of the grisha you see,” Safina said, “they’re used to seeing physical perfection and pristine uniforms from the Second, which is why I’m here.” She popped open the lid of the briefcase to reveal many tiny glass vials containing an arrangement of odd bits and ends. “I’m a Tailor you see, I take these,” she waved offhandedly at the contents of the suitcase, “and use them to change people’s appearance.”

“So you are that Miss Safina!” Oh good, she was starting to get nervous that she was just misremembering or something. “The General mentioned you the other day.”

“Oh?”

“‘He called you extraordinary,” Alina recalled.

Safina smiled, very obviously pleased by the words, “well, I certainly won’t deny it.” Alina giggled, charmed by Safina’s self-confidence. “What? No point in denying the truth.”

“No, I suppose not,” Alina agreed, smiling at the Tailor’s words.

“Now, for now, breakfast. Normally I would be in a terrible rush and say there isn’t any time for that sort of thing, but between the fact that you’ve already taken a bath and the fact that the Tsar stayed up late last night drinking in celebration of your discovery means that the Morning Court session has been delayed, I’d say there’s plenty of time to eat first then tailor when you’re full and more willing to sit still.”

“Is that all for me?”

“Yes. The General insisted that your breakfast be a little larger to compensate for the lack of proper meals you’ve experienced from travel.”

“Well I can’t possibly eat all of that on my own, and it would be a shame if any of it went to waste,” Alina said, “mind helping me finish it?”

“Well, if you insist,” the Tailor said, not protesting terribly hard at the prospect of food. “Call me Genya by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you Genya,” Alina smiled, “My name’s Alina.”

“It’s nice to meet you too Alina. Let’s see.” Genya peered at the contents of the cart, lifting the covers on the dishes. “There’s...yogurt, fruit, fruit confitures, honey, eggs, semolina porridge, syrniki, and oh, haha, blini.”

“What’s so funny about blini?”

“You’ve never celebrated Maslenitsa before?”

“ Maslen— . Ohhhh.” Alina groaned. Maslenistsa, the festival of the Sun. Unlike in the South where Keramzin was and people celebrated Butter Week by emptying the last of the winter stores of butter to make various confections, the North celebrated the older Maslenistsa, where everyone ate blini to celebrate the end of winter specifically because their round shape symbolized the sun. “I’ll never look at blini the same way again.”

“Don’t want them anymore?”

“No thank you, I think I’m good.”

“More for me then. Mind if I dip the blini in some of that confiture?”

“Go ahead, have some of the honey while you’re at it.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

They ate more or less in silence, Genya elegantly consuming her blini while Alina devoured the rich taste of the syrniki, enjoying how the sweet cheese filling interacted beautifully with the whole berry confiture, before moving onto the semolina porridge and sharing the eggs with Genya. It was a comfortable silence, one that Alina savored knowing that soon enough she was going to have to leave this quiet room and deal with the weight of other people’s attention.

“Alright, now for what I’m here for.” Genya handed Alina a small hand mirror before plucking several vials seemingly at random from her briefcase. A little swatch of shimmering smooth black silk, a little vial of sand the same color as her skin, the wing of some insect that Alina could not identify, among other things. “Now hold still.”

Genya took the silk out of its vial and then ran it over her hair slowly. Alina watched as her hair smoothed out and took on a glossy black sheen. “Whoa,” Alina breathed. Her hair had never been this shiny or, as she found out when she reached up to touch her hair where it had been changed as Genya moved onto the next section, this soft . It felt like how she remembered the interior lining of the General’s kefta feeling like. 

When Genya was finished, she then put away the black silk swatch, which was looking a little duller, a little less black, and much coarser somehow. Then she took out the vial containing sand and then rolled the glass over her forehead. “Some of this is just surface, but some of it runs deeper,” Genya murmured as the collection of nicks and scrapes she had accumulated on the front began to disappear, pock marks from a troubled adolescence, along with older facial scars, some of which even Alina couldn’t remember how she acquired, sand disappearing from the vial as she did. Alina blinked when her skin became suddenly clearer than she could ever remember being. Genya began examining Alina’s limbs, erasing any blemishes she could find before she grabbed a vial filled with a white liquid, maybe milk? She began rolling that over Alina's hands before Alina yanked her hand away, alarmed at her callouses disappearing before her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Alina blurted out, clutching her hand to her chest, nervously rubbing her finger over her callus, “I just, I want to keep these.” 

Those calluses had formed during her time  in the army, handling her stupid rifle, hauling tent poles around, digging latrines, drawing map after map for stupid idiots who couldn’t read a compass rose when their life literally depended on it. She had earned the calluses, and didn't want to just erase them, as if none of that struggle had ever happened. 

“Sentimental,” Genya observed, before giving her an odd half-smile, “Don’t worry, I’ll work on that too. Anything else you want me to avoid?”

Alina took a moment to think. “Just the scar on my right hand I guess.” She pointed out the scar in question, the jagged ugly thing on her palm from where she had clutched the shard of pottery to avoid... being taken by the grisha to the Little Palace. To cheat the test that would have brought her to the very place she was sitting in now. There was an irony here, a very important contradiction she had to examine about the exact reason why she was feeling so ambivalent about removing this particular scar when she was where she was anyways, but that was a survey that she did not have time to conduct now, not when the Tsar was apparently waiting to see her.

Alina sat patiently as Genya continued to fiddle with her glass vials, taking the insect wing out to wave it slowly over her eyelid before muttering to herself and swapping it for a small pearl instead. When it was all said and done, she didn’t look exceedingly different from how she usually did, just…more, somehow. That wasn’t exactly the right word, but Alina didn’t really know how to put it. Her face was a little less pale, a little more healthy, the bags beneath her eyes a little less prominent, the blemishes and marks that she had always been a little self-conscious about, gone.

“How did you do that?” Alina marveled at her skin, bringing a hand up to touch the newly smooth skin of her face in wonder. “How does Tailoring work?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain. There’s not that many of us out there, we’re almost as rare as you. Though I’d wager that saving the Tsaritsa from sagging tits is nowhere nearly as important as what you’re supposed to do.” Alina stifled a giggle at the dry tone Genya spoke the words. “We’re often kept apart at different duty stations because of it, but whenever we get a chance to meet and talk about our craft, I’ve been told my explanation doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been working on myself since I was three you see, so Tailoring comes naturally to me, much more so than the other Corporalki who came from the other two branches and had to be trained into it.”

Interesting. So the same abilities could feel different to use based on who was using it? You could train into a subtype from another? Alina was starting to realize just how much she had to learn about the way grisha abilities actually worked. “So how does Tailoring feel to you?”

“Like I’m asking for changes to be made.” Alina blinked in confusion. “Sometimes hair feels rough because it’s frayed, so I ask for the break to be mended. Or your eyes are too dark, so I ask the pigment to recede a little.”

“ Are my eyes too dark?”

“No, it was just an example. The point is that I see something wrong, something I want to change, and then I just pull it into place. The materials act as a template, an example for the kind of changes I’m asking for. I asked your hair to be more like silk, and so your hair responded and changed for me.”

The other Tailors were right, that made absolutely no sense. But then again did controlling fire, or wind, or metal by waving your hands make any more sense? Maybe this was one of those things that had to be experienced firsthand to be understood.

“Anyways, we’re just about out of time. Come, get changed and then we should get going.”

“Alright. What am I changing into, a kefta?”

“No, the Tsar expects to see a humble girl plucked from the ranks of his army,” Genya said and Alina frowned at the implication of her words. “He’ll want to take the credit for you.”

Politics. As though the Tsar had anything to do with her being the sun summoner. Alina didn’t even have anything to do with being the sun summoner, all she did was be born. 

Wait. Why would the Tsar only be able to take credit if she was First Army? He was the Tsar, why did the distinction matter when both the First and Second were his? 

It was then the Genya casually unbuttoned the garment bag and threw it aside.

“You have to be kidding me.”

“Would this be a bad time to mention the hat?”

~

“I look ridiculous.”

The two of them were standing in the hallway, just outside of the Vezda Suite and the closed black double doors emblazoned with the Black Sun that were the entrance to the General’s apartments. Four oprichniki stood at attention in the area, two on each side of the door to her room, two on each side of the doors to the General’s rooms, but they might as well have been statues for all they refused to react to anything happening in front of them or even do so much as twitch.

She didn’t have the brainpower to contemplate the Oprichniki in any case. She was much more concerned about what in the Illuminated Heavens she was wearing.

Olive jacket, smaller and more form fitting than the shapeless standard issue uniform, a little too tightly tailored around her chest for her to be comfortable with. A damn skirt of all things, going just past her knees. Thin cotton stockings, to show off her non-existent legs and of all things, heels ? Just what exactly did the Tsar think the First Army did all day?

And the heels weren’t even the worst offender.

“I can’t see a damn thing.”

Attached to her hat, which was vaguely like its standard issue counterpart, was a veil so densely covered in gold lace that it was more or less opaque, which was decidedly not uniform code compliant. Alina blew at the hanging fabric.

“Hey! Stop that,” Genya hissed, “No one can see you until the Tsar does.”

“You’ve seen me,” Alina pointed out, “the General has seen me. Fedyor, Ivan, Katya and the entire security escort know what I look like, most of the grisha at Kribirsk saw me, and that’s not even including the staff at Balakirev or the maids from like an hour ago?”

“So there are some minor issues with the execution,” Genya said halfheartedly. “Look, it doesn’t make sense but we play along because the Tsar is a child.”

“This outfit is ridiculous. I look like a lamp.”

“Sadly, this is how the Tsar sees the First Army. He cares little for mud, blood or sacrifice.”

“Genya is correct.” Alina turned in the vague direction of General Kirigan’s voice, “the Tsar is not terribly concerned about the...complexities of war. I must ask for your discretion, Miss Starkova. It is safe enough in this wing of the Little Palace to speak about such matters, however the walls have ears and elsewhere we can never be certain that they are always the right ones.”

“I understand,” Alina said to the black blob, before a thought occurred to her. “Oh! Your kefta!” She spun on her heel, intent on giving back the black winter kefta from where she had hung it inside her wardrobe. 

“Wall!” Genya said in alarm, and Alina stopped in her tracks. “The door is two steps to your left.” Alina stepped left twice. “Okay, maybe three. You’re in front of the oprichnik right now.” Alina took one more step and felt around for the doorknob before finding it and opening the door. 

“This would be a lot easier if I could just take off the hat you know!” Alina called out.

“It wouldn’t have stayed on properly if it wasn’t pinned into place!” Genya called back.

Alina stuck both of her arms out. If she had just come in through the door then her wardrobe should be on the left…

“You know I could just—”

“—No no, Miss Starkova seems determined to retrieve it on her own. We must allow the hero to overcome the obstacles in their journey.”

Aha! Got it. Thank goodness it had so many distinctive carvings. Only...where was the handle to open it again? Was it this firebird or this serpent thing?

 It was in fact, the two hemisphere in the middle and Alina opened the wardrobe, grabbed the only garment hanging inside, and then turned to leave, confidently—

“Wall!”

— confidently , stretching out her arm and moving it to the right to find the opening—

“You want to go to the left, Miss Starkova.”

Damn it.

“It was a harrowing adventure, but I persevered!” Alina declared, finally making it in and out of her own bedroom in one piece. She heard the sound of hands clapping, followed by a second pair.

“Well done, Miss Starkova. Truly a display of immense navigational talent.”

“Hey, you can't make fun of me,” Alina complained. She had braved that journey blind and this is the kind of thanks she got? “What if something happened and you couldn’t find your spare kefta again?”

“Oh, aha ha Ali—Miss Starkova. I will have you know that I know exactly where my spare keftas are now. Besides, should I forget, I have an Ivan to find them for me.”

“You know most people don’t need other people to find their clothes for them.”

“Most people do not have an Ivan, how unfortunate for them. Speaking of which, Ivan, have this sent to laundry please.” So that’s who the red blob was. Alina could almost feel Ivan suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “Now then,” the General said, “shall we?”

“I’m going to just walk into a wall,” Alina said. 

“Then you may take my arm and I will do my best impression of Chatelaine Nada. Wait no, that’s—my arm is up here, Miss Starkova.” A hand gently guided her arm upwards until her hand was settled in the crook of his elbow. “Right. This way.”

~

“Just one more set of stairs and that should be all,” the General said lowly into her ear from where she was leaning heavily on him.

“I hate wearing heels,” Alina complained, “I haven’t worn them in years .” And she hadn’t also been blind in the past. The last time she wore heels was the final time she had been trotted out for the Duke’s fundraising gala at fourteen. After that, she decidedly could no longer pass for a small child no matter how waifish she was. She wasn’t cute anymore apparently, just depressing, made the guests think the orphanage matrons were neglectful if their wards looked the way she did. Alina couldn’t imagine how they could have come to such a conclusion. The orphanage matrons? Neglectful? Say it isn’t so.

At some point a whole host of grisha had apparently joined in a procession behind them, but Alina was far too anxious to look back and try to see who was following them. To be entirely honest, just hearing the number of voices murmuring behind them was making her heart pound rapidly, so she focused solely on staying upright instead of thinking too much about what was going on.

“It’s times like this I wish I was a man,” Alina said miserably, “I bet you never had to deal with high heels.” They weren’t even that high, maybe an inch or so, but they were there and that made them terrible.

“Believe it or not, I have worn high heeled shoes before.” 

“What really?” Alina blurted out in disbelief. All of her anxiety suddenly flew out the window at the image of the fearsome General Kirigan wearing high heels, especially that one pair the Countess of whatever was wearing that one time, the really ornamental silvery ones that snapped mid-dance and caused the Countess to fall into one of the servers holding the tray of sparkling wine, spilling it over everyone in the vicinity. Alina had never seen heels that high (or the Countess for that matter) ever again.

“It was not terribly long ago that high heeled shoes were fashionable for men. They originated as men’s footwear, when cavalry officers in Parsa would wear shoes with higher heels as they helped keep the foot in the stirrups when riding, and keep stability when aiming their bows while mounted. They then became fashionable in royal courts around the world, becoming associated with military prowess and… the other desirable male trait.”

Ah, virility then. It somehow always did come down to a dick measuring contest.

“Fortunately they went out of fashion relatively quickly, mostly due to, as you say, the increasing association of the high heel with femininity. I was exceedingly pleased to throw out the majority of that style of footwear when it happened.” 

“The majority?”

“Occasionally the Tsar and Tsaritsa believe it a splendid idea to host themed events. As a member of the Court, my presence at such affairs is mandatory when I am not out on campaign, and so historically accurate footwear becomes a necessity every so often. It would be wasteful to commission a new pair when I could simply find the old one.”

“You mean have Ivan find them.”

“Is that not what I said?” The General stopped, and Alina stopped as well. “We’re here.” 

“Miss Starkova,” General Kirigan said quietly, “when we enter, you must stop when I do. When I tap your arm, you must curtsy, bending roughly ninety degrees at the knees. The Tsar will grant you permission to remove the veil and then you will do so, handing your hat to Fedyor, who will be on your right. Then you will call the light.”

“But I don’t know how?” Her heart rate was starting to speed up again, the pressure seeping past shattered defenses and lines worn thin-

“Do you think I would allow you to be made a fool? For the Court to make fools of the both of us? Just keep your focus on me, and you will be fine. I will help you call the light, just as I did in the tent at Kribirsk. Everything will be alright. Should you begin to feel overwhelmed once more, simply think of myself in high heels.”

Alina barked a short laugh in surprise but quickly covered her mouth with her unoccupied hand. She could hear the doors swing open, a herald announce loudly the arrival of, “His Grace, the Duke of Caryeva and Balakirev, Earl of Ejora, General-Field Marshal of the Royal Second Army, Lord Mikhail Demidov-Kirigan, and the Sun Summoner, Miss Alina Starkova!” Alina dropped her hand to her side immediately and straightened up, taking a deep breath. 

“In we go,” General Kirigan murmured before taking confident strides forward. He kindly made each step small enough that she could match his pace, so that she didn’t have to worry about tripping or slipping on the carpet. Then he stopped, and so did she.

She could hear murmuring now, louder than when it had been just the grisha following behind them. She could hear the rustle of fabric all around her, but also behind her, a slight breeze hitting the back of her neck from where the suddenly silent grisha behind them were moving into position. 

A long finger lightly tapped her on the arm. She curtsied.

“This is the Sun Summoner?” a gruff voice silenced the rest of the murmurs. “Very well, let us see her then.”

…Was that supposed to be permission? The urgent tap on her arm seemed to indicate that it was, and Alina hastily reached up to take the hat off her head before handing it to Fedyor, who took it from her with a very supportive looking smile. 

Giant crystal chandeliers hung from the highest ceiling she had ever seen, a central chandelier easily six times larger than the average man seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics. The walls were covered in Lantsov blue silk damask wallpaper, that particular shade of blue between sapphire and ultramarine, the color of destiny, of dynasty, of prophecy. The color of the Lost Crown of Saint Nikita, of the lake on the eve of the battle marked the birth of a nation. White marble corinthian columns with gilded capitals matching the golden crown molding held up a ceiling painted with an enormous fresco of the heavens. The iconography of hundreds of minor saints surrounded romantic depictions of the Twelve Greater Saints who all gazed longingly at the Hex of the Maker. Sunlight flooded into the room through enormous windows from floor to ceiling flanked by Lantsov blue velvet drapes, illuminating the hundreds of courtiers standing on the white marble floor. There were military men in dress whites, bedecked with medals and cords denoting ranks so far above her paygrade they might as well be in the Illuminated Heavens. Civilians in black coats with colorful sashes cinched around the waist, a rank insignia of a different sort, Alina’s overwhelmed mind barely registered the silver of the Treasury, the green of the Chancery, the red of the College of War, before she was distracted by the women in their enormous pastel silk and velvet dresses, matching jewelry glittering, a thousand stars in a swirling galaxy of riches.

The Tsesarevich's and the Tsarevich's seats were empty. Her mind registered faintly. The Tsarevich was understandable, Alina remembered Genya mentioning that the Tsarevich was away for his education, but the Tsesarevich should still be in Os Alta—

—Then she saw them. High on the top step of a blue carpeted gilt and marble dais in the center of the room sat the Tsar and Tsaritsa of All Ravka.

It took all of her willpower to not gape.

The Tsar was wearing what could be called a uniform cut from a pale yellow silk accented with a powder blue sash but was festooned with so many medals and cords that it almost seemed like a parody of a military man. Neatly trimmed goatee barely hid sagging jowls. Ruddy cheeks and reddened eyes indicated sleeplessness, illness or perhaps overindulgence. 

She didn’t know what to think. In the paintings, the Tsar had been a reasonably trim middle-aged man, not this corpulent weak chinned...blob. 

Oh Maker, the part of Alina that had absolutely no survival instincts thought, he really does look like the cartoons. 

“How wonderful” A clear, high voice rang out.

A heart shaped face with high cheekbones, sharp brows plucked artfully thin. Long, slender arms, bare shoulders white as porcelain and just as perfect, not a wrinkle to be seen. Large Lantsov blue eyes the exact same shade as the velvet of her gown and the enormous bows of watered silk that were affixed next to elaborate goldwork embroidery. Pale blonde hair artfully pleated and styled into an elaborate coiffure secured by a diamond kokoshnik and dozens of glittering diamond hair pins shaped into flowers. 

The Tsaritsa of Ravka smiled radiantly from her throne of silver and glass peacock feathers.

She should have been beautiful. In the portraits of the monarch and consort that hung over every altar, every hearth fire, and every classroom, the Light of Ravka had been the picture of demure elegance wrapped in white mink fur.

Yet, Alina could barely look at her face.

What was it that made it so hard to focus on her? Was it how her skin was too pale and smooth, the contours of her face too still despite the rise and fall of her chest? Was it how her irises were just on the wrong side of too bright, the symmetry of her face so exacting as to be disorienting, her already narrow waist laced down to an impossibly demanding degree? Whatever it was, looking at the Tsaritsa directly felt unbearable , Alina’s eyes skittering off, away, anywhere, anywhere, not there.

Alina’s breath deserted her as the Tsaritsa rose from her seat and swept down the stairs of the dais faster than Alina would have thought possible with a skirt so large. To her left, the General went still. 

“Look at you!” Alina stiffened under the Tsaritsa’s touch, petite hands surprisingly cold on her shoulders, even though the Tsaritsa’s lace gloves. “We had such hope, but we never imagined that you would actually come, and here you are!” The Tsaritsa smile widened, bright and luminous. “Alina, Alina…Starkova, was it? A Ravkan name is it not?”

There was buzzing in Alina’s ears. Her mouth was dry, her hands were clammy with sweat. Everything felt cold, she couldn’t move.

A warm hand squeezed her own.

The Tsaritsa blinked slowly, right hand gracefully moving to her breast. “Oh dear, is everything alright?” She glanced at the General. “Does she not understand me? I had been told…” She motioned to the left, where a tall reedy looking man was standing nervously. "Pavel, tell her good morning for me.”

For some reason that broke the strange paralysis that had come over her. “I speak Ravkan,” Alina blurted out reflexively, before wincing internally at the sound of tittering from the horde of courtiers. She curtsied to the Tsaritsa, trying her best to follow the General’s instructions. “Moya Tsaritsa.”

“Oh,” the Tsaritsa said, scarlet lips opened slightly, the picture of surprise before the smile returned. “How marvelous!” Alina fought a shiver as the Tsaritsa cupped her cheek. “That the Dawn Saint be from Ravka is only fitting-” 

“-And how do we know she is the Saint?” the Tsar demanded from the dais, “What evidence do you have of your claim General Kirigan?”

“She is the Sun Summoner, moi Tsar,” General Kirigan said, voice carrying clearly over sudden murmurs. Alina glanced over as the General gave a shallow bow towards the Tsaritsa. “If there are doubts, then perhaps a demonstration.”

The General glanced down at Alina before looking meaningfully at the center of the room. He then swept forward, somehow transferring Alina’s hand from his arm to his hand in a single motion, as if he was a dancer in a ball. Behind him, his other hand lifted languidly towards the sky.

Shadows whispered inwards from every corner and crevice, enveloping the room and its inhabitants in pitch black night. The temperature dropped palpably. Alina shivered, exhalations emerging as silver fog. The room was silent, as if no one dared to breathe. She could see nothing else. Not the floor, not the ceiling, not the hundreds of people shifting, rustling, muffled and distant. It was as if everything else ceased to exist, ceased to matter. All there was Alina and the General.

A hand gently tugged at hers. 

An invitation.

Alina stepped forward, breath hitching in her throat. The stage was set. She could feel hundreds of eyes resting on her, yet all she could see was the General leaning in, gray eyes flashing like the gathering storm.

He leaned down close and whispered.

“Now call the sun.”

A gentle caress, just barely grazing over her hand before he laced their fingers together. She felt his soul call to her, whispering promises of protection, a defender, an eternal guardian who would never falter. Someone who knew what it was like to be alone and would never leave her the way others had left him. That with him, darkness would be her ally, not a monster to be feared. It was an offer, a demand, a bargain, a question, a plea, and she could feel her little star rise in answer. Her hopes and needs reached upwards to respond to his assurances, seeking the recognition and acceptance that he gave so easily.

Something, some little fire deep inside her began to grow warm. 

And then, there was—

Light

Gasps and sharp exaltations. Exclamations of shock, joy, wonder.

A warm golden glow emerged from her skin, a gentle radiance that appeared to push back the darkness. But Alina could feel that wasn’t quite right. The light was not pushing the shadows away, destroying them, or anything of the sort. It felt as though the light and the dark were swirling, singing. Dancing. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Alina just barely noticed how some in the audience began looking away, others even crying out in pain. Only one person kept their eyes on her the entire time, and so her eyes were soon for him alone. For a moment it felt as though nothing but the two of them existed in this world, and she looked into his storm gray eyes.

In General Kirigan’s eyes, she saw wonder. In his eyes, she saw awe. In his eyes, she saw safety.

In his eyes, maybe, just maybe...she saw home.

The siren song faded and so too did the light as the General relaxed his grip ever so slightly, but still their hands remained intertwined. The shadows withdrew and soon the room was filled with the natural light streaming in from the outside. The General’s attention, however, remained fixated on her.

The Court cheered. She could hear courtiers shout, “bravo!”, “brilliant!”, and “beautiful!” 

Alina wondered how many of them had mocked her breach of etiquette mere moments ago.

“Excellent!” The Tsar cried out, “How long will she need to destroy the Fold?”

“Destroying the Fold will be no easy feat,” General Kirigan said, “She alone may not be able to do it. She must remain with me at the Little Palace to train her gifts.”

The Tsar nodded, before stopping suddenly, his eyes sharpening on where their hands were still linked together. “I have full faith in your abilities to train her quickly, General. However,” General Kirigan’s head snapped towards the Tsar at this, his dark brown eyes narrowing, “the Sun Summoner must also receive the finest education in the land, and will attend lessons in the Grand Palace as well.” Alina could see the General open his mouth as if to speak but the Tsar turned his head to look directly at her. “Welcome, Sun Summoner,” the Tsar of Ravka said. His entire demeanor had transformed, so too did his posture and his countenance, turning warm, paternal, inviting. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Should you find yourself in need, the Palace shall provide.”

A small tap on the back of her hand and Alina had to think for a second before curtsying. “Moi Tsar,” she managed.

“We shall spare no expense, bear all costs to aid you in your task Sun Summoner,” the Tsar said, “In turn we urge you to work hard, and study diligently. The day that Ravka is united as one is the day that Ravka will be safer for all Ravkans.”

“Yes, moi Tsar.” Alina replied. No pressure.

“Wonderfully done!” Alina turned her head to look at the Tsaritsa who she had somehow forgotten ( how could she possibly have forgotten the Tsaritsa was standing there ), and hastily curtsied to her monarch. The Tsaritsa evidently had other ideas, and caught her mid-curtsy by the elbows. The Tsaritsa leaned in and Alina stilled as she felt the Tsaritsa’s lips on her forehead. A kiss cold as the morning frost, then that smile. “Welcome to Os Alta my dear,” the Tsaritsa said. “We have been waiting for you.” The Tsaritsa lingered just a moment, a strange look in her eyes even as her pleasant smile remained, before stepping back.

“Moi Tsar. Moya Tsaritsa.” The General bowed to both monarchs in turn, then offered Alina his arm. Alina grabbed onto it quickly, and in a swirl of black kefta, he escorted her out of the room. 

The General set a brisk pace that Alina barely kept up with, only slowing slightly when Genya caught up somehow and matched his pace on his left. 

“The Tsesarevich?” Alina just barely heard him ask the Tailor quietly.

“Ill, moi soverenyi,” Genya reported. “Bedridden.”

“Hmm.” Alina hazarded a glance upwards, just in time to catch a brief frown flash across his face before he caught her looking. He smiled at her, but offered no explanation and only picked up the pace until he stopped in some vast entrance hall in the Little Palace. The other grisha had followed them, and Alina noted with only some envy that none of them looked out of breath. 

General Kirigan turned. “You were perfect,” he said.

“I don’t know what just happened,” Alina said truthfully. “I don’t know how I did that, or where any of it came from.”

“It came from everywhere,” General Kirigan said simply, “it came from here,” he tapped her lightly with a single digit slightly below her collarbone, “because you called upon it to come.” He smiled, and she felt a warmth spread through her, almost as though the light hadn’t left. “Welcome home, Miss Starkov.” He inclined his head, deeper than he had with the Tsar and the Tsaritsa, then turned on his heel and walked away, with Ivan and Fedyor (still holding that stupid hat) following closely in his footsteps. Fedyor winked as he passed by her. 

The hall was silent until the sound of the General’s sure and steady footsteps on marble could no longer be heard before the grisha began to crowd around her, chattering excitedly about how it was so nice to meet her, and Alina was suddenly swept up in a great outpouring of affection and welcome. She busied herself with reciprocating, and nearly became overwhelmed with how enthusiastic the grisha were towards her presence. She barely managed to keep herself together, and pulled away towards Genya as soon as she felt able to make her excuses. Genya had been standing alone, off to the side, waiting patiently for her to finish.

“The entire country is going to be talking about you now,” Genya said wryly, “Come, the General has asked me to oversee the rest of your day, give you a tour of the grounds, make sure you don’t get lost.”

“I don’t actually need a minder you know.”

“I don’t know, are you certain? From what I saw this morning, I’m afraid for your health, and possibly for the structural integrity of the Little Palace.”

“Okay, I’d like you to see you do better with a lampshade on your head…”

As Alina laughed with Genya, she couldn’t help but notice a familiar face. The squaller from the skiff, from Kribirsk, stood in the corner. What was her name again? Whatever it was, there she stood.

And she was not happy. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Alina saw the squaller glower at her, gaze thunderous, hands curled into fists. Alina watched as the squaller turned and stormed away.

~

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 8: Interlude: Genya

"The Heart is a tricky unknowable thing and the heart isn't much better. We can weave ourselves into dizzying circles trying to convince ourselves of what we feel, and we might never get it right. But we are not afforded the luxury of paralysis, staying still until we have absolute certainty. We must act or else we give ourselves up to being acted upon, and that is our burden to bear."

-Nikolai Maximovich Romanov

Senior Heartrender, The General's Wings

~

“ It will not be enough for her to train at the Little Palace.”

General Kirigan had convened a meeting the night of his return between the five of them. Standing around the octagonal table containing the most detailed strategic map in all of Ravkan. On that moonless night standing, or in the General’s case sitting, in the dark green and black wallpapered War Room were the General, Ivan, Fedyor, herself, and Natacha Fyodorovna Bogomolova. While late night meetings were not atypical for the four of them, Senior Inferni Bogomolova was an unusual addition. From what Genya knew of the General’s habits, Bogomolova was not treated any differently from the many other Senior Grisha who also were not part of the Second Army’s High Command, however she did merit individual audiences from time to time, which was...interesting. 

General Kirigan was a busy man, nearly every minute of his schedule filled with work of some sort. The man even worked through his lunch, and ate in the War Room, which was the room right next to his bedroom, to minimize time lost to ‘the commute.’ Genya was of the opinion that the General needed to discover the concept of work-life balance but that would imply there was any separation between the two for the man, or indeed that he had any of the latter outside of the former. 

That Bogomolova rated individualized attention from General Kirigan implied that she held some sort of importance beyond mere seniority, as being an old, powerful inferni alone would not have earned her such notice. It wasn’t a sexual liaison, that much had been confirmed by Fedyor the one time she had thought to ask, it was strictly business between the two of them. However the Heartrender had refused to tell her anything else about the woman, not where she had come from, not why she volunteered so often for Crossings the Unsea, and certainly not where she disappeared to when she went missing from the duty roster every so often. Her disappearances were hidden of course, obfuscated in such a way that a layman would not realize that she had never appeared at a particular duty station, but Genya was no layman. She recognized concealment patterns, knew that they were the same methods she herself had been taught though executed to a level that was almost beyond her own capacities. It had taken her an embarrassing amount of time for Genya to notice that anything out of the ordinary was happening in regards to Bogomolova’s activities, let alone decode enough to realize that Bogomolova was hiding something, something very important, something that made her want to look closer, and she had not risen so far in General Kirigan’s esteem by ignoring when her instincts told her to investigate. 

However between her...duties at the Grand Palace, and various assignments from the General that needed completing, she had yet to find the time to look into Bogomolova, and so Genya took the chance to watch the mysterious dark skinned inferni as she stood with an unnerving air of calm in the darkened corner next to the windows, where the light of the stars could not reach her.

The General himself had been sitting in his great ebony armchair, still dusty and a little frayed around the edges from multiple days of hard riding. The single night he had stayed in Balakirev could not erase the signs of strain entirely. A single lock of hair had escaped his ordinarily perfect slicked back hairstyle, but Genya had fixed that quickly in a rare instance that she had been allowed to use her Tailoring on the General who, in Genya’s opinion, quite honestly did not need it.

“The Tsar celebrates in the Grand Palace. The servants say the cellars have been opened completely, and wine flows freely throughout the Court,” Genya reported when the General motioned for her to speak, “The amount of rubles that will be needed to replace the vintages he is consuming like water will be staggering, and some will be impossible to find new bottles of.”

The General had looked to Bogomolova next. “The Apparat has been seen leaving the Grand Palace at night,” the Inferni told them, “ the Priest Guard have been spotted congregating at the larger cathedrals, then disappearing into the catacombs. The Grey Eyes report that they have been traveling through the old tunnel system going somewhere north, though where exactly remains unclear.” 

Genya remembers frowning at that point. She thought she had been familiar with all of the General’s covert organizations by this point, but she had never heard of ‘the Grey Eyes’ before. Who were they? What was their specialization? Where did they operate? Why did they merit such secrecy? What was Bogomolova’s involvement with them? Why was their existence being revealed to her now, in this fashion? 

Those were many questions, yes, but such was the nature of associating with their General. He had many plans, far too many to count, all moving at once and kept compartmentalized so that no one except for himself was aware of the full scope of his strategy, where everything was in relation to his endgame, or what the true nature of his endgame even was. Even from the privileged position that Genya had earned for herself, she knew she was just looking at the surface and could only see a fraction of the man’s machinations. To not acknowledge the many questions each new glimpse of the plan brought would be a failure to observe, and Genya Leonidovna Safina did not have such a luxury.

“ Fedyor,” the General had said , “you spent a long carriage ride with the Sun Summoner. What were your observations?”

“Young,” Fedyor said promptly, “wears her thoughts and emotions openly. She is sharp, quick to put together information. She understood the implication of graft in Nesterov’s procurement operations without needing to be told explicitly, and knew enough to not ask for it to be stated openly, but also proceeded to do so herself, indicating she knows to a certain extent the value of plausible deniability for others but that she stated her conclusion out loud indicates she trusts easily and is untrained in politics or subterfuge. Curious, asked many questions about our ways and was very respectful, but her questions indicated she is not aware of her own importance or political significance.”

“Those were my impressions as well.” General Kirigan’s eyes were pointed towards the floor in front of him, gaze unfocused in the way that indicated he was lost in thought and not really seeing the black marble tiles. “ Miss Starkova is surprisingly astute and well learned for one of her circumstances. She harbors some misconceptions of our people and the nature of our powers but these beliefs are not so deeply ingrained that time and instruction will not solve. They seem more rooted in her own insecurities than indoctrination or prejudice.” The General slid his knife of pure grisha steel out from where it was ordinarily tucked away in a sleeve holster, beginning to spin it between his fingers the way he did whenever he was deep in his calculations. “Her honesty does her credit, however it will be a liability in Court, one that we will not have time to correct before the audience with the Tsar in the morning.”

“Should I...would it be in our best interests for the Tsar to be indisposed for the time being?” Genya’s stomach had roiled, black self-loathing, disgust, hatred, anger warring with the bottomless pit that roared fire hot with the need for vengeance, for ruination, the kind that left her asking whose ruination was she truly bringing about. Was it the Tsar’s, that revolting debauched libertine who abused the accident of his birth to take and consume without a care in the world? 

Or was it her own?

She had felt such a sense of relief running cool down her spine like the water of a clear spring at the way the General shook his head.

“ No,” he had said firmly, “we need not resort to such extreme methods as of yet. To expose you to such harm for an uncertain advantage—no. I will not allow it. In any case, the Tsar’s predilection for drunken debauchery will serve to shape events in our favor well enough. Genya, when you return to the Grand Palace for the night, inform our Hands that the Tsar is to drink excessively, that his cup is not to empty until well into the morning. Perhaps slip the newest concoction from the Alkemi that exacerbates the symptoms of a hangover.” 

Genya had nodded, at the time thinking of the many infiltrators who were well positioned to complete such a task. Steward Yezhov in the cellars, the maid Zarubina who was often near the Lantsovs due to having attracted Tsesarevich Vasily’s eye, perhaps Lord Ignatyev who was always willing to play the amicable drinking partner while nursing his only glass of ice wine.

“Pyotr is nothing if not predictable,” The General said, “He will demand to see the Sun Summoner as soon as his hangover abates even somewhat, but his impatience will ensure that he will still be suffering the consequences of his indulgence through the duration of the audience. Between his physical pains and Starkova’s obvious Shu features, he will want to end the audience as soon as possible, which gives us the advantage. For all of his faults, of which there are far too many, the Tsar learned from his great grandfather’s mistakes. A Sun Summoner, a powerful symbol of revitalization, hope, and renewal, in an era where Ravka is fighting a war on two fronts, with fields going fallow for lack of able bodied men and women to farm them, West Ravka rattling for succession? He will want to keep her close, to say nothing of the Apparat rasping in his ear.”

Ivan frowned, “ In that case, moi soverenyi, how is a shorter audience beneficial? Would the Tsar not just wrest the Sun Summoner away from your control entirely to have the matter done with?”

“Even the Tsar cannot remove the Sun Summoner from my care entirely, not without facing accusations of placing politics over the wellbeing of Ravka by refusing to allow her to be trained.” Unspoken but understood by everyone in the room was that had the circumstances had been even a hair less dire the Tsar would gladly have deprioritized Ravka’s best interests in favor of his own. “ The Tsar is a shortsighted, petty fool. He will leap at the chance to score a victory at my expense in Court. Should he believe that my only interest in the Sun Summoner is political, then he will move more aggressively, demand a larger share of her time to keep her from falling under my sphere of influence. Should he believe that I am interested in the Sun Summoner for personal reasons however, then his reasoning will take on a more myopic lens.”

“Moi Soverenyi?”

“Pyotr can not comprehend the notion that a man could be anything unlike himself,  that a man could consider women as more than mere possessions. Should he believe that he is removing a potential paramour of mine, even for a moment, such a maneuver holds a greater significance to him due to his own nature. Political slights are zero sum in a sense, if he believes that he is inflicting a significant slight on one front then he will adjust the rest of his demands downwards accordingly, for fear of appearing too heavy handed in front of the Court. The hangover will ensure he will not be capable of realizing the flaw in his reasoning.” The knife spinning had abruptly stopped. “Pyotr may have his little victory, I have a war to win.”

The General looked up at this point to consider each of them one by one, and Genya felt herself still for just a moment when his dark brown gaze turned to her, not even able to breathe under the General’s intense scrutiny. “It will not be enough for her to train at the Little Palace,” he repeated himself slowly with the words he had said at the beginning of the meeting, “The Tsar, the Apparat, the Court, our enemies—if they do not seek to remove her from the board, they will seek to use her as a wedge against us, break our solidarity as the Second and the People Connected to the Heart so that we will be easier to manipulate, easier to use. They will seek to keep her ignorant, placate her with small, meaningless concessions to convince her back their agendas while taking away our hard earned rights from right underneath her nose. We must make her understand what exactly our plight is, and the only way true, lasting solvency can be achieved. We must make her want to help our people. We must make her love our people.”

“Each of you will have an important part to play,” the General continued, “Ivan, your task is to keep an eye on the inhabitants of the Little Palace, watch for the discontent, the resentful, the ones that might make integration difficult for the Sun Summoner, and have them rotated out for the time being. Nothing overt, nothing that would make plain that we are managing personnel for such an end, however we must mitigate any obstacles we can. Fedyor, I want you to make her feel comfortable, feel at home among the grisha,” the General had smiled wryly at this point, “ it should not be such a terribly difficult task, I believe I am asking you to act as you normally would. Simply also use your social skills to gently persuade others, your peers and hers, to do the same. Natacha,” Genya’s eyebrow had gone up at this, she had not been aware the General was fond of the Inferni enough to call her by her first name alone, “ Senior Tidemaker Levedeva, Senior Squaller Orlova, and Senior Inferni Golubev have been summoned from Ejora to begin training the Sun Summoner, and should arrive by the end of the week. In the meantime, you are to act as the Sun Summoner’s personal tutor and help her settle into the academic lifestyle that the class cycle requires.” His eyes narrowed, “I should not have to warn you not to bring up your... extracurricular activities.”

“Of course, moi soverenyi.” The way she had said the title had been odd. Respectful, certainly, and unmistakably so, but she had been almost...too much so. The General had just rolled his eyes, a gesture so out of character that Genya had been immediately torn from her train of thought.

“The three of you may leave for the night, thank you for coming.” The General waited as the two Heartrenders and the Inferni saluted, fist over heart, to him, before turning and leaving the room. They had been left alone at this point, just the General and herself.

“Genya,” he had said, “I have a special task for you.”

Genya remembered nodding, watching him stand, a heady mix of fear and admiration swirling inside her as she looked at her Saint, her savior, her Heretic, the one who damned her, the Protector of their People, the one who sent her into the Den of Beasts and Vipers and then asked her to stay.

“The Sun Summoner must come to love our people,” he repeated heavily, words intoned with grim purpose and cold certainty, “such a development can not be left to chance. Observe her, watch who she interacts with, report on her movements. Learn her preferences, be her friend. The moment she goes astray, begins to fall into the wrong hands,” an elegant hand, gentle as sin, firmer than virtue, a touch more welcome than the other one she was forced to suffer through, lifts her chin so that her gaze met his eyes, “you come to me.”

“I understand.” Genya had said, and she knew she meant it with all her heart. 

The General had simply stayed that way, searching for something that Genya knew not, but whatever he was looking for he must have found for he simply nodded and took a step back.

“I asked you to stay behind for a reason,” he said, “I have a gift for you. One that is long overdue.” The General moved to the octagonal map table and gently pressed one side of the mahogany frame. A hidden compartment slid open without a sound, and the General had reached inside to grab a black leather sheath. 

“Grisha steel is earned,” he said softly, eyes gleaming with that emotion that had Genya’s heart racing with exhilaration, with giddy unadulterated joy. She knew that look, craved it desperately, as so many of the Second did as well. He sheathed the dagger that he had been holding in his hand, long since forgotten under the weight of the night’s proceedings. “I think you know exactly what this is.”

She did. She had been longing for this day to come, had been preparing nearly all of life for this moment, feeding on the words of her teachers, on her anger, on her need, on her hopes and dreams. This is what she could do to serve the cause. This was what her duty called her to become. She knelt the way an elegant Lady had once taught her to, in a castle tower high above colorful fields of flowers. Felt a gentle tap on each shoulder before the blade was placed into her open palms.

“Rise, my Dagger.”

A dagger of grisha steel that gleamed silver in the starlight but turned a dark storm grey when Genya tilted it to examine the blade. Thin, sharp, deadly, precise. It was light as a feather, yet perfectly balanced. Etchings of thornwood twined sinuously up both sides of the blade. A sun in eclipse was engraved on the crossguard as expected, but less so was the rose crowned in bloody thornwood overlapped on top.

In the present moment, Genya watched Alina attempt to keep up with the whirlwind of introductions, greeting grisha after grisha, laughing and smiling, her happiness brighter than the light she had summoned in that nest of vipers. Genya tucked her arms behind her back, where she had slid the dagger from the perfectly sized sheath in order to play with, tracing the engravings on the crossguard while she waited for the Sun Summoner to finish.

“I won’t fail you.”

“I never once thought you would.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 9: Discoveries of Multiple Sorts

“I love the Little Palace but does the complex have to be so big? I keep getting lost all the time, it’s terrible! Why couldn’t the Little Palace be only one building, that would make things so much easier. What do you mean that would be unrealistic?”

-Ekaterina “Katya” Konstantinovna Agafonova

Healer

~

"Before we start the tour, it is about time for lunch."

They stood off to the side of two great wooden doors, carved with pastoral images of men, women, and children breaking bread in a forest clearing, the trees surrounding them oddly jagged and sharp. The people depicted were clearly grisha, judging by the way they moved their hands and the way they seemed to indicate that the depicted bonfire and winds were being summoned, with one Durast even breaking the fourth wall by being shown in the process of shaping the embellished crown moulding at the top of the door.  

"This is where I leave you for now"

Alina blinked at this. "What, why?" 

"Do you see the color of my kefta?” Alina was in fact, not colorblind. She could identify the cream and gold of Genya’s kefta which was interestingly quite long and unlike most of the keftas she had seen so far. 

Most of the kefta Alina had seen up before today had been what Chatelaine Nada had called a ‘combat kefta’, bulletproof corecloth that went to the hip and were apparently tailored to each and every grisha by a Materialki. They came in the various colors of the different grisha orders, though in more muted shades than the ones she had seen the grisha at the Little Palace wear so far, and had elaborate embroidery that Alina wasn’t sure why they put on combat gear or how they kept the stitching so nice and neat throughout duty rotations. She had heard the orphanage matrons bitch about what painstaking work it was just keeping the orphan’s clothes together, and the orphans weren’t sent into active duty combat for a year and some change at a time. 

By any standard of practicality, the General’s kefta was worse. Alina was suddenly feeling a little bit sad that she had given the kefta that she had been loaned back to the General, even if it had been the right thing to do (it was just such a nice kefta, okay?). Though very, very nice and cozy, the silk lining and sable fur had felt really soft and warm and nice on the skin–she was getting side tracked. 

Point was, it was a long coat that was almost fully covered in elegant black embroidering that was even more elaborate and ornamental than any other grisha’s, from the high, stiff collar to the cleanly cut, straight bottom edge that went down to the General’s ankles, around and down the back of the coat as well. Did he even fight in it? Was that even his field kefta? It didn’t seem to close on its own, so was that leather undercoat with the silver clasps running all the way down reinforced with corecloth as well? The General seemed paranoid enough to wear multiple protective layers, as well as dramatic and/or image conscious enough to wear his kefta open if he judged it the more aesthetically pleasing choice.

Perhaps the General didn’t have to worry about getting his keftas dirty. When Alina had passed through Adena, she and Alexei had been dragged out to a tavern by Petya, who had insisted they get drunk at least once in a proper pub instead of with whatever two ruble moonshine that Boris made from suspicious liquids and actual black magic in the makeshift cauldron he paid a Durast to make from the surplus pots he had nicked when the Supply Sergeant wasn’t looking. In the pub, Alina had listened to a group of seasoned combat veterans fresh from the border for their off rotation swap stories about their experiences with the Black General, who had also been fighting on the border in the Northwest, near Chernast. Most of them had been interestingly complementary which had caught Alina’s attention in the first place. If even half of what they said was true, the enemy died much too far away for the General to worry about his kefta getting dirty. She hadn’t believed their stories at the time, thought they had to be exaggerating at how many charging druskelle the General had killed with a single wave of his arms, but then she had seen him save her life by using the Cut on that druskelle, so all things considered she could believe it now. Besides, the General was also incredibly wealthy in his own right if Balakirev, the angry grumbling of envious farmers in Keramzin town, and the complaining nobility at Duke Keramsov’s galas had been any indication. Presumably he could afford to just buy more keftas if his old ones were damaged beyond even the ability of Materialki to repair, and just wear those.

...If he could find them, that was. Hehe , that was never going to get old.

The keftas she saw today were definitely not combat keftas. They were long, with the mens keftas going to their shins and the women’s keftas going to their ankles, the grisha had shone like brilliant jewels in the sunlight. Ruby reds, sapphire blues, deep royal purples, and the lone man in obsidian, whose long nearly floor length open black kefta had even sparkled in the sunlight. The way everyone not ranked General had moved seemed to indicate that they were not wearing the pure silk the glossy top layer had suggested their keftas were made of, and from what Alina could see of the equally glossy inner lining, there was definitely some sort of interior material providing the keftas stiff structure. If Alina was a betting girl (which she wasn’t, orphans didn’t get money to bet with and she had to use most of her meager pay to supplement her sabotaged diet and supplies because guess who didn’t get enough from the First Army), she would bet a good sum that those keftas were lined with corecloth. Which if true, brought some...interesting implications. Was the General just paranoid? Was wearing corecloth just another cultural thing she didn’t understand?

Or did the grisha truly believe that they had reason to fear an attack even here, in the heart of Os Alta?

Genya’s kefta was somewhere between cream and white, long and flowing to her feet. It was tailored to her, hinting at feminine curves that Alina was vaguely jealous of, and decorated with iridescent pearl thread with the same pattern of wings made of thorns that she had spotted yesterday. Her kefta uniquely had gold cuffs and ruffles that ran the length of the opening of her kefta around her collar and down the other side. Her kefta appeared to be closed however, though not by any visible buttons. Must be an interior closure covered by the ruffles Alina supposed.

“It’s white?” Alina finally answered, wondering if it was a trick question of some sort.

“It is white. That means that I eat with the servants, not the grisha."

Now Alina was confused. “Is this a Tailor thing?” Why wouldn’t a grisha eat with other grisha?

“When I was three, I was gifted to the Tsaritsa,” Genya said, her voice steady but eyes dark in a way that spoke of unpleasant memories, “I wear these colors because I am considered a servant of the Grand Palace, so my place is with the servants, eating meals with them.”

Gifted? Exactly how did you gift a person? Serfdom had been long abolished, hadn't it? Alina wasn’t about to ask Genya what she meant, she sensed that there was baggage there in the way she said those words, but first things first.

“I mean you say that like it’s a bad thing. To eat with the servants I mean.”

Genya blinked, and Alina saw for the first time what a startled Genya looked like. “What?” Genya asked blankly.

Alina shrugged, “I used to eat with the servants all the time in Kermazin. Whenever Duke Kermansov wanted to see the orphans or trot us around for his friends to see his charity cases, he would send us away to the kitchens to eat with the servants. I mean, Duke Kermansov was sort of progressive, but not that progressive. Some of the best meals of my life were in those kitchens.” 

The Duke had been weird like that. He let half-Shu Alina Starkova be trotted around to his friends, but Saints forbid they ate in the same room as the nobility. Alina ate in the butler's pantry next to the little iron stove that kept her warm as she ate her rolls and watched the Duke’s servants bustle around to ensure the meal service was running smoothly. Those were the good days for her, she got butter to put on her rolls those nights and the leftovers from the servants lunch that she and the other orphans were given were the best meals she ever remembered eating before this whole Sun Summoner thing happened. A Duke’s servant still ate much better than a Duke’s charity case, and sometimes if she was really, really lucky, Chef Anna would slip her some of the food that came out funny and so wasn’t good enough to be sent upstairs, but was still perfectly edible and perfectly delicious. Pryaniki that had uneven coating, breaded cutlets that were fried a hair too dark, beef stroganoff where the sauce came out a little too clumpy. Alina had come to love the misfits, the imperfect creations not good enough for the upstairs, but good enough for Alina Starkova.

“I, well. That is not how it works here,” Genya seemed to gather herself once more, poise hastily pieced back together; however the Tailor still held herself with more grace than Alina had ever felt. “As the Sun Summoner, you will eat in the Great Hall with the rest of the grisha stationed at the Little Palace, and I will go eat my lunch in the Grand Palace kitchens with the rest of the servants.”

“But do you want to eat in the kitchens?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you want to eat in the kitchens,” Alina repeated. “I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with eating in the kitchens, but it sounds like you don’t really want to.”

“You don’t understand, I am a grisha without a color! I cannot just go into the Hall and just– sit down .” 

“I’m a grisha without even a kefta,” Alina pointed out, “I’m wearing this monstrosity.” She waved at the parody of a First Army uniform, heels and skirt and all. Really, she was lucky that Fedyor walked off with the lampshade, otherwise she would have been really tempted to throw it out the window, consequences be damned.

“But that’s different, you are the Sun Summoner!”

“And you’re the Tailor who made the Sun Summoner look good even in this get up,” Alina said, “What’s stopping you from just eating with the grisha anyways? Has anyone told you that you couldn’t?”

“I–,” Alina was really on a roll apparently. Genya was the sort that radiated confidence, knew exactly what she was doing at all times, but here she was, speechless for the second time in a single conversation. 

“Hmm, let me put it this way, will you get in trouble if you just go in and sit down?” Alina had a hunch, and she was going to run with it, see if she had the right read on the situation.

“People will talk,” Genya said weakly.

“But do you care about those people?” This seemed to stun Genya for a moment and Alina nodded. “The General says that you were ‘an extraordinary young woman’ when you weren’t even there to hear it,” Alina said. “He clearly holds you in high regard, and I bet everyone who matters knows that. Is anyone who actually has the authority to punish you going to do so?”

“...No,” Genya said, in the tone of someone coming to an unforeseen and yet not unwelcome realization.

“I thought not.” Alina hadn’t been here very long but even she could tell that the General was the end all be all when it came to the Little Palace. You didn’t have to be a social savant to see the way that the grisha stood a little straighter in his presence, hung on to his every word when he spoke, went silent, not from fear but from respect, admiration, and maybe even fondness. Was anyone really going to move against someone that held his favor for eating lunch? Alina wasn’t a hundred percent certain of the answer, but she thought that the answer was ‘probably not’. “Like I said, there's nothing inherently wrong with eating with servants, especially if you have friends there or because you just want to eat there. But if you eat with them because you’re forced to, especially if you have to eat with those ‘shrews’ that the queen foists on you, then you should eat with me,” Alina said matter of factly, “I like to think I'm much better company."

Genya was silent, and Alina started to worry, “you don’t have to of course,” she quickly attempted to reassure the Tailor, “you can sit with whoever you’d like or alone or I don’t know, if you do like the kitchens I could just go with you–.”

“Absolutely not,” Genya said firmly, “Do you know how that would look to everyone? The Sun Summoner snubbing the Second Army to eat her first meal in Os Alta with the servants?”

“I had breakfast in my room.”

“That doesn’t count and you know it,” Genya shook her head, “what you do sends messages to everyone watching. If you choose to eat with otkazat’sya rather than  grisha, it will send a signal about who you’re prioritizing.”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Alina admitted with a frown. The idea that people would be watching her every move and inferring her intentions from them. It wasn’t like she was entirely unused to being watched, she had grown up with people watching her suspiciously, some of the matrons tracking the little half-breed for trouble, First Army soldiers ugly glares following the enemy around camp. But this was different. She was being watched not because she was a threat or a blemish, but because she was suddenly important and the distinction made her skin crawl. She had always been safe when people weren’t watching, when she had been left to her own devices, up in the trees when it was warm enough, unseen in the darkened corners of tents when it wasn’t. People looking at her, people she didn’t know watching her, searching for things she did not know how to hide? Alina didn’t like that, didn’t like that at all.

That aside, there was also something fundamental about this line of thought that she didn’t like, the way in which Genya phrased her time and attention like it was zero sum. Which it was, to be fair, she didn’t have infinite time or energy, but she wasn’t sure either were finite to the point where she had to choose between otkazat’sya and grisha. 

Genya was the expert between the two of them though. The General was unlikely to have assigned Genya to be Alina’s guide if he didn’t trust the Tailor to be good at keeping Alina out of self-inflicted trouble. Presumably.

“The matter is moot in any case,” Genya said decisively, bringing Alina’s attention back to the Tailor, “I think I’d like to sit next to you in the Hall.” Genya’s amber eyes burned with new found resolve, but softened when her eyes met Alina’s. “You’re not what I expected,” the Tailor said.

Alina squinted, “in a good way? Or like...?”

Genya laughed, and then smiled mischievously. “It’s a bit too early to tell,” she said, and laughed again when Alina playfully shoved her.

“Come on, I’m starving,” Alina said, pushing open the doors to the dining room. As she touched the wood, she felt a powerful warm thrum, echoing voices that spoke in the tone of hushed whispers but rang with the power of thunder. 

Safety, sanctuary, hospitality , welcome-little-grisha, may-you-find-solace-here.

She blinked. What was that?

It faded as soon as her hand lifted away from the now opened door and she shook her head before looking into the room proper. "Oh look, there's Fedyor and Katya! Hi!"

They had entered through the door at one end of a very large Hall, one that was four times as long as it was wide, enough to play host to an entire ball if necessary. A set of larger double doors made of what appeared to be solid marble were closed to the right. The left was a series of large windows that opened out to a courtyard, where she could see three long buildings forming a rectangle around a central circular building. One of the three long buildings was made of red brick and travertine, the other, some sort of grey blue stone, and last in an eclectic mix of materials that swirled into each other in various shades of metallic browns and greys. The circular gazebo was made with some sort of wood, the same shade as the doors that she had just pushed open. 

The Heartrender and the Healer were sitting at the far end of a long, long table that was filled with red keftas. This seemed to be part of a pattern, in which the occupants of the tables seemed to match the color of their tablecloth underneath a painted ceiling of the noon day sky. Just as the Corporalki sat at three very long tables, the Etherealki also sat at five very long tables with blue tablecloths. The only exception seemed to be the Materialki whose singular purple table was by and large empty, with only about seven individuals in purple keftas periodically spaced out at the purple table itself, their heads universally buried deep in papers or a book. Alina could see other Materialki spread out across the tables of the two other orders, surrounded by chattering groups of grisha.

A lone black rectangular table sat perpendicular to the rest of the tables on a low dais at the far end of the room, long black tablecloth draping over the edge to the floor, a gold sun in eclipse stitched on the front. An imposing tall black armchair in the center sat empty. Three guesses as to whose seat that was, and the first two didn’t count.

Fedyor was sitting at the end of the Corporalki table closest to the black table. He was still wearing his shiny kefta, the one that went to his shins and was covered in shiny black embroidery depicting a heart emerging from thorns, and uniquely, his collar was lined with grey fur of some kind, and had two small circular metal eclipse pins on both sides of the golden clasp holding his high collar shut. The man had been reading the contents of some grey folder, a half eaten piece of rye toast topped with herring (oh no, they really hadn’t been kidding about that huh?) held absentmindedly in his other hand. Katya was not in the ankle length kefta that she had seen the grisha women wear earlier, but rather in a more subdued kefta that went to her shins. It was still a bright crimson with the pattern of a broken heart in the process of mending itself back together again surrounded by branches of thornwood trees all stitched in dove grey, but it was not shiny ruby silk meaning that either she had not been at the Grand Palace for the morning Audience or she had changed like most of the faces at the table Alina was seeing. Katya had been tiredly pushing around the white beans cooked with some sort of stewed greens on her plate, inadvertently mixing them into some sort of potato salad, herring halfheartedly nibbled at and left hanging morosely off the edge of her plate. They had both looked up at Alina’s call, the way most of the people present had.

At this point the room had gone unnervingly quiet by the way, a fact that Alina had been trying desperately not to notice. Only it was rather impossible not to, with nearly all of the grisha staring at her like she was an animal in those zoo things she's read about or maybe that lion in the wagon cage that the wandering circus brought once to Keramzin during Butter Week. 

“Alina!” Fedyor exclaimed cheerfully in that charmingly outdated accent of his, smiling at the two of them, “Genya! Hello, hello! Welcome! Please, come sit.” The Senior Heartrender waved at servants in black and dark grey standing near the wall, who quickly ducked into some sort of closet that Alina hadn’t realized was even there, cleverly camouflaged by the stone carvings of woodland creatures leaping through a forest in between the large rectangular glass windows. The servants quickly dragged out two chairs, and placed them in between the two seated Corporalki where Fedyor was pointing. Katya obligingly scooted down somewhat.

“Thank you,” Alina said politely to the servants who brought out her chair, only to be looked at strangely by one of the maids, though she was nodded at by the other, slightly older one. Alina then sat down and smiled at Fedyor who had stood up to first push in her chair, then Genya’s after the Tailor had taken a deep breath before quickly seating herself gracefully, if hurriedly, in the seat brought out for her. 

Two servants quickly brought over two plates with two herrings sitting side by side on a slice of toasted rye with a pile of the unfamiliar potato salad and a little bowl of white beans and stewed leafy greens. Alina went to pick up her fork only to stare blankly when her plate slid away from her seemingly of its own accord before she realized a young man in white with dark brown hair shaved closely to his head was suddenly sitting across the table from her, who promptly cut off a random piece of her toast, scraped off a little bit of herring flesh to put on top and ate it.

My toast! Alina wailed internally. My herring!

...Okay, he can have my herring to be honest.

The young man then put away that fork and took a clean fork from the placemat next to him and proceeded to try her beans and greens, and then a new fork for the potato salad. He then sat back and gently pushed the plate back to her. “Should be okay,” the young man said nervously but in an charmingly earnest manner, “if I don’t die in the next few minutes, you should be safe.”

“...What?”

“The young man is a taste tester,” Fedyor explained, “his task is to taste your meals to ensure they are not poisoned, as a last line of protection.”

“That’s awful!” Alina was appalled. Someone who might die to protect her to make sure her food was safe? That was, this boy is so young! He’s not just expendable like that!

“The two of you should be perfectly safe,” Fedyor assured her, “there are several security checks nearly every step of the way to ensure that the food supply is safe and secure for everyone. In your case, having a taste tester is very much a last resort in the event something has gone catastrophically wrong. Besides, Katya is right there in case anything goes wrong.”

Katya wiggled her fingers in greeting at the sound of her name, mouth full of a forkful of beans.

“It’s not so bad, Miss,” The young boy said earnestly, “the food is actually quite nice, I get to try stuff I would never get to otherwise.”

“What, even the herring?”

The young boy gave a startled laugh that he cut off almost immediately, nervously looking around, particularly at Fedyor, who kindly became engrossed in his potato salad. “No,” he admitted, “we can get herring all the time in the kitchens, not that anyone...wants...to.” The boy’s voice trailed off before he hastily said, “no offense.”

“Why would we be offended?” Katya asked curiously.

“...grisha love herring?”

Nearly everyone snorted, Fedyor, Katya, some of the other Corporalki who had been eyeing the conversation in interest and shamelessly eavesdropping, even Genya, though she stopped much faster than everyone else and looked around in an uncharacteristically nervous manner.

“Do grisha not?”

“Not really no, though there are exceptions,” Fedyor said kindly, “it is more of a symbolic gesture.”

“Something something, ‘wholesome food of the people’, something something stay humble something something,” a male Heartrender with black hair swept to the side wearing a less elaborate kefta than Fedyor said from a little farther down the table.

“Don’t let the General hear you put it that way, Iosif” Fedyor warned, pointing his butter knife at the other Heartrender, “he can and will give the entire hall the Herring Speech again.”

Several groans wafted their way, and a herring went flying and smacked the Heartrender Fedyor was pointing at in the face. Fedyor immediately whipped his knife to point in the general direction the herring came from. “This isn’t the Herring Club! No actual herring throwing is allowed, save it for the rubber ones at the end of the month! Who threw it, confess your sins!”

Fingers immediately started pointing at a young blonde Heartrender sitting halfway down the table. “It wasn’t me,” the young man cried, and immediately winced as the rest of the table jeered.

“Hugo, did you really try lying at a table full of Heartrenders?”

“I know, I know, not exactly my best moment,” Hugo admitted before laughing helplessly when a burly slightly older Healer took the opportunity to grab him in a loose one armed headlock and mess with his hair.

Alina smiled and shook her head. “I’m Alina by the way,” she said to the taste tester who had been watching the interaction with wide eyes. The young boy in white’s attention snapped back to her and stared out the hand she had outstretched for him to shake. 

“Anton, your holiness,” he said nervously.

Oh no. Alina was going to absolutely have none of that. “Alina,” she repeated firmly, “A-li-na.”

“...Yes, Miss Alina.” Well, that was progress. Of a sort.

“Thank you for doing this for me, I really appreciate it.” Security check or not, in theory Anton was risking his life for her. The least she could say was thank you.

“It’s my duty,” the boy said shyly before bowing and then scampering off.

“Nice kid,” Katya noted absentmindedly into her alarmingly dark tea.

“So what was that you said about the rubber herring?” Alina asked. Something about a Club for Herring and throwing them? The remnants of the Little Gremlin of Kermanzin that hadn’t died after years of surviving the orphanage and the First Army was poking her head up now and was interested .

“Grisha have what are called knowledge circles,” Genya explained while eating her beans daintily, “they’re gatherings of like minded grisha coming together to talk about subjects that interest them.”

“The knowledge circles cover everything from strategy and Ravkan foreign policy to gossip, crochet, and romance novels,” Katya said, seemingly more awake now that her cup was now very much empty, “every grisha tends to join at least one, it’s a great way to destress by getting really into about a specific topic with other people who are equally obsessed about it, and the Herring Club is the oldest circle of them all, at least we’re fairly certain it is.”

“Okay but what is the Herring Club ?” Alina prodded, mind still fixated on rubber herrings and the throwing of them, as in, she would like to know how and when she could throw her own rubber herring.

“The Herring Club is a name for the philosophy circle,” Fedyor said, “oftentimes when circles stick around long enough, they develop traditions that are passed down from grisha to grisha. There’s a large tome in the library dedicated to them in fact, it’s a pastime for the Little Palace Historical Society, a knowledge circle in it’s own right, but I digress. The Herring Club discusses philosophy, primarily grisha theory. What do Corporalki actually control? Are there more Etherealki elements out there? From what origin do our abilities come from? The Herring Club debates these topics and more.”

“You make a good point, you get a rubber herring,” Katya chirped and finally , someone was getting into the important bits. “It’s your right to throw that herring at anyone who makes a bad point, with moderators having the right to add and redistribute herring as they see fit.”

“ Amazing ,” Alina could see it now, dignified grisha trying to argue the nature of their abilities only to be heckled by flying rubber herring. She did have a question though.

“What’s rubber?”

“Hmm, you don’t know—right, First Army,” Fedyor thought for a moment before snapping his fingers, “Did you notice how the carriage ride was surprisingly smooth?” 

“It was a really smooth ride.” The General’s carriage had been the nicest vehicle she had been in. Which granted, wasn’t saying much because her comparison was First Army wagons and that was it, but she had barely noticed the bumps in the road even though they had been flying at more or less breakneck pace.

“Part of it is the design, it’s a running competition in the Materialki Hall to come up with ways to improve the carriage. Improving suspension, increasing the carrying capacity and speed, so forth. Which is incidentally why the Materialki table is almost always empty. They keep getting caught up in their work, someone will suggest an interesting idea or have a breakthrough on an old problem or suggest a fun competition and then they’re off to the races. We’ve given up on fishing them out of the laboratories, so we send their meals to them instead. It’s part of the duty roster to check up on them and make sure that they haven’t starved to death because they’ve gotten lost in their work. But I digress, the main reason why the General’s carriage is so smooth is because of the tires. They’re rubber.”

“Rubber is a squishy, stretchy material,” Katya said, “a few decades ago the General was getting sick of passing by the Herring Club room and smelling rotting herring, thought it was unsanitary and a waste of perfectly good food. He threatened the Herring Club to either switch away from throwing food or he would force them to eat all the food afterwards. The Club decided that the former was a more palatable option—,” Alina groaned at the pun, “—sorry! They put in a request to the Materialki for an alternative that was throwable, roughly the same weight as herring, herring shaped if possible, and wouldn’t inflict lasting harm. One of the Alkemi was messing around with tree sap and some chemicals and then out came rubber, and so the Herring Club uses the rubber herring made from leftover rubber scraps. These days they’re looking a little tattered, what with no new rubber herring being made for years due to the wars but still. They bounce quite nicely and that’s what matters. There’ll be a meeting at the end of the month, you should come watch!”

“Katya, aren’t you part of the Herring Club?” Fedyor asked.

“Oh Saints no, I couldn’t keep up with the professors even if I tried and I’ve tried. ”

“But I see you at the meetings all the time?”

“That’s because I like seeing how excited the grishenka get. They’re so cute in their itty bitty keftas!” 

“Grishenka are what we call baby grisha,” Genya explained to Alina, “from what I’ve heard, the caretakers will bring them around to watch some of the knowledge circles to get them involved early as they’re such a big part of Second Army culture. The points the debaters make fly well over their little heads, but the herring throwing is always a crowd pleaser.”

“The little tykes will bother the Durasts for little plushie herring afterwards and they’ll haul them around everywhere for weeks ,” Katya gushed, “they’re adorable .”

“Sounds fun,” Alina grinned, “would I be able to join a knowledge circle?”

Fedyor and Genya looked at each other before Fedyor shrugged, “It’s possible, but unlikely to begin with,” he said, “you do have a significant amount of catch up to do for you to be up to speed with people in your age group, and this is not considering your lessons at the Grand Palace.”

It was probably a good thing that Alina had more or less eaten everything on her plate, because the reminder that she would have to go to the Grand Palace for lessons made her lose the rest of her appetite. She could still hear the mocking laughter of the Court, the derisive way the Tsaritsa had said the words, “Well, I guess she’s Shu enough.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you Alina,” Fedyor was quick to reassure her, “the General is making plans to ensure your safety while at the Grand Palace. The details are still being worked out, but trust that we will not simply leave you to fend for yourself.”

“...Thanks Fedyor.” Alina tried to smile, but didn’t think she succeeded by the way Fedyor looked at her, then flagged a servant and whispered in their ear.

Three minutes later, a server carrying a bowl of grapes came over, and placed it down on the table. Anton waved at her from the doorway and gave her a thumbs up which she returned, confused, before he walked away to...wherever taste testers went when they weren’t taste testing Alina supposed.

“You didn’t have to,” Alina said halfheartedly but she thought she might have undermined her own point when she stuffed four of the grapes in her mouth at the same time. It was fruit! She didn’t get those very often and they were just so good . She slapped Katya’s hand away when the Healer came too close to her treasure. 

Okay, fine Katya could have one . Alina begrudgingly handed over a grape before also giving one to Genya and Fedyor because she didn’t want to make it seem like she was playing favorites.

Five minutes later she stared morosely at an empty bowl that she had allowed to be passed around the Corporalki table when she had spotted Hugo eyeing her grapes with a kicked puppy look in his eyes, and if she was going to give Hugo a grape then she really didn’t have any excuse not to allow everyone at the table take a grape. If Genya could stop smiling like that, it would really help her feel less down about the entire affair.

The Saints (or more likely Fedyor) took pity on her, and another bowl of grapes was deposited in front of her. This time she slapped away all hands. Except Fedyor’s, the grape fairy was welcome to any grapes he pleased.

The rest of lunch was light hearted, people complained about the herring (“Seriously, did the General grow up in West Ravka or something? This wasn’t the ‘wholesome food of the people’ over here until he reintroduced it through Ejora.” “Knew something had to be off about those secessionist bastards, they’ve gone crazy because of the food. Pardon my Fjerdan Miss Starkova.” “I was in the First Army Pavel, it’s fine.” “Calling the General crazy Pavel?” “Yes, but in the best way possible. Please don’t tell him though, I don’t want to be sent to Tsibeya or worse, Kribirsk.”), a little bit about classes (“Anatomy is going to kill me, does anyone have a complete set of flashcards I can borrow? The cats snuck into my room and chewed up my old deck.” “Shifu Botkin’s meditation class is the best!” “That’s because you use it as an excuse to take a nap.” “Exactly!”) , and some person named “Baghra” that a few people had the apparent misfortune to have as a tutor. She sounded like a nutcase, and Alina crossed her fingers that she would not have Baghra as a teacher. Knowing her luck, she probably would end up her student somehow. Even Genya started opening up, sharing stories about her time at the Grand Palace (“The Baroness did what?” “I don’t know either, she should have known something was wrong when the goat showed up.”) 

As lunch came to a close and everyone at the table began dispersing, most to enjoy the rare day off granted by the chaos of the day, Fedyor excusing himself to attend to the General, and Katya wandering off muttering something about needing to practice reading hearts and people, whatever that meant. Alina herself leaned over to Genya, “Hey, Genya, who is that over there?”

“Who?” Genya asked, glancing in the direction that Alina was looking.

“Squaller grey, third from the end, brown hair.”

The girl from earlier who had glared at her so fiercely had come in late, slipping through the grand wooden doors with little ceremony. Quite a few of the Etherealki had raised their hands or called out in greeting but she had ignored them, quickly sliding into her seat and mechanically chewing on her herring and side dishes. The squaller had been occasionally looking at Alina when she thought that no one else was paying attention, not unusual considering that most of the room had been doing the same, but she had seemed particularly hostile. Alina wasn’t sure what to think of the squaller. Had she done something to offend her? There had been that incredibly embarrassing incident in the tent, but even if Alina had said the squaller wasn’t as pretty as the General (which was objectively true, and Alina was fairly certain most people would agree), the intensity of her gaze seemed a bit more than just mere annoyance.

“Zoya Yelenovna Nazyalenskaya,” Genya said, “an up and coming squaller in the ranks.”

“Oh?”

“Young, talented, fierce, driven, popular among the Etherealki of her age cohort. She’s being eyed by High Command for a leadership position sooner rather than later. Why?”

“Nothing,” Alina murmured, watching Nazyalenskaya finish eating and swiftly depart just as quietly as she came. “I hope.”

~

“This is a good place to begin.”

Genya smiled kindly at a Durast who had waved her hands clockwise at the door just moments ago, making some hidden mechanism lurch into action. Deep thuds and the rotating of gears caused the two large black marble doors to swing open slowly, and now were once more grinding into action to swing the doors shut once more.

Alina blinked, looking left and right. They were now in some sort of reception hall, with the wall behind them filled with large glass windows letting in copious amounts of natural light flanking a grand entryway with doors of white marble. 

The wall in front of them and on both sides were filled with wooden engravings and intricate marble carvings. The bottom panels depicted grisha in battle, true, but given far greater prominence were the larger panels on all sides of Etherealki gathering to terraform mountains and plateaus, Durasts and Alkemi busy in their laboratories holding small saplings of unknown plants, vials of glass, and half constructed prototypes of unknown purposes up to their faces for examination, Healers rushing to aid the wounded in hospital beds, Heartrenders standing in court, waiting to inform the judge sitting on their high dais whether the testimony had been given truthfully. The ceiling was decorated with similar pictures, as well as additional scenes of grisha in their colorful keftas studying books, practicing their gifts, or even at play.

The black doors that they had come through were divided into three panels surrounding a circular panel in white marble. The three panels depicted three different cities, one of which she recognized as Balakirev. The City of Flowers on its hill in the top left was carved from solid travertine, with stylistic depictions of the flower fields done in various shades of colored glass that Alina could see went all the way to the other side, allowing light from the Great Hall to illuminate the flowers. The other two carvings were also relatively easy to deduce, despite Alina not having been to either city. The round circular domes of Ejora were depicted to the top right with deep blue glass domes, the buildings themselves made from large smooth plates of mother of pearl perched on the solid riverstone plateau, with the city straddling the Zhilevo River as it cascaded down from the high peaks of the Petrazoi in the background. The terraformed steps indicated by steel showed how the city redirected water to form steps of flat ponds miles wide, blue glass representing the increased surfaces that allowed for the aquaculture of Ejora to flourish. At the bottom of the door, Caryeva in white marble filling in every conceivable nook and cranny of the narrow river chasm at the western tip of the Rhyrem River Valley, the fields and crops of the Breadbasket of Ravka in rippling shades of green and gold. In the middle a carving made of some dark wood, the same wood as the wooden doors to the Great Hall she had entered through for lunch, the Little Palace proudly sat in the center on a backdrop of white marble.

“This is the Reception Hall,” Genya said, and Alina turned to look at the Tailor, “this hall will be the first room that guests will see when entering the Little Palace compound.”

“The Little Palace is a term that can be used to denote the physical location and as a metonym,” Genya continued,  “When people say that something is going through the Little Palace, they might mean that literally, as in something is literally coming here, or they might just simply mean that something has been deemed to fall under Second Army jurisdiction. The Second Army is actually spread across four primary bases: Balakirev, Ejora, Caryeva and here at the physical Little Palace.”  

“The General’s domains.”

“Correct.” Genya pointed at the white marble centerpiece. “The Little Palace is the Headquarters of the Second. As a physical place the Little Palace refers to the entire palace complex or the building that we’re standing in, yes I know it’s complicated,” Genya said when Alina began to blink rapidly in confusion, “but it’s just how things are, so just bear with me. I’ll be taking you on a tour of the compound soon enough in any case.” Genya waved to the right, down a currently empty hallway. “The West Wing is the half of the Little Palace that you would be most familiar with. Below the fourth floor where your apartment and the General’s are located are the various offices that ensure the smooth operations of the Second Army. The East Wing by contrast is almost entirely classrooms. All grisha are provided with some sort of basic instruction with the most common being classroom education, hosted in the East Wing of the Little Palace, known as the Academy. Normally students take around ten years to complete the curriculum, usually from ages six to sixteen, and are housed in the dorms while they are, with Ejora taking overflow students for training. You’ll be attending class in the Academy yourself soon.”

“What really?”

“Oh yes. Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t take ten years to complete your studies. It’s not uncommon for arrivals from other countries to arrive older than those found by the grisha testers, and they tend to arrive with a wide range of previous education, so there are dedicated sections for people like them and you.” 

“Oh, good, I was starting to worry that I was going to be in a room with six year olds.”

“You might still have a six year old as a classmate. It’s not unusual for prodigies to appear every so often, and they are often fast tracked into theory classes and the like early to aid in learning how to control their powers.”

“ Really?”

“Of course, I know this from experience. You are looking at a prodigy after all.”

Oh wow! Right, what did she say again? Genya’s voice echoed in her head. I’ve been working on myself since I was three you see. But more than that—

“Aww! Baby Genya must have been so cute!” Alina could see it, all little cheeks round with baby fat, bright green eyes, shining red hair—perfectly styled even back then of course.

“Of course she was,” Genya sniffed faux-haughtily, betrayed by a quick upwards twitch of her lips, “as if I allow myself to be anything but.” Alina grinned.

“In any case, I wouldn’t worry about your academic studies too much. The General has assigned a personal tutor to help you adjust. You’ll meet her in the morning when she gives you a rundown of the curriculum and your new training regimen, but for now that is neither here nor there.” Genya motioned towards the door once more. “After graduating the Academy, grisha are assigned to a primary duty station. For those showing aptitude for command, specialized operations, or high combat capabilities, they remain here for further training or are assigned to the General’s personal vanguard.”

“If they are not chosen to stay, then they are sent to one of the other three duty stations according to where they are needed most,” Genya continued. “Each base has a detachment of grisha from every order to ensure strategic flexibility, however the number varies and overtime each base has developed specializations that create affinities for each order. Corporalki tend to be stationed at Balakirev since Heartrenders work closely with the Oprichniki and as the City of Flowers is host to the second largest contingent of grisha in Ravka, healers tend to be in high demand there in order to keep both grisha and oprichniki in fighting condition. Etherealki are generally stationed at Ejora as they are better able to cope with the environmental conditions, and the city’s location allows for rapid deployment to either front.”

That made sense. Etherealki were the largest order and made up most of the combat grisha. Corporalki were deployed on the fronts as well, but they were generally rarer and tended to only be stationed at the big garrisons like Chernast and Ulensk proper, and up until she had been taken to the grisha encampment at Kribirsk, she had never even seen anyone in Materialki purple. Though Alina frowned for a moment, “What do you mean ‘better able to cope with the environmental conditions?’” 

Ejora was at the base of the Petrazoi, and so should be colder and susceptible to the White Shatterfrost, but with proper preparation and if everyone stayed indoors when the laughing winds swept down from the East, not even that unnatural phenomenon should be able to explain why a subset of grisha would be more suited to living in the City of Waterfalls than others.  

Genya shrugged, “I’m afraid I can’t say. It’s a summoner thing I suppose, you’ll just have to ask one of them for a proper explanation.” 

Fair enough.

“So does that leave Caryeva for the Materialki?” Alina asked.

“Actually, not really,” Genya said, “While many Alkemi do end up in Caryeva, most of the Materialki tend to stay here in Os Alta, though Balakirev has a very large cohort as well. In peacetime you would be right, Caryeva was apparently the default posting for Materialki, but because of the war with Shu Han...”

“It’s too close to the border.” That’s right, Caryeva was fairly far south, and right next to the Uzhok Pass to boot. While during peacetime an opening in the Sikurzoi Mountains that led directly into Shu Han and the port city of Bhez Ju was a boon in terms of trade, in war it was, well not exactly a vulnerability given that the pass functioned as a bottleneck for both sides, but still, discomforting presumably. To put grisha in a place where everyone knew Shu Han raiding squadrons practically ran suicide runs to capture grisha?

“Precisely. While Materialki are necessary to keep Caryeva functioning the way that it has been, they’re the ones responsible for the area’s incredible productivity you see, the General is leery of sending too many grisha to a duty station that close to the southern border, even if it is his own domain. It’s not that Caryeva is undefended, far from it, but the General deems an expanded presence there an unnecessary risk.” 

So that’s how Caryeva produced so much food. She should have already known that honestly, General Kirigan had told her that the dye flowers of Balakirev were modified for earlier growth and shorter harvests, why wouldn’t food crops be? “Makes sense.” 

“That’s all there is to say about this room, come, this way.”

Genya led Alina down the left hallway, and stopped in front of a nondescript section of blank white wall. “This is likely the most important piece of information that I will be sharing with you today.”

“...a white wall?” 

“Yes, of course.”

“... really —? ,”

“— No, not really. The white wall isn’t what you should be paying attention to, it’s this.” Genya pointed to the only part of the wall that wasn’t white, a narrow band of decorative crown moulding at Alina's hip height. Now that she was looking at it more closely, the dark wood seemed to be the same dark wood as the doorway to the dining hall.

“Thornwood is sacred to the grisha,” Genya said, “your teachers will cover the historical and cultural relevance that thornwood has to Ravkan grisha but for now, what you need to know is that this is how you know where to go in the event of an emergency.”

“What?”

“When you touched the door to the Great Hall, did you not feel anything?”

The warm thrum, that powerful wave. 

Comfort 

Safety

Sanctuary

Hospitality

Harmony

May-you-be-safe-here

May-our-sacrifices-find-their-worth-here

A thunderous chorus of whispered voices that contained a few she recognized and many, so very many that she did not. “I remember feeling something. What was that?”

“Thornwood resonates with grisha for some reason. The Materialki speculate that the trees are anchored to the Making at the Heart of the World in the same, or at least similar, way that we are connected to it through our abilities. The thornwood can hold memories, impressions, and intent. The older the thornwood, or the more settled a thornwood is in a location or purpose, the more intense the sensation. That door and these inlays were some of the first to be put in when the Little Palace was converted into the headquarters of the Second Army. Give it a try.”

Alina placed her hand on the wood and felt—

Vigilance, attention, waiting, no-danger-not-yet, sanctuary not far, caution.

It was not warm in the same way that the door had been, not comforting, welcoming, but rather dormant, as though she was interacting with something that was asleep or lying in wait.

“In the event of an emergency, the inlays act as a rudimentary warning system. The hotter the wood gets to the touch the closer you are to danger, and if you move your hand to the left, you are aware of which direction is left, yes?”

“ Genya, please .”

“Just had to be certain, alright stop there. You feel that?” Alina’s fingers came to a stop and she could feel a flower carved deeply into the inlay. Up until now the wood had been carved with rather shallow depictions of nature, deers leaping, waves crashing, gusts of wind flowing, but the flower was texturally different even though visually it didn’t seem any more detailed than the rest of the wood.

“Thornwood blossom. I will only say this once and you are not to repeat this out loud to anyone, understood?” Alina blinked at how serious Genya suddenly became, eyes hard as stone, and Alina nodded before Genya leaned in to whisper into her ear. “Pressing tiles with certain flowers will open doors. Thornwood for the tunnel system, heather for the nursery. Avoid poison blossoms the way you would avoid them in real life.” Genya leaned back. “Got it?”

“I see.” Secret tunnels, emergency evacuation wood panels oh my. Alina was starting to feel a bit in over her head.

“Here, take this.”

Alina took a book that Genya handed to her, “the Language of Flowers.”

“You will find that this will be one of the most important books you will own during your time here, for multiple reasons. Memorize the entries in black, dark green and maroon especially though quite honestly knowing the entire book might prove very useful, members of the Court are prone to sending messages with flowers after all.”

“Of course.”

“Right, this way then.”

Genya led Alina outside into the Courtyard that she could see from her bedroom window. She could see the same four buildings that she could see from inside the Great Hall, three rectangular buildings of different heights arranged in a U formation around the round center building.

“That red brick and travertine building to your right is the Corporalki Hall, the riverstone building with the blue domes to your left is the Etherealki Hall, you may have a class or two in there, the marble building in the back is the Materialki Hall. The bottom floor of each building are classrooms for order specific instruction, the second floor are common areas for each order, the rest of the floors are dorm spaces. Well, except for the Materialki Hall. Everything in the Materialki Hall is single story since it explodes so often.”

"Pardon?"

"Don't worry, Botkin and Survival will teach you how to jump out of windows safely. The round building in the center is the nursery."

“Can we go back to this exploding building bit?"

"Welcome to the Little Palace my dear. The Nursery walls are made of thornwood. It helps keep the little ones calm and happy, and more importantly safe. Thornwood is the strongest wood that we know of, very dense, hard, and even bulletproof if treated correctly. You came in the General’s carriage did you not?”

“Sort of? I mean I did until Druskelle ambushed us in the White Forest, and then the General— actually let's not talk about that,” Alina trailed off hastily as she remembered exactly what she had been thinking when the General brought her to Balakirev on his horse. Falling off really was the last thing she had been worried about, even when it really should have been more a concern. Alina tried not to notice how Genya was looking at her curiously. “Is that why the carriage was bulletproof?”

“That is indeed why,” Genya confirmed before frowning, “hmm, that’s odd. Did you say druskelle ambushed you in the White Forest?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s quite unusual isn’t it? Druskelle don’t normally infiltrate so deeply into Ravkan territory,” Genya mused. 

Genya had a point now that Alina thought about it. The White Forest was very much in the heart of Ravka, far away from the permafrost of Tsibeya. While Druskelle sometimes did manage to slip past units stationed in the border garrisons of Ulensk, Chernast, and the various outposts in between, it was relatively rare that they actually did so. Before he had died, Krugan had mentioned that ever since the Thirty Years War ended in a decisive Ravkan victory, Fjerda had become dependent on Druskelle war bands to supplement a shattered infantry core that had once made up the bulk of the Fjerdan Army before treaty obligations had withered their training capacities.

How ironic. He had died because of those very witch hunters. The gangrene that had actually killed the university educated priest’s son came about as a result of an Druskelle inflicted axe wound. Death did not discriminate indeed, and Krugan, who, with his law degree, had been poised to have the best life out of all of them after his mandatory service was done, may not have been the first in their unit to die, but he was in fact, the second. May he rest well in the Illuminated Heavens.

“Right, anyways. The tour. Come, there is a little walking path behind the Etherealki Hall that has a lovely view of the Lake.”

Genya took her on the walking path and was very insistent that she stay on the walking path. “The Alkemi leave nasty little surprises for people who stray into the flower patches,” Genya explained, “almost all of the flowers are Alkemi specimens, harmless ones, mind. There is a dedicated greenhouse for poisonous specimens, which you won’t be allowed in unless you are escorted by authorized personnel, but really, you do not want to find out what happens to anyone who wanders off the path.”

A tranquil sparkling blue lake sat below them, a dense, dark forest sprawling outwards behind it. A white marble pavilion sat on the lakeshore to the right, a platform jutting out onto the water itself. To the left, a little ramshackle hut sat in the shadows of the forest edge. 

“To the right is the Summoner’s Pavillion, where most Etherealki practical exercises are conducted. As you can imagine, it is not ideal to have young Etherealki practicing indoors.”

Hmm. A building on fire, floods inside rooms, and complete messes from localized tornadoes. Alina could see how indoor practice could end badly.

“So what’s with the little shack.”

Genya snorted, a surprisingly indelicate sound. “That’s Baghra’s house,” she said dryly.

“Ah.” The grisha that everyone at lunch had agreed was the worst teacher in residence. Older than dirt, and grumpier than hibernating bear prodded awake early, she was apparently known for cruel and unusual lesson plans. Whacking children with her omnipresent cane, unexpected swimming lessons fully clothed with weights attached, hair set on fire with the only option to put it out with one’s own abilities, she was apparently the stuff of nightmares.

“Right, the greenhouses are next, you’ll be able to see them when we turn the corner over there.”

“Wait, what’s that building in the back?” Alina pointed to a black roof that she could just barely see through the treetops. The building must be on some sort of hill for her to be able to see it from here given how dense the forest was.

“Oh that’s the Dusk Pavillion, the General’s dacha so to speak.”

Alina squinted, “the General has a dacha here.”

Genya hummed in agreement.

“Inside the Little Palace Complex.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe two three miles away from his apartments in the Little Palace proper.” 

“Correct.”

Dachas were second homes, country homes. They were getaways for the wealthy, or granted for loyal service to the Crown, and normally involved being far away from civilization. A dacha that could be travelled to on foot from a primary residence was...not exactly normal.

“Why?”

“The General is a high profile individual, travel in his case is generally discouraged when not ordered by the Tsar or required for the war effort. The Tsar graciously granted the extension of the Little Palace lands and encouraged the General to build the Dusk Pavillion, as a reward for his loyal service.”

Right… There was something in the way that she said it, the way the Tailor’s lips thinned with distaste that made Alina suspect there was more to it than that. She filed away the information for later.

“He hardly uses it in any case, much too busy with his duties to entertain a vacation, even to a dacha that would be approximately five minutes or so by horse. Though he is known to host events there upon occasion, small gatherings of fellow nobility, military officers, and very rarely, grisha. It’s considered quite the honor to receive an invitation to the Dusk Pavillion.”

“Interesting,” Alina hummed. Now she was curious, what did the Pavillion look like? The General had quite the eye for aesthetics, she couldn’t imagine a world in which a personal project like a dacha wouldn’t have been designed to his exacting standards.

“The greenhouses are over there. The one on the left is the dangerous one, again don’t go in there please.”

“The skulls do seem to indicate that going in would not be good, yes.”

“Precisely. The other three however, are fine to go into. There are sitting areas everywhere in the greenhouses because someone noticed that students were often sneaking inside to study.”

“They’re massive!” The greenhouses were almost the same size as the Materialki Hall was!

“They have to be. Two of the greenhouses are for experimental purposes, at least the ones that aren’t taken off site because they could pose an explosive threat. The last is just for growing foods popular at court that don’t travel well and so can’t be brought in from Caryeva.”

“What really?”

“Really. Mostly fruits, pineapples, mangoes, oranges, peaches and the like. Cocoa, there’s a grove in there of those, can’t deny their Majesties their chocolate, not even in wartime.”

Alina was simultaneously impressed and appalled. She had never even heard of a mango, and only recently tasted chocolate for the first time. That such luxuries took up an entire greenhouse that could be used for the war effort? That could be used to feed the people, especially the refugees that she had not forgotten? That was disgusting, and Alina told Genya as much.

“Don’t let the Court hear you say that,” Genya warned, “as the Apparat will tell you, it is not the place of the grisha to have opinions about policy.”

“To each their place according to the Will, I know .”

“Do you really?” Genya asked cryptically, “I wonder.”

Alina squinted. Grisha. Maybe talking mysteriously was something that she was going to learn at this Academy thing.

“Besides, it’s not all so bad.” She looked around and smiled mischievously, “Shall I tell you a secret?”

“What?” Alina smelled tea and wanted some to spill.

“While the Royal Family technically are supposed to get nearly the entire harvest, the Alkemi underreport the yields to the Grand Palace.”

“Oh?”

“Guess where the difference goes?”

“No, do we... keep it ?”

“Oh yes. The General takes his share of course, even if he thinks he’s being subtle about it, but he leaves more than enough for the rest of us to get a taste. It’s a bit early, but just wait until the harvest starts coming in a month, you’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will.” And wasn’t that the truth, even if she could feel the guilt still twisting in her stomach.

“Over here behind the Corporalki Hall is the Dawn Annex,” Alina could see a square building painted in a lovely yellow, rose gradient that was quite large actually, some two stories tall, a hundred feet long, and another a hundred feet wide. “That is where the Officer Training School is located, and where overflow classes are occasionally conducted, and if you can see behind there are the training fields.”

Wide dusty yellow clay fields, with a red dirt running track. Some sand training dummies, looking already half beaten.

“Oh boy, it’s going to be basic training all over again isn’t it.” Her favorite. Running around randomly, doing conditioning that she really didn’t have the energy or capacity for, and nearly dying when the drill sergeant forced her to do it anyways. She really was lucky that she was cartography and got the abbreviated training, otherwise Petya was right, she probably would have died.

“Not quite, it will be more rigorous but also less rigid. You will see when you meet Shifu Botkin tomorrow.”

Botkin? Wasn’t that?

“Isn’t Botkin…?”

“A Shu name? Yes it is. Master at Arms Botkin Erdene is a Healer, one who has quite the story. You should ask him about it,” Genya said. "He runs a weekly evening cultural exchange so that the people who live here can learn about Shu Han beyond the war and the Tanban regime.

Alina wasn’t certain what to think. On the one hand, she had never really felt attachment to Shu Han. She had never been, and now that she was apparently a grisha, she probably would never go there, what with the whole human experimentation thing. All her life her Shu features had been nothing but a burden, sabotaging her chances at being adopted, eliminating the possibility of promotion, destroying her ability to make a living outside of the army. But on the other...

Mama hadn’t wanted to give her up. Her parents had died in a border skirmish, caught up in a battle on route to Kribirsk. They had hoped to get to West Ravka, had bribed a First Army officer to allow them passage through the Fold to start a new life somewhere else. Where that might be, what their reasoning for leaving East Ravka was...

If she let herself drift, thought back to those warm sunny days, when life was bright, but her mother’s smile was even brighter, Alina could almost taste the pastry that her mother loved to make and she could just barely remember. Flakey on the outside, but with a chewy inner layer made from some sort of white flour that wasn’t wheat and some melon that wasn’t the actual melon that the cakes were made with in Shu Han but some substitute that was as good as it was going to get in Ravka. Faint memory of cool jade carved into a small round disk that Mama made her promise she would keep safe, but had been taken from her the moment she entered Keramzin.

Alina was certain she did not love Shu Han. How could she love a land she did not know, a land that had always been labeled the enemy? But she couldn't help but wonder. What was Shu Han like? What it like, beyond the propaganda, the horror stories, the atrocities? What had made her mother love Shu Han enough to bring traces of her old homeland into her new country, a new life? To learn more about the land that she might have loved in another life, in a life where someone who loved that land might still have been alive to love her...

The rest of the tour was unremarkable. Genya showed her some of the empty classrooms in the East Wing and then lost her to the Little Palace Library, which, while not as large as the one in Balakirev, was apparently one of seven on the Palace Grounds. “Well there’s this one, one in each Hall, the Dawn Annex Library, the General’s personal library, and apparently a second personal library in Dusk Pavillion. So seven libraries total. The General really does like his books.”

As he should! Alina already knew he had excellent taste. Of course he would understand the beauty of a good book.

“Alina. Hello? You’re not listening to me. Alina- Alina? Where have you gone Alina, have I completely lost you to the, oh and there you go. Okay, I’ll just. Catch you later then.”

A History of Modern Military Cartography, Mapping Ravka’s Borderlands, The World Beyond the Fold. 

Alina cracked open the first tome, one that appeared to have been barely opened but looked oh so interesting, and began to read.

~

Eventually she was fetched by Genya, fished out of her books only with the promise that a servant would take the, now much taller, stack of books to her room. 

Supper was much like lunch, though Genya had been called away by a servant in cream for some sort of emergency (“Away I go to unsag sagging tits once more,” Genya whispered, “pray for me as I embark on my own harrowing adventure.” Alina had to work hard not to giggle.)  

This time however, she sat at the Etherealki table.

“Best not to show favoritism.” Genya had said, “as a Sun Summoner you are theoretically a member of the Etherealki, but like the General, your circumstances are quite unique. Until the General clarifies your position among us, it is best that you do not unduly alienate any of your peers.”

“How would sitting at a specific table alienate my peers?”

“The Corporalki are theoretically the highest ranking order among the grisha, or at least are some of the most visibly favored. A vast majority of the previous Second in Commands were Corporalki, and the General often selects Corporalki for his personal guard. Sitting with them could indicate that you also subscribe to this notion.”

“That’s...dumb.”

“Yes, but that’s politics for you. Politics is everywhere my dear, not just in government.”

She had more herring, though there was less of it this time, only half a slice of toast cut vertically and a single herring, but also a large chicken breast cooked simply, with assorted greens and, she smiled at this, a large beet cut into quarters and served in a small bowl. She waited for her taste tester to, well, taste test, (“Hello again Anton.” “Good evening Miss Alina.”), before she dug in. She talked to the Etherealki she happened to find herself sitting next to, (“My name is Marie.” “And I’m Nadia!” “It’s so nice to meet you!” “It’s nice to meet you too.”) and she spent the rest of the night learning more about the sorts of shenanigans grisha got up to (“Is that how the goat got into the Baroness’ boudoir?”), among other things. She really did end up learning far too much about who was sleeping with who. It was actually impressive how much gossip these two knew.

After dinner, she hastily excused herself, feeling quite worn out from the days events. Genya had assured her that she was free and very much expected to relax for the rest of the night, so she headed up to her room to do just that.

As she entered her room however, she quickly noticed that her desk had things on it that weren’t there before she put on that stupid hat and couldn’t see anything anymore.

A small cheesecloth pouch tied with a black ribbon sat on the desk next to a black envelope. A little bundle of flowers also tied together with black ribbon was laid diagonally on top of the envelope. 

She opened the little pouch and was delighted to find a small pile of kurabiiki. She loved the little honey cookies, the way that they were so crunchy and buttery, yet melted on the tongue. She ate one and then set it aside for now.

The flowers took up her attention next. They were odd, a strange mix of Snowdrops, a white flower she had never seen before and...fern leaves? They were so specific that they had to have been chosen intentionally. The black ribbon made it rather obvious who had sent the little array of objects, and General Kirigan was a member of the Court. Could he have sent her a message? She took out the book on the language of flowers that Genya had given her, and after a little bit of flipping through and matching the flowers with the images drawn on the page, she found three entries that told her what she was looking at.

Marjoram: Comfort and Consolation

Snowdrop: Hope and Consolation

Fern: Sincerity, Magic, Fascination, Confidence, Shelter

She set the flowers aside.

She opened the envelope, and saw a letter enclosed with a list of names. She read the letter first, elegant precise penmanship glittering in silver ink on black stationary. 

Dear Alina,

First, I must apologize for leaving you so hastily. Unfortunately the work of a General never ends, and I had to attend to the duties of my position, as well as answer further summons from the Grand Palace later on. 

I know it has been an eventful past few days for you. While today’s events were not ideal, I do hope that you are settling in well and are as comfortable as could be expected under the circumstances. Should you have any questions or concerns, please let either myself, Fedyor, or Ivan know, and I will do my best to answer.

As requested, a messenger arrived this afternoon containing the casualty list for the latest Crossing, and I have therefore enclosed a copy with this letter. I have also taken the liberty of adding the full names of Inferni Lagunova and Guardsman Sidorov to the bottom of the list. A stationary set should already have been sent to your room, however if it has not arrived yet, simply notify one of the Oprichniki outside of your door and they will have a servant bring one for you. 

Adjusting to a new environment can at times be overwhelming. I myself remember how difficult it was to adjust to living among other grisha after so long alone. With time however, such an adjustment is possible, simply give yourself time to acclimate. I implore you to explore this new world with an open mind, there are wonders to be found around every corner should you choose to look. Perhaps the Little Palace is not your home yet, but it is my hope that you will one day be comfortable enough here to consider the possibility.

Sincerely yours,

Mikhail Kirillovich Demidov-Kirigan

By my hand, this day March 3rd, 1829.

A seal of a sun in eclipse was stamped next to the signature in pale silver, a motto written in Old Ravkan surrounding it. 

So long as we remain, we fight to protect. Through the Dark, Salvation.

She carefully folded the letter and set the envelope aside. 

The list was short, but informative. She shuddered a sigh of relief when she saw Mal and Petya’s names underneath the heading of Recovering. Her eyes teared up when she noticed that Alexei and Raisa were listed as Missing, and she could not help herself when she saw that the rest of her unit were dead.

What have I done?

Nearly all of them were gone. Only a handful had survived and of her unit only Petya was confirmed to have made it out alive. She knew the standard procedure when it came to reporting casualties during the Crossing. Only those confirmed dead were reported Killed In Action, but being listed MIA in the Fold was as good as being declared dead. Those whose corpses could not be found, or who did not have multiple eyewitnesses testifying to their demise were labelled Missing in Action, in the interest of preventing fraud the Royal Records Offices claimed. To avoid paying benefits to their families, everyone knew was the more accurate explanation. 

She had as good as killed them. Nearly all of her unit, one of the three people in the world she unambiguously called friend. She couldn’t have known that Bodhan would send the entire unit across the Fold, it was only meant to be her.

But they still died. It was still her fault.

Her vision was blurry, tears falling onto the wooden desk, but she quickly swiped them aside. She had a job to do.

She took a clean sheet of paper and a fountain pen filled with black ink and began to write. She was careful to not allow her tears to stain the cream colored stationary as she did so.

In the darkness, under the light of the moon and a small flicker of candlelight, a young cartographer wrote to two families and to a list of the dead. 

Lagunova

Sidorov

Agafya

Raisa

Boris

Armen

Timur

...Alexei

I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. 

But being sorry would not bring them back, being sorry would not change the fact that she had blood on her hands, being sorry would not make things right.

But this is the least I could do.

~

A day’s ride away, a young man sat on a wagon trundling through a field of flowers. He watched as a city upon a hill rose out of the night fog, gothic towers soaring, scraping against the moonlit skies. He looked as carvings of flowers on the wall passed him by. Yarrow , he thought, marigolds, asphodel, hollyhock. Lily of the valley, camellia, Ravkan sage, belladonna. Hibiscus, feverfew, goldenseal, milk thistle, valerian. He played this game, idly trying to brush up on his field identification skills, the way that Yan had taught him to after Tyoma had introduced Mal to the Master Tracker of Kribirsk. 

“A hunch? You track based on a hunch? And what happens when you follow that hunch and you end up in the middle of nowhere with nothing to show for it? Or better yet, you do find what you want, only you’re still in the middle of nowhere and you have to find your way back but your supplies have run out and you don’t know where you are, or did you think I wasn’t paying attention to how you tunnel vision when you track? Your inability to pay attention to your surroundings will get you killed one of these days. Just think, if you get sent up to Tsibeya, there’s Fjerdans all over the fucking place. You’ll be tracking a deer through the permafrost and then suddenly, boom! A Saintsdamned Fjederan in the fecking bush with a thrice damned machine gun will wallop you and you’ll be nothing but little bits of ex-tracker! Learn to pay attention idjit, now tell me again what those plants are and how they’ll save your stupid ass when you get shot!”

He never did learn how to break the tunnel vision when he was tracking, not before his new orders to report to Chernast came in and tracking in Fjerdan infested permafrost became his actual reality. When he tracked, the world would narrow in on what he needed to find, and maybe that was dangerous but that was how it was and he couldn’t stop it. 

But if this Captain Volkov ordered him to, he would find a way. If it meant getting back to Alina, he would do whatever it took.

“The General only accepts the best in his Oprichiniki,” Tyoma had said, “he demands and gets the best of the First, and if you weren’t already the best then the job of the trainers is to make you the best. You want to get to your friend, want to be by her side? There is no world in which the General allows you anywhere close to the Sun Summoner’s protection detail unless you’re the best of the best, and not just in tracking. So pay attention, impress your instructors, impress the General. Use every last advantage you got, no matter how small. Every little bit counts, so think outside the box. Anything can be made useful.”

The wagon came to a halt, and he knew that he had run out of time. He had to face the truth of his situation, that he had sold his soul and was walking into the Heretic’s lair. The Oprichniki probationary training facility was on the western edge of the city, far from the populace, and far from the Oprichniki Headquarters proper in the citadel on the top of the hill. When he proved himself, he would be moved up to Headquarters for advanced training, but for now, here he was.

Malyen Orestev took a deep breath, and jumped out of the wagon, mind narrowing in on one thought and one thought alone.

Hang on Alina. I’m coming. 

I’ll be by your side, I’ll do better this time, I’ll make things right.

I promise.

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 10: Tests, Both Hidden and Not

“ What does it mean to be grisha? Is it our beauty? Our knowledge? Our Connection to the Heart of the World? I don’t think so, or at least I don’t think it’s just that. I think that being a grisha is fundamentally not so terribly different from everyone else. It is to hope, to rage, to laugh, to grieve, to strive, to dream. To want to live wholly and without regret, and fight for a day when we can with whatever means we have. ”

-Emiliya Larissovna Grigoryeva

Tidemaker 

~

“Alina? Are you alright? Alina?”

Alina startled awake, scrambling to point the pointy end of the fountain pen that she had been clutching in her hand at the intruder and retreat to a safe distance to gather herself only to yelp as she banged her knee on the table leg while falling out of her chair.

“Ow.”

“Oh Saints, are you alright?” Alina blinked at the person she just realized was Genya staring down at her with a look of concern from the opposite end of her fountain pen. The Tailor was holding a long garment bag behind her back in one hand. 

“Yeah,” Alina managed, groaning slightly as her stiff muscles protested from the movement and her bones creaked. She peered upwards blearily from where she must have fallen from. She must have fallen asleep at her desk while writing the letters.

“Forgive me for just entering like that this time, but you weren’t answering the door, and we were getting worried–”

“–we?”

“The oprichniki detail, myself, and the General as he returned from his morning ride.”

“Oh.” Wasn’t that strange? Alina was still not used to the idea of people outside of Petya and Alexei caring for her.

...Oh no the letters!

“Are these the letters you wish to be sent out?” Genya inquired, eyes glancing at the mess of correspondence on the desk, “General Kirigan had instructed me to take them to Communications for you.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to,” Alina said hurriedly. Oh no, this was bad, this was so bad . She hadn’t meant for anyone to see the letters to her unit. “I can take them myself.”

“It’s no trouble, the General is also having me take down a letter for him at the same time. Besides, you hardly have the time to do so,” Genya said, “you have to meet with Senior Inferni Bogomolova soon and you have yet to eat breakfast or wash your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?” Alina asked, hand rising to rub her cheek self consciously only to blink when she felt something rub off. “Oh,” she said as she looked at the black ink staining her fingertips.

“Oh,” Genya echoed with a slight smile. She waved her fingers in the direction of the bathroom, “go inside and wash, if not fully, then at least your face. Close the door after you, I have a surprise and want to see your face when you come out.”

A surprise? Was it whatever was in the garment bag? Alina was curious but Genya’s gentle prodding made her throw up her hands and go inside to wash.

Hmm, face wash or bath? On the one hand, she would get to find out what the surprise was faster. She wasn’t exactly dirty either, ink on her face notwithstanding, at the orphanage she had gone multiple days between baths, and in the Army she had gone multiple days between baths and usually suffered through extended marches or fought in battle on top of that. Taking a bath barely more than a day after her previous one felt excessive, even indulgent. On the other hand, hot water, time to herself to just relax…

...Bath it was!

Some ten minutes later, Alina emerged from her bath, refreshed, relaxed, and ink free according to the large mirror next to the tub. The mirror itself had made her heart skip a beat when she realized what she was looking at. Mirrors were expensive and a full length continuous single pane mirror? It made her heart skip a beat to see it just sitting there, in her bathroom. Not to mention it was one of two in her suite, she had another outside next to her wardrobe.

Speaking of which, oh no, she had forgotten about Genya!

“I’m sorry for making you wait!” Alina hurried out of the bathroom into her bedroom, grey velvet dressing robe around her, tied at the waist. “I have the clothes from yesterday here.” She held up the farce of a First Army uniform wadded up into a ball.

“Just put it in this basket, a servant will take it down to the Materialki Workshops to have it recycled into something useable.”

Alina perked up at this, “are you saying that I won’t have to ever wear it again?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.” Genya kindly said nothing and just smiled as Alina jumped and cheered. “It was a monstrosity in any case. Horribly tailored, but what can you do when the Grand Palace insists on supplying the uniform? It was a miracle you even fit in that jacket, Senior Durast Makalov had to do some creative material reassignment to loosen the jacket enough around the bust and it was still almost wasn’t enough. You will be wearing this in any case.” Genya opened the wardrobe doors.

An Etherealki blue kefta hung inside, and her eyes were drawn immediately to a gold sunburst pattern that made her gasp at the intricacy of the embroidery. “This is…,” her words failed her as she reached out to trace the embroidery with her fingers. It was beautiful, whorls of light curling, twisting, spiraling outwards from a bursting sun, but bold stitchwork also made her heart twist with anxiety. 

“Yours,” Genya said simply and Alina looked over just in time to see a strange, wistful look pass over the Tailor’s beautiful face before the other woman was as composed as ever, “your kefta for daily wear inside the Little Palace. The combat kefta is currently undergoing final touches but will be here after lunch.” 

“I’ll be expected to fight?”

“In training, yes. For your combat classes with Shifu Botkin, you will have to return to your rooms briefly to change into your combat kefta. Or did you think I meant something else?”

“I thought the combat kefta meant I was going to be sent to the front to fight,” Alina clarified. Etherealki did make up the bulk of Second Army combat personnel after all.

“Oh most certainly not,” Genya, “you are completely untrained, and until the situation surrounding the Fold is solved, you are far too valuable to risk on the front lines.”

“Right,” Alina muttered uneasily, “too valuable.”

“All grisha are issued at least four keftas,” Genya said, raising the appropriate number of fingers as she ticked off the number of keftas in her explanation, “two all purpose keftas, two combat keftas. The idea is that in general, your keftas are outerwear and so on a day to day basis you will replace your undergarments rather than your kefta. I have a chemise and a set of jumps for you today, the rest are still being Fabrikated. Feel free to choose between jumps, corsets, and stays, however it is recommended you wear jumps for active training, and required that you wear stays underneath your formal kefta. At least once a week your kefta will be taken away to wash, and in general keftas are washed and returned in no particular order, so the other pair of keftas are left to use on the days that the first pair are being washed.”

“In general?”

“General Kirigan’s keftas are quite easy to spot in the laundry and are given priority status for washing for obvious reasons, though the keftas of High Command and the General’s personal adjutants are also separated out and washed before all others. It is considered a perk of the job, but a necessary one considering that they make appearances at Court more often than most. I imagine yours will be as well.”

“Let me guess, because I’m the Sun Summoner?”

“Primarily yes, but also because you will be expected to change more often. Your uniform is expected to be pristine every time you appear in Court, and your lessons at the Grand Palace count as appearances. While a Court kefta is issued to every grisha assigned to the Little Palace, you will likely have at least three, and they take longer to wash.”

“Oh,” Alina said, biting her lip nervously, “do we...is there any information about what kinds of lessons I will be having at the Grand Palace?”

“Nothing is certain yet, the General has been attending meetings on that very subject ever since your appearance yesterday. Most likely you will be receiving the same education as the daughters of the nobility.”

Oh Alina did not like the sound of this. “Meaning?” she asked warily.

“Dance, etiquette, theology, Ravkan history, arithmetic, possibly embroidery and a musical instrument.”

“Seriously?" Some of that didn’t sound too bad, history was by and large interesting while arithmetic was at the very least useful, even though she was a cartographer and hardly needed further instruction on basic mathematics. But Alina groped around wordlessly for a word that wouldn’t betray the sudden rage that possessed her at the prospect of sitting around stitching when there was a war going on and gave up when she couldn’t find one. 

“Seriously. Originally the Tsaritsa was going to assign Duchess Chelny to oversee your education, however the General convinced Her Majesty to allow another to do so instead.”

“Who?” Alina asked.

Genya just smiled.

“No,” Alina breathed incredulously, putting two and two together. “You?”

“Me,” Genya confirmed, satisfaction and joy written across her face, with some other emotion that Alina could not read but could just barely see fluttering underneath the surface. “You will still have to attend certain classes in the Grand Palace itself with other scions of the nobility, however I will be your guide and overseer during your introduction to the Court.”

“How did that even happen?” She didn’t exactly know what the politics were around moves like this, but if a Duchess was supposed to be assigned to oversee her education initially, the General must have done something to make the Tsaritsa assign the ‘servant’ Tailor instead.

“The General petitioned the Tsaritsa in her parlor for the change yesterday evening. It was actually why I had been called away, the Tsaritsa insisted on having her looks touched up before granting an audience to the General. The hag still hasn't stopped trying to lure the General into her bed despite it being very clear he is not interested,” Genya said, before clearing her throat. “As with the rest of you lovely ladies, the Duchess must be terribly preoccupied with the flourishing of Chelny in the spring, it would be quite the shame if her attentions were redirected from her patronages,” the Tailor was clearly quoting and imitating a certain someone in black if the sudden drop in pitch and change to that very unique clipped, aristocratic accent was any indication, “Evgeniya Leonidovna is familiar to the Sun Summoner and who better to handle the task at hand than one who has been privileged to witness first hand the grace of the Light of Ravka for all these years?”

Now Alina knew something was up. The way Genya’s words turned bitter when the Tsaritsa was mentioned, even through the affected accent, was very suggestive. It was a strange disconcerting sensation. All her life, Alina had been taught that the Tsaritsa was the Mother of the Nation, radiant in her grace, beauty, kindness, and charity. While such a rosy image could not survive extended time on the Fjerdan front and a first encounter with the Tsaritsa herself, Alina was surprised at how some part of her still felt betrayed by the matrons and the priests, that the stories fed to her and the other orphans ever since they were old enough to understand were not only lies but blatant ones at that. 

But she could not ignore what her eyes had seen yesterday, how her ears heard the words the Tsaritsa had spoken with nary a care in the world, how the looming mess of something twisted and wrong lurking inside Genya threatened to overflow every so often across the Tailor’s lines and boundaries.

“As she was surrounded by all of the ladies of the Court, she could hardly tell the General that I had not learned any such graces from her, not when she had moments ago been raving about how well Lady Staya had learned from her example, as well as how it would be impossible for any to spend extensive time in her presence without learning something. And of course the Duchess could not admit to the General that she had in fact not planned any charity benefits and that she has absolutely no part in the running of Chelny, for fear of losing face in front of the General and the other ladies of the Court.”

“Are noblewomen expected to host charity benefits and help run the estate?” Alina hadn’t really been around noblewomen enough to understand what their roles were exactly. The only two estates that she had really seen first hand were Keramsov and Balakirev, but the Dukes in both cases were single, Duke Keramsov being a widower with a single son to his name at first, and then nothing after the boy died on the Fjerdan front, and General Kirigan was a bachelor according to Chatelaine Nada.

“Not so much these days. Traditionally, ladies of the Court were expected to host charity events and be especially active in hearing the petitions of their people beginning during the spring and lasting until the end of the harvest, and it was absolutely the norm a century ago, during the reigns of Elizaveta and Mikhail I. But observing the traditional activities of the Season has been steadily falling out of fashion now that courtiers are much more interested in whatever fads that somehow make their way across the Fold instead of giving a damn about the people. Of course no one is going tell the General that they don’t actively see to the wellbeing to the inhabitants of their estates considering that the General was there when noblesse-oblige was more than just pretty words, especially when they all still pay lip service to idea that nobles should be righteous and charitable.”

“But surely the General knows they don’t.” 

“Of course he does, he has eyes . The Court hasn’t given a damn about charity for decades now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use their own words and hypothetical social expectations against them. You don’t have to be a genius to know that Chelny has been mismanaged for generations and yet the Duchess walks around with a hundred pearls beading her kokoshnik that she didn’t source from Ejora.”

Alina frowned, “I thought that Ejora was the only place you could really buy pearls in Ravka?” The sheer volume and quality of pearls that Ejora produced due to the city’s extensive aquaculture industry meant that the City of Waterfalls famously had a monopoly on pearl production on this side of the Fold. If Ejora didn’t sell the Duchess the pearls, that meant that she would have had to have them imported, a very expensive endeavor that required booking space on a dangerous skiff crossing.  

“Exactly ,” Genya said emphatically, “which means that the Duchess has even less ability to object to the General’s proposal. After all, if the Duchess has so much money to spare, then surely her charitable activities must be equally great as to match the size of her wealth with the size of her obligation. The Tsaritsa couldn’t even offer an alternative candidate because the General had indicated he believed that all of the ladies of the Court would be similarly preoccupied, unlike yours truly who is merely a humble servant.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a servant,” Alina said absentmindedly. There really wasn’t. At one point in Alina’s life she might have become a servant herself: a governess at most if she could impress the right people with her intellect and her learning, a maid otherwise if she was still lucky, just not that lucky. The only reason why being a servant was because other people looked down at them, not because there was anything wrong with them. Maybe if she said it often enough, Genya would stop talking down to herself. There was nothing humble about Genya, and Alina meant that in the best way possible.

“General Kirigan is quite the politician,” Alina observed as well, not knowing if she meant it positively or negatively. A part of her felt admiration for what appeared to be quite the masterful maneuver, judging by the way Genya was reacting, and yet a part of her felt uneasy for a reason she could not quite place. 

“He has to be,” Genya said frankly, “the Shadow Summoners have long served as protectors of the grisha, and one way they have done so is that they have always stood as a bulwark for our people, insulating us from the machinations of the Court. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say politicking probably has saved as many lives as the Healers have.”

“How so?”

“There are far too many ways to count but if you want an example...over the years the Regime has attempted to cut the Second Army’s budget numerous times without cause, and the latest Tsar is especially keen to find money wherever he can to fund his extravagant lifestyle. Without the General’s intervention, the Second would likely have close to nothing in terms of an annual budget by this point.”

“No money for corecloth,” Alina realized. 

“Among other things, yes.”

Well that was...unsurprising and consistent with what she had seen of Os Alta so far, but depressing. 

“To each their place under the eyes of the Saints,” Father Pavlov had intoned once, golden censor swinging hypnotically in the dim light of the candlelit altar, “and the lords of this world shall take you under their aegis, your defender against the dark.”

Now Alina couldn’t help but wonder, who exactly was doing the defending? What exactly was in the dark that she needed to be defended from when the price was… this? Whatever this even was.

There was something else that was bothering her though.

“Tsaritsa Elizaveta and Tsar Mikhail I, which ones were they again?” Alina muttered, wracking her head for the history that had started blurring together in her head even before she left the orphanage, before snapping her fingers, “oh! Tsaritsa Elizaveta the Kind and Tsar Mikhail Liberator!”

“...The Liberator. Is that what otkazat’sya call him?” Genya asked quietly.

“That’s what they’re called in the history lessons,” Alina shrugged, “Tsaritsa Elizaveta laid the groundwork for freeing the serfs and then her son actually followed through. Even if liberation came with big drawbacks it’s still a big deal, even in the middle of nowhere like Keramzin was.” They used to celebrate Liberation Day, though not in the orphanage, the Duke wasn’t a fan with his family apparently losing a significant chunk of wealth due to the emancipation of the serfs, but even he could not stop Keramzin town from celebrating, so Alina and Mal had snuck out those days to take in the emotions of the crowd and even eat the plain wheat pancakes that were obligatory on Liberation Day in honor of the first meals that the newly freed serfs purportedly made with wheat they themselves owned for the first time. Even if the pancakes were gross, experiencing the happiness of the crowds made it worth the funky taste. They had ruled a while ago though, and the General had been there? The math made sense she supposed but that was still kind of wild . “Why?”

Alina saw Genya examine her carefully, eyes darkened ever so slightly. “I think you’ll find that we see quite a bit of history differently,” the Tailor said softly, “you’ll see for yourself soon enough the difference between your history class here and in the Grand Palace, but Alina…” she trailed off, hesitating.

“What?” Alina prodded, curious as to where the Tailor’s line of thought would lead them.

“The otkazat’sya might call you Sankta, but you will still be a grisha in their eyes,” Genya said quietly, “and the world is not kind to grisha.”

“...I know,” Alina said quietly.

Genya stared back calmly, amber eyes piercing and merciless, but not cruel just, tired . “Do you really?”

What could Alina really say to that, to the bone deep weariness that she could see in Genya’s eyes? She had Emiliya’s stories, saw the struggles that the General left unsaid but were as clear as day in the way he spoke, in the values he chose to hold dear. But were they enough to say that she truly knew what it was like to be grisha? Was less than a week enough to know the world as a grisha was forced to experience it?

No. Not without making a liar of herself, not without trivializing what it meant to be grisha. 

And so Alina said nothing.

Nothing at all.

~

After changing into her kefta she quickly bid farewell to the Tailor, and went their separate ways, Genya to communications with the envelopes, Alina to the Great Hall for a quick breakfast.

Breakfast was fine and normal. No herring this time as not even the General apparently considered herring a breakfast item, though little wooden carvings of what was presumably herring had been placed every so often down the length of the tables. She said presumably herring because they were vaguely herring shaped, some more so than others, but they were all rather crudely done.

“A rite of passage for baby durasts ,” Nadia had explained with a smile, “ it’s traditionally the first solo project they’re allowed to do, provided they’re not David Mikhailovich Kostyk and speed ahead to make gloves for the General that accommodate his rings easier without leaving scuff marks on the leather. General Kirigan has them out on the tables at breakfast because he claims they’re excellent reminders of the herring we have to look forward to, but really everyone knows that the General has a soft spot for the babies and likes showing off their projects whenever he can get away with it. ”

At the time, Alina had nearly choked on her semolina porridge and had to hack up a berry that went down wrong.

“What? It’s not like it’s a secret, the General has a massive soft spot for the grishenka! I still remember when he came to the nursery when I was six and he told the story of the Giant Turnip with his shadows. He listened to me babble about how pretty green was as a color for a good five minutes before he was called away, and he still had a small green blanket sent to me the next day. Though he would not hear a word about allowing me to have a green kefta, which was probably for the best because the particular shade of green I was telling him about was a terrifyingly bright shade of lime green and it would not have gone well with how dark my skin tone is…”

After she rushed through breakfast, a pair of oprichniki in black greatcoat and tall leather boots led her to the East Wing, a classroom on the far end of the second floor. It was a small room, the entrance to which could have easily been missed in the shadow of the column next to it. Alina stepped inside as the oprichniki saluted and then closed the door behind her. 

The interior was lit only by dappled sunlight that came through half of the windows, surrounded as the classroom was with tall beautiful birch trees. The curtains were drawn on the other half of the windows and kept the other half of the room dimly lit. Perched on a grand desk in that half of the room was a dark skinned woman in Etherealki blue, wearing a daily wear kefta marked with wide expansive inferni markings. 

She was objectively not tall, but was very clearly taller than Alina which was sufficient for Alina to call her tall. Her dark skin was clear and smooth, showing no signs of age or wear, and her long dark hair was woven into long thin braids that were then tied into a large sidetail that draped over her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, they were so dark they were almost black, but not quite, closer to the color of the dusk at the edge of a storm, impossibly close to grey…

But her physical appearance mattered little, not compared to the haunting hum that rang clear and cold in the air, notes of bitter sorrow, loss, the undertones of anger and grief that tasted bitter and stagnant on her tongue, a wistful, wrathful chorus not sung by any voice that existed and had no explanation save for one.

“You’re–!” Alina blurted out before hastily biting down on her tongue.

“Tainted?” the Inferni asked serenely. She was so calm, so unnervingly calm even as the unmistakable requiem of the Resonance that danced in the air around her.

Freak! The kindly baker who had given seven year old Alina extra kurabiiki during Butter Week spat at a vagabond in tattered clothes sitting on the ground in an alleyway whose sleeve had only hitched up ever so slightly, but the black straight thin scars carved deeply into his forearm and the little whispers that spoke without an owner in sight had given him away, and let loose something dark and foul in the baker. Abomination, cursed whoreson, damned wretch! Get out of town! Stay away from filth like them Alina, the Tainted are no good for anyone’s health.  

“No,” Alina said hastily, “of course not.” How could she call someone Tainted when she almost became one of them herself, how could she call others by a slur when she had borne the brunt of so many?

“It’s quite alright,” the Inferni said, “I have lived long enough to hear it all. Names hardly bother me these days.” The Inferni stood and dusted off nonexistent dirt off her kefta. She walked forward two paces, standing just before the middle of the room where the shadows met the light. “Others may call me cursed, I consider it a blessing.”

A blessing?

“I must thank you in any case, Miss Starkova,” the Inferni said, “In truth, when the General assigned me as your academic tutor I was quite pleased. I was on the skiff that day you see.”

“Oh! You were the Inferni who protected us in the Fold.”

“Who was knocked out almost immediately in the fight, you mean,” the older woman said wryly, before the Inferni extended a hand. “Senior Inferni Natacha Fyodorovna Bogomolova. But you can call me Natacha if you’d like.”

“Alina.” Alina took her hand and immediately froze, winter frost climbing up her arm to her head and down her spine, a storm surge took her under, the world had disappeared around her, and she could see nothing and no one, she was alone, alone, ALONE–

A riot of smells broke the hold of the crown of frost, and she took deep heaving breaths as her nose was assaulted by citrus and florals. “What was that?” Alina gasped, staring at the silver pendant Natacha had been wearing but was now holding up to Alina’s nose.

“A side effect of the Fold,” Natacha said, “when One Connected to the Heart becomes an initiate to the Unsea’s Mysteries, coming into contact with who has been Touched deeply can allow Memories of the Dark to resurface.”

“What?”

“As a grisha you are more susceptible to the Resonance, especially considering you went into the Fold unprotected. Being around one such as myself is enough to trigger some side effects. That you reacted so strongly however…” Natacha shook her head, “Never mind. You haven’t replaced the incense in your scent ward have you?”

“Oh,” Alina looked down at the silver pendant that she hadn’t taken off this entire time, except to bathe, but it was so light and innocuous while the events of the past week had been decidedly not- she had completely forgotten she had been wearing it in the first place. “Now that you mentioned it...”

“I’ll replace it for you. Watch carefully.” She pressed a small latch on the top that Alina hadn’t even seen before now, and a small inner cylinder slid down and out. In one smooth motion Natacha flicked the contents into the garbage can next to the door, and Alina followed the arc of the old incense with her eyes before she looked back to see the Inferni refill the cylinder with new incense from an orange pouch she fished out from...somewhere, then slide the cylinder back into its outer casing with a click.

“Wow .” That was fast.

“I’ve had a lot of practice. Ordinarily the silver pendant is only required for a week for those who make the crossing. In your case since you did not have the protection of the smaller bronze pendant that is standard issue for external exposure to the Fold, you will have to wear your silver pendant for at least a week, possibly two. As for myself, once a grisha is well into the Metamorphosis, or has crossed a certain number of times, it is required that we wear a pendant at all times, as to prevent incidents like this from happening to those not adequately prepared or able to handle the exposure.”

“I see,” Alina hummed, “that makes sense.” But what did she mean by Metamorphosis? 

“Take this pouch and refill it every two days. Do keep your pendant out of the water, waterlogged incense negates the ability of the smell to break the hold of the Resonance on yourself. You need not worry about exposing others to the Resonance, you have not gone deeply enough or often enough”

“Sounds good,” Alina held up the pouch. “You don’t need this for yourself?”

Natacha waved her hand, “no need to worry, I have plenty of spares. Now then, shall we get started on your curriculum?”

“Alright.” Alina sat down in a chair in front of the desk Natacha had been sitting on earlier as Natacha herself walked around it to take out a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk.

“The Academy Curriculum,” Alina read out loud before skimming the contents. There were the usual subjects, albeit occasionally under unfamiliar names: Ravkan (1-9), Mathematics (1-9), Sciences beyond the Small (1-9), Ravkan History (1-5, 9), World History (6-8), Theology (9). Then there were a few that were odd for a core curriculum, but made sense all things considered: Swimming, Equestrianism, Basic First Aid, Emergency Triage for non-Healers, Conditioning, Combat Training, Survival Training (3-5, 8-9), Deescalation Training. Then there were the subjects that Alina had never heard before, ones only grisha would ever have reason to create a class for and take: Summoning Theory (1-10), Applied Summoning (2-10), Combat summoning (4-10), Cross Order Summoning Practice (8-10), History of the Grisha in Ravka (1-9), History of the Grisha (7-9). Cultural Norms. Summoning theory, Applied Summoning, Combat summoning were all printed in blue ink.

“Every grisha who passes through the halls takes these classes or tests out on merit or prior qualification.” Natacha said. “While grisha in situations similar to yours are ordinarily sent to Ejora to undergo the Dynamic Curriculum, as the Sun Summoner the Tsar has ordered your continued presence in the Capital. The General has therefore assigned me to be your academic tutor. I will be meeting with you on a one on one basis whenever I am in residence to help guide you through this process and the grisha education system. Today I will be administering the calibration exams to see where in the sequence you are for certain classes such as mathematics and Ravkan History so that we can see which classes you can place out of. However, normally in the morning you will join your agemates in Conditioning, before going to either the regular or mixed section of Combat Training, at the discretion of Shifu Botkin.”

"What even-," Alina glanced down at the page again. "Early childhood education?"

Natacha just smiled that small mysterious smile. “After your first section with Shifu Botkin, you will have two sections of lecture classes which will alternate based on the day of the week," she just said, "For example, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you may have Mathematics and Theology, while on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, you may have the History of the Grisha in Ravka and Sciences beyond the Small, and a quarter hour for the rotating core cycle class. As you will be in the Dynamic Sections for these lectures, your progress in them will determine how long you will remain in those lecture classes. Once the core curriculum classes are completed, then you may choose from a set of elective classes, here.” Natacha pulled a second page from the desk. And all Alina could do was blink at the non-answer before glancing at the page.

Shu Hanese, Fjerdan, Kerch, Zemani, Suli, Gallician, Parsan, Old Ravkan. Grisha and Otkazat’sya relations, Advanced Triage, History of Noyvi Zem, Gardening, Fashion history? Bespoke tailoring? Advanced Mathematics, Forensics? Intensive Theory of the Small Sciences, Philosophy, Advanced Philosophy, Advanced Theory of the Small Sciences, Free Form Experimentation, Espionage, Ravkan Politics, International Relations, Economics, Finance, Logistics, Strategic studies, Advanced Strategic Studies, War Gaming- The list went on and on.

“Some of the Electives are by invitation only, for example the Strategy sequence requires written permission from a member of High Command for entry. Others have prerequisites that must be fulfilled before one can enroll in the class. Advanced Theory has a prerequisite of Intensive Theory, and Advanced Philosophy has the prerequisite of, well, Philosophy. Not all of the electives are available at the same time, it does depend on if an instructor qualified to teach a subject is in garrison at any given time. Ordinarily electives are flexible and woven into the educational progression of students over the years even most reserve them for their final year or final year equivalent, however in your case the General requests that you finish the core curriculum first before undertaking any of the electives, with the exception of Grisha and Otkazat’sya relations, which he recommends you take immediately.” 

Sure. Requests and recommends. Because when a General requests something of you it was definitely just a suggestion.

“Additionally, he recommends you take Old Ravkan, as it will aid in dealing with the Church and Court.”

“Oh, no need, I’m fluent and literate.” Little Alina Starkova had realized very early on that she wasn’t going to be able to read much theology without working knowledge of liturgical Old Ravkan. 

“I will still have to administer the test just to be certain. Besides, having a paper trail for these things can be very useful, especially in your situation.”

“Fair enough.” What was it again? Nothing certain but death, taxes, and bureaucracy.

“The three in blue are Etherealki specific classes,” Natacha continued, pointing at the words on the original page with the capped end of a fountain pen, “Ordinarily they would occur in the Etherealki Hall, however for you this would be impossible. Summoning classes are rooted in the shared knowledge of the subtypes, with Inferni teaching other Inferni and the like. As the only known Sun Summoner, you will be starting more or less from scratch, and as such your Summoning classes will be combined into one extended session after lunch with three Senior Summoners being pulled from Ejora. The hope is that between you, the three Senior Summoners and with input from the General, working knowledge of sun summoning can be synthesized.” 

“Isn’t that a bit much?” Alina asked. Senior Summoners were valuable , as close to an officer core as the grisha seemed to have. For three of them to be rerouted from another base just for her education, much less active input from the General himself… She wasn't an officer, but as the junior cartographer at the very bottom of the pecking order, she had been stuck on gopher duty often enough. Being forced to loiter near many a command tent waiting for the high and mighty to give her time of day taught her that while some officers did nothing, others did quite a lot. 

“Senior Summoners Levedeva, Orlova, and Golubev are all quite old and are as retired as one can be in the Second. The three of them have been on training duty in Ejora for quite some time now, and are well respected for their knowledge and mastery of their gifts. It will mean that training sections at Ejora will be somewhat larger, however as needs must.”

“But–” Alina said before Natacha shook her head.

“You are the Sun Summoner, Alina. The sooner you understand the nature of your powers, the sooner you will begin to understand the world you find yourself in, and the safer you will be.”

“...if you say so,” Alina said reluctantly as she fidgeted in her seat. 

“After Summoning you will have a single block with Genya Leonidovna to work on preparatory skills necessary for your time at the Grand Palace, though I will leave it to her to explain what her curriculum for you will entail. After that will be dinner, then the rest of your night will for the most part be free. Additionally your Sundays are free for the moment, however that may change based on the final determination made in the negotiations between the General and the Grand Palace. I imagine the Apparat will request that you attend Mass in the morning. Here, I have a copy of your schedule blocked out for you here. Your lecture blocks are unlabeled as we have yet to take your calibration exams.”

“Oh, this is...quite full,” Alina said weakly, mind boggling at how busy the schedule looked. She was completely booked nearly the entire week, nearly every nook and cranny shaded in with classes (helpfully colored coded for her so there was that), except for three hours at the end of the day before a recommended bedtime of 11 pm. Even her time at Keramzin hadn't nearly been this full. While her time in the First had been strictly regimented, it hadn't been terribly well enforced. To be honest, a lot of that time was ‘hurry up and wait’ time, in which she waited on standby for some emergency to happen or to be assigned work and then spent the next hour scrambling for her life, before everything became boring again or got swamped with way too much work for a single junior cartographer to reasonably handle but she had to figure out how unless she wanted to report to Discipline again. 

“It is a little busier than normal,” Natacha allowed, “but not by much. It is imperative that we fit as much as possible into the curriculum to prepare graduates for life in the Second, and the time pressure to do so is only getting worse with pressure from the Tsar and the First to decrease the duty threshold to fifteen and possibly younger.” The Inferni shook her head.

“It is an honor and privilege for the grisha of Ravka to serve in the Second Army ,” the Testers had said that fateful day in Keramzin, the day she had cheated the test to avoid the very fate they had outlined in their speech. “In exchange for the finest education and safety guaranteed by the Tsar, the Second defend our noble nation to the last .” 

“If you look here, there is also time built in for electives and extracurriculars. Depending on your placements and how quickly you progress through the curriculum, the amount of flexible time will naturally increase. Speaking of which, I have your calibration exam for Ravkan History here…”

~

Her head hurt.

The entire day had been devoted to figuring out where in the curriculum she was, and while Mathematics and Theology had been quite easy, Sciences beyond the Small had been very difficult (“just be happy you do not have to complete the Materialki version Alina, that one is significantly worse.”). A break for lunch that she gobbled down quickly at the Corporalki table (a single herring on rye with a bowl of shchi, a plate of salad greens with a grilled chicken breast and fruit! Apples that were full and not wizened from being left in a cellar all winter, was this from the greenhouses? How nice it was to be able to see and understand what you were eating). 

Bless Katya for being the most wonderful person in the world and getting rid of her headache before she had to shuffle off to finish the gauntlet. Old Ravkan was a breeze, and Ravkan History was more or less alright, even if she had been tripped up by the wording of some questions, but Natacha also had her take Economics and Ravkan Politics for some reason and she had bombed all of them. She could answer the most basic questions yes, like ‘what kind of government is the government of Ravka’: an Unitary Absolute Tsardom, and ‘who is eligible to become a part of the Governing Senate’: Men of noble birth at least twenty-five years of age excluding those of grisha heritage. 

However the further in she went, the more blanks she left, which really gave her anxiety, but she couldn’t help it. Some of the questions were just concepts she had never heard of. ‘What is a free rider problem?’ 'What is the definition of autarky?' Blight if she knew. Others were different , ones that were intriguing but her instincts screamed danger. 

“Very good Alina, that’s all for today. I’ll have these graded by tonight and give Genya your results for you to have tomorrow morning. In the meantime, go get dinner and then get some rest, you’ve earned it.”

“Thank you Natacha, have a nice day.”

“You as well.”

~

“I’ll make this quick since you look more like a corpse than some of the actual deceased.”

“Thanks Genya, really feeling the love right now.”

They were sitting in the parlor of the Vezda suite. Genya was in the same armchair she had commandeered yesterday morning, the one that was now apparently hers by right of conquest. Alina was splayed out on a divan that was really too soft for her own good, she was about to fall asleep.

“Before you enter Court you will have to alter your comportment. This means that we will have to work on etiquette, posture, diction, and enunciation.”

“What’s wrong with the way I speak?”

“Nothing, save that the Court will consider your accent to be that of a Southern peasant.”

“I am a Southern peasant.”

“Not anymore, and not if you want them to take you seriously.”

“But do I want them to take me seriously?”

“What do you mean?”

If Alina was honest, she wasn’t terribly certain herself. She hadn’t even meant to say that thought out loud, but now that it was out there…

“All my life I’ve been safe because I’ve gone unnoticed,” Alina said, “because I was so scrawny and insignificant that others would underestimate me and leave me alone. If they start taking me seriously, then what? How would I be safe when they have so much more power than me?” That wasn’t right, wasn’t exactly what she was aiming for. There was so much more roiling underneath her skin, burning the inside of her throat searching for a way out, but words were failing her and that was as good as she was going to get for now. 

Genya was silent for a moment. “Alina, why did you spend time convincing me to go into the Great Hall for lunch yesterday?”

Alina blinked at the ceiling before turning her head to face the Tailor. “What?”

“Why did you spend time convincing me to go into the Great Hall for lunch yesterday?” Genya repeated softly.

“Because it wasn’t right that you couldn’t! That you felt like you couldn’t go eat lunch with others because–” Alina floundered for the right words but also was hesitant to finish her sentence, afraid to put the words to Genya’s fears in her mouth.

“–because of the color of my kefta,” Genya thankfully finished for Alina, “I was afraid because my white kefta made me a target. It still does mark me as a target, a single lunch aside. It is visible, it is distinctive, I can not take it off, and you have the exact same problem as me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are the Sun Summoner.” That damn sentence that both the General and Natacha and now Genya all said with nearly the exact same inflection. “That marks you as distinctly as any kefta would. The eyes of all Ravka are already on you, there is nothing that you can do to make yourself invisible when so many are watching. You can opt out if you want, ignore my lessons, keep your accent, let others think you are nothing more than a simple country girl. But all that means is that when it matters, you’ll face an uphill battle to get what you want because everyone else has already made up their minds about you. Then nothing you say will ever matter because it’s already too late,” Alina sat up alarmed as Genya took a unsteady breath, eyes unfocused and far away, “You’ll be a toy, a cute little grisha to be used, then thrown away.”

Alina looked at the Tailor carefully. There was something wrong here, something that she could ignore no longer. “Genya,” Alina said quietly, “is there something wrong? Is there something you want to tell me?”

Genya didn’t look at her, her eyes were now focused on her hands, crossed as they were on her lap with her palms face up. “I was five when I was gifted to the Tsaritsa,” she said softly, “I was a beautiful child, a little porcelain doll who had been changing herself to match the world’s song for as long as she could remember. The Tsaritsa had arrived unannounced. I still don’t know why she was there that day. She had just given birth to the Tsesarevich at the time. Perhaps she was feeling lonely after giving up the babe to the nurses, or neglected by the Tsar who had found other forms of company during the Tsaritsa’s long pregnancy. Whatever the reason she saw me playing in the Grishenka’s garden just outside the nursery and decided she had to have me. The General tried to protest, I was only three after all. Not old enough to understand what was happening, certainly not old enough to leave the nursery by myself to live in the Grand Palace. But the Tsaritsa insisted, and how could the General protest?” Genya looked up. “You called Mikhail I, the Liberator, but you know the one group he didn’t free?”

It dawned on her slowly, far too slowly, “the grisha,” Alina said, horrified, “he didn’t free the grisha did he?”

“No,” Genya said, “he did not. Not that it would have mattered, the Second Army must obey the Royal Family upon the pain of death, but we were never freed in that way in the first place. The Tsaritsa demanded that I be given to her as a gift from a loyal Duke to his sovereign, and so the General had to obey.”

“It wasn’t so bad in the beginning,” Genya continued, “she would dress me up in fine little silk gowns, feed me sweets, play silly little games and I would make her beautiful, change her hair to the exact shade she loved, make it look like she never aged. She loved me like a daughter, and I loved her like the mother I never had.”

“But then as I grew up, she began to grow distant. She started pulling away, stopped going on walks in the garden with me, began accusing me of intentionally Tailoring her poorly, said I was no better than those demons after all. The gifts stopped coming. Then, when I was fourteen, a white kefta appeared in my closet, and it was then I realized. I had never been her daughter. Merely her toy.”

“Genya,” Alina whispered softly, hand reaching upwards. Alina didn’t really know why she was reaching out to Genya, she just wanted the sadness on Genya’s face to go away.

“My mistake was that I let it happen. I didn’t think about what was happening around me, I just trusted that everything would be perfect forever, and I wouldn’t have to do a thing to keep it that way. But everything comes with a price,” Genya said bitterly, but even as she did, her amber eyes burned . Something foul writhed underneath the surface but it was subsumed by an intense fervor, but fervor for what? Alina could not tell.

“Someone told me something once, and it has stuck with me ever since.”

“What?”

“Beauty is power. Knowledge is power. Cunning is power. Patience is power.”

“And what is power?” 

“Survival.” 

Genya looked at her with those burning eyes. “You can’t hide Alina, in the same way I can’t hide,” she said. “So are you going to play the game? Or are you going to become a toy?”

Alina was quiet for a moment before shaking her head. “Alright,” she heard herself say, “let’s play a game.”

But later that night as she stared up at dawn painted so lovingly on her ceiling, the orphan, the soldier, the girl who didn't even register as a pawn on the chessboard of kings outside of her unit, couldn't help but wonder.

What does it mean to play the game? What does it mean to not be a toy?

~

A man sits in a grand study, his desk piled high with stacks and stacks of paper. There is paper all over the room, on nearly every conceivable surface, and the invasion has spilled over to the war room, his parlor and even his bed (he’s going to have to move those stacks to the chair he’s sitting on now if he wants to sleep in it tonight).

A door opens slightly and two women are let in his apartments by the oprichniki, the one station that is never left vacant under any circumstance. His pen stops for the first time in hours.

“Natacha. Genya.”

“Moi Soverenyi,” they murmur. 

Aleksander looks up from his correspondence. “Report.”

“The letters were delivered to Communications,” Genya said, “two of them, however she wrote significantly more than just two.”

“Oh?”

“I checked the names of the recipients while she was in the bath,” Genya said, “she had fallen asleep at her desk and then reacted in a way that suggested I was not meant to have seen the rest of the letters. They were addressed to the missing and killed members of her unit.”

“Interesting.” Aleksander made an aborted movement to slide his knife out of its holster on his wrist before he remembered with a pang of annoyance that he currently did not possess one. David was in the process of making him a new blade, but a master crafted knife of grisha steel made to his, admittedly exacting, specifications still took time. “That does remind me, why was there a cartography unit on that skiff to begin with?” In all of the havoc that had occurred in the days since the Sun Summoner’s discovery, he had almost forgotten that there was something odd with the circumstances of the discovery. That particular journey had been a standard cargo run, and if he remembered correctly the addition of the cartography unit had not been on the manifest that morning. Why had the cartography unit been added at the last minute? 

“Genya, inform Fedyor that he is to coordinate with the Oprichniki to find out why the Sun Summoner’s unit was on the skiff in the first place.”

“Yes, moi soverenyi.”

“Natacha?”

“As you predicted, her marks in Science are acceptable for otkazat’sya however horrendous by the standards of the Second. High marks on Mathematics, Old Ravkan, History and Theology though she toes the party line on the latter two, her syntax is dispassionate, and she goes out of her way to avoid making any controversial statements.”

The calibration tests were not just diagnostic exams for knowledge of subject matter but probed for other qualities. How bold were the examinees in the expression of their beliefs? In what areas did they exercise discretion, and in what manner did they do so? How did they choose to allocate their time, and what values did they express by the questions they selected to expound upon?

In this case, the Sun Summoner had not only received the standard calibration exam for Economics and Ravkan Politics, she also received several questions that deviated from the norm, ones that he devised just for her. ‘What makes a law just?’ ‘What is the purpose of a society?’ No matter how she answered, he would reap the benefit, any answer she gave would give him insight into what made the Sun Summoner tick.

And if he was genuinely curious as to what Alina might have to say, well. No one had to know. 

“And what of the non-standard questions?”

“She left them blank.”

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself before looking up at the two. “Genya, have a set of riding equipment prepared for the Sun Summoner. I will see to her first riding lesson personally the day after the next. That will be all for the night, thank you both.”

“Moi soverenyi.” They both saluted and left Aleksander to his thoughts. 

A little Sun Summoner thrown onto the world stage. 

The lights are on, and all eyes are on the one who has finally entered the narrative. The question now remains: is she the hero that Ravka has been waiting for?

Alina Starkova. 

Will you run? 

Or will you stand?

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 11: Class Is In Session: Ready? Or Not. (Part I)

“The object of standardized education is not only to impart information, it is also to ensure a common vocabulary, an understanding of shared concepts so that all inquiry may begin from a unified notion of what must be true. It is to shape the mind so that a person knows how to ask, so that it knows how to think, so that it knows it must think. It is for this reason that the education of the grisha is so long. With our gifts comes the obligation to learn control, the obligation to undertake advanced and significant introspection of our own selves in order to discover who we are and our place in the World around us. In turn, mastery over our gifts allow us to fulfill our duties as grisha and as Ravkans, give back to the nation that gives us sanctuary and hope for a brighter tomorrow. However, this obligation does not merely end with grisha. It can be said that the duty of all Ravkans is to work towards a better world, to leave this nation greater than the one they came into. How can such a task be accomplished with the current standard of education afforded to the masses?  When forging a blade for war, can we be surprised when it breaks at first contact with the enemy when we knew the crucible was filled with basest pig iron? We seek to create an empire from a kingdom beset upon all sides, and yet we are shocked when such a task proves nearly impossible with a people whose talents go undiscovered and unharnessed. It is for this reason that I petition the Governing Senate, the High Council, and your Majesty for increasing funding allocated towards the education of the young, and for this funding to be made available to all regardless of their circumstance of birth..."    

- The Honorable Lord Mikhail Kirillovich Demidov-Kirigan

Lord Chancellor of the Royal Academy for the Small Sciences, Headmaster of the Little Palace, Duke of Balakirev and Earl of Caryeva

~

“ Well done Alina ,” Genya had smiled earlier this morning.

Undergarments in place, pants up.

“You’ve tested out of mathematics, Old Ravkan, and Theology. ”

Uniform shirt on top, buttoned up (to the second button for exercises, though she was not looking forward to closing the decorative gold top clasp that she had spotted on her Court Kefta uniform shirt when it came time for formal engagements) and tucked in as per regulation, one of the few that First and Second Army shared.

“ That still means you have to take the Field classes, Sciences beyond the Small levels 4 through 9, History of the Grisha, and, in addition to your electives, you have lessons with yours truly in preparation for your classes at the Grand Palace. From here on out, until you graduate from the curriculum or unless the General says otherwise, you will be known as Sun Summoner, Seeker Starkova or Miss Starkova.”

Socks on, leather boots ( black, did that mean anything?) tied- tight.

“ Your Summoning Instructors arrived from Ejora last night. They’re resting now, but they’ll be ready to begin this afternoon. However, first you have Physical Conditioning with Botkin, as you will every morning from here on out except for Sundays. So up and at them. I’ll see you later.”

A blue combat kefta with rays of light radiating from the sun, all emblazoned in dull gold thread hangs in her wardrobe and Alina stares at it, uneasy, unsettled. Her heart pounds in her ears, a part of her does not believe that what is happening to her is real. It all seems so surreal. 

She takes a deep breath.

One sleeve then the next, a shrug and then a hard tug on the lapels and the kefta falls into place. Four gold buttons fastened slowly. A black leather belt looped around her waist and the clasp, a gold sun on a glittering obsidian background, clicks shut with solemn finality.

“Get ready Alina. Now the real work begins.”

~

“Sun Summoner!”

She was standing awkwardly on the side of the practice field outside of the Dawn Annex. She wasn’t alone, grisha of various orders and three squadrons of oprichniki were in combat clothing, slowly beginning to warm up for the morning exercises. This wasn’t the entire garrison, only about a third of the grisha stationed at the Little Palace proper. The other two thirds had already done their exercises apparently, the garrison was too large for everyone to utilize certain common spaces at the same time, so everything in the palace was done in shifts, from morning exercises to eating in the Great Hall (which despite its size was still not enough to accommodate everyone eating dinner at once comfortably).

A tall heavy set man in black robes with thin grey trim stood with his arms crossed. His robes were not kefta, and did not look like anything that Alina had ever seen. Wait, that wasn’t quite true. That one set of clothes that Chatelaine Nada had presented to her in Balakirev looked a bit like what he was wearing. An open jacket with a shirt that appeared to be tied shut at the side, loose pants that were also black, and black cloth shoes, but his clothing (aside from the color which was– black? Black!) was the least important thing about him.

Tanned skin with a head neatly shaved, brow creased with lines that came with age and laughter, dark gentle eyes with a shape that she had very very rarely seen outside of her own reflection.

“All of Ravka’s foes want to kill you before you can destroy the Fold,” 

Shifu Botkin Erdene said gruffly before smiling, “It’s a great honor to have so many enemies.”

“Is it?” Alina asked blankly, “I’d rather not have them, if that’s alright.”

“I’m afraid that is not how having enemies works,” Botkin informed her seriously. 

Alina sighed. 

“Join the third group, and do your best. If you overexert yourself, Senior Healer Smirnov and Healer Tarasova are on standby with the Healer Trainees over there.” Botkin nods at a longsuffering blonde haired man who looked to be in his thirties at most and a cheerful brown haired stout young lass standing off to the side with a pack of chattering youngsters who couldn’t possibly be older than fourteen. “Standard procedure and good practice opportunities for the young ones.” 

“Alright,” Alina said, “just don’t die, got it.”

“Excellent spirit, Sun Summoner, if a bit morbid, but correct in principle! Go forth!”

“Going forth,” Alina said halfheartedly, before jogging over to join group three.

She saw Nadia and Marie standing there, and they waved enthusiastically to her as she jogged, and she raised her hand to wave back only to stop when she saw the instructor turn around. Squaller Nazyalenskaya glared at her, eyes sharp and cold, silver pendant glinting in the sunlight.

“Sun Summoner,” Nazyalenskaya said coolly, “good of you to finally arrive. We’re starting morning drills now, try to keep up.”

... Oh boy. Here we go.

~

“Starkova, stop.”

Alina stumbled and just barely kept herself standing, though she had to brace her hands on her knees and she could see spots in her eyes.

“Barely half of the aerobic exercises, not even a third of the standard push up and sit ups, and out of breath after three laps before we get to the weight exercises.” Nazyalenskaya rattles off her deficiencies rapidly, but unlike the venomous glares she had been shooting Alina’s way since the immediate aftermath of the audience with the Tsar, her summary is dispassionate, almost clinical. “You were First Army, yes?”

“Yes,” Alina manages to say in between ragged breaths.

 The Squaller whistles three times and raises three fingers up in the air. 

A brief moment before Senior Healer Smirnov made his way over along with a handful of the trainees.

“Sir, Seeker Starkova is unable to complete initial exercises. Wasting sickness aside, I suspect repetitive muscular injury.”

“Wasting sickness?” Alina wheezed, “Muscular injury?”

“Grisha are conduits Miss Starkova,” Senior Healer Smirnov said calmly, tranquil now that he wasn’t looking after a small horde of preteens, “if we do not allow the energy of the world to flow through us, we waste away, becoming emaciated, sickly, ill. Muscular dystrophy, loss of appetite, and poor stamina are all common symptoms. As for the repetitive muscular injury... Miss Starkova, please stay still.” 

Pale blue tinged ever so slightly slate grey focused on her as he moved his hands towards her back. A light prod and Alina could feel a pulse of energy surge through her body.

“Your assessment was correct Squaller Nazyalenskaya,” Smirnov said, “I sense multiple muscle imbalances.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Alina asked, now alarmed.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Smirnov said gently, “your body is merely weakened by years of denying your gifts, malnutrition, and extended improper exercise with the First. It is our understanding that First Army training consists mainly of calisthenics and running correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Such exercise can be good in measured quantities, however the First Army’s overreliance on them can cause injury as they overwork certain muscles and neglect others. Such a phenomena has been well documented by the Second Army and as such our training varies during the week to avoid such problems, it is quite the shame that the First still refuses to change their Physical Training regime to account for our discoveries. Children, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Senior Healer,” the three boys and single girl in Corporalki reds chorused.

“What is wrong?” Shifu Botkin had come over now, attention diverted from where he had been overseeing the field exercises.

“Some muscle imbalances and repetitive stress injuries to start,” Smirnov reported, “corrective exercises will be necessary, however the majority of the Sun Summoner’s health issues will not abate until she recovers from malnutrition and can regulate the flow of energy through her system.”

“Zoya, you have worked with Shift Four before,” Botkin said, “You can lead the Sun Summoner through the exercises.”

Nazyalenskaya frowned, “why not just put her in Shift Four?”

Yes, why not put her in Shift Four, whatever that was? Alina didn’t know Nazyalenskaya well, but the thinly veiled hostility that she had up until now exhibited didn’t exactly make Alina feel at ease with the Squaller being yet another personal tutor.

“For the same reason I can not oversee Shift Four,” Botkin said, “Ejora has sent overflow patients back to the Little Palace.”

Alina had no clue why Ejora sending patients back to the Little Palace would prevent her from joining them, however the explanation seemed sufficient to Nazyalenskaya who deflated and just sighed. “Fine,” Nazyalenskaya said begrudgingly, “Come on Seeker, let’s start with some rotator exercises...”

~

For the rest of the morning training it was just her and Nazyalenskaya in a corner running through exercises that she had never done before. Nazyalenskaya was cold but professional, and while Alina tried her best to keep up, she could tell that Nazyalenskaya had set a low bar and Alina still wasn’t managing to pass it.

Alina left for breakfast disheartened but soon enough she was back on the training field. This time there was a smaller group, all around her age. 

“Sun Summoner!” Shifu Botkin greeted her again with the same enthusiasm as he had for the morning exercises and Alina couldn’t help but smile at the welcoming note in his booming voice, “welcome! Come come, tell me, do you know how to fight?”

“A little,” Alina said, holding up her thumb and index finger to demonstrate. “I’m mostly self taught, but I do know how to shoot and how to use a knife.”

“The King forbids us from carrying firearms,” Botkin says, “your skill with them may be useful knowledge for your summoning, but unfortunately may otherwise languish.”

Huh? Grisha were forbidden from carrying firearms? Was that why her service pistol had been taken from her that first morning? She had come back from the audience with the Tsar and not been able to find it since, an odd feeling considering how it had been a constant weight at her side for years in the First. She still felt a little off balance without it.

Though come to think of it, she hasn’t seen a single grisha carry a gun, not in Kribirsk and not at the Little Palace. Alina had never thought about it before, the only grisha she had spent significant amounts of time with had been the four Etherealki stationed with her north of Ulensk, and she assumed that the summoners weren’t issued firearms because they were essentially walking artillery, as much as Emiliya complained about that characterization being incredibly reductive of their abilities. But while Etherealki and Heartrenders might not need them, Katya had taken out a short sword and a dagger instead of a pistol. That seemed a little dangerous, and strange for how important Healers were.

“In any case you will need to have a strong foundation in unarmed combat. Should you find yourself in a situation where you can not summon, then your body will be your weapon of last resort,” Botkin said, “ordinarily, students either learn by sequence or with other refugees in Ejora, however neither are viable options for you. Learning by sequence would do more harm than good as you would be sparring with children and aiming down, which teaches you different habits than the ones you would need. I will mentor you personally as often as I am able, however there will be days where I can not, and must see to other students as well. Zoya is my best student, and on the days where my duties call me elsewhere, she will help you get up to speed so that you can begin sparring with the class nearest graduation and then your age cohort. The two of you seem to work well together this morning.”

“...Right. We worked...well this morning,” Alina said hesitantly, glancing at the stoney face of the beautiful Squaller who was leading the class through synchronized drills.

Botkin led her off to the side and so began her training in unarmed combat. The Master of Arms demonstrated the proper way to throw a punch, (“ Your form is good Sun Summoner, but it could be better!”), how to move in such a way as to never get in her own way, how to use her momentum to transition from one movement to the next.

“Always be in motion, even when you’re staying in one place,” Botkin said, “your enemy will not give you room or energy to start anew. Should you stop you then allow them to dictate the pace of battle, one you may find difficult to match.”

“To fight is to seek balance,” Botkin told her while correcting her stance and movements gently, “too much force and your energy will leave you like water from a sieve. Too little, and you will have sought to mark stone with feather down. Use the opening phase of a bout to understand exactly what will be necessary to win, and then set out to execute upon that understanding, no more and no less. You must always keep something in reserve, for you never know when the next adversary will appear.”

“That will be enough for today,” Botkin said to her prone corpse two hours after they began, “you have made excellent progress today Sun Summoner. Your instincts are strong and will provide you a good foundation going forward, however combat is as much about the mind as it is the body. Instinct will only get you so far and may lead you astray, may cause you to forget where you are in search of what you may not need. But that is a lesson that will become second nature with time and practice. For now, this is how a teacher and a disciple greet and bid each other farewell in Shu Han.” Botkin smiles and claps his hands together before bowing over them. “Sun Summoner.”

Alina climbed to her feet, tried not to keel over again, then mirrored his movements, clapping her hands together and bowing, though with less certainty than the Master of Arms did. “Shifu Botkin.”

~

After morning training, Alina didn’t change out of her combat kefta immediately because today she happened to have survival training, and she was supposed to wear her combat kefta for those classes too, even if this first day all she was allowed to do was read over pages and pages of safety protocols and listen to a lecture by both the old rugged Senior Inferni in charge of Survival Training and the Opichniki Captain in charge of her security detail ( “Captain Guseva, Sun Summoner. Pleasure.”) on what to do in the event that Survival training exercises were to be interrupted by an attack on either her person or the Little Palace (“ Run like the Black Heretic is on your ass Sun Summoner, make it to these designated lock down areas and wait for further instruction from the General. Pardon my Kerch.”)

Then she did have to change out of her combat kefta for Sciences beyond the Small, when she reported to her Independent Study Section to be handed a book to read. “ I’m afraid that there is no other way to reasonably catch you up to the level that you should be at,” Senior Durast Ilyin said, “Quite a bit of science at the early levels is just rote memorization and simplistic enough that trying to lecture you about it would be less efficient than just reading it for yourself. Just try to get through this as fast as you can while still passing your tests and then we can get to the fun stuff. Let me know if you have any questions!” 

A lunch where there was surprisingly no herring ( “The Materialki might have found a way to remove nearly all of the mercury in the herring, but it’s still not safe to eat it for every lunch and dinner of the week, so for one day a week General Kirigan grants us mercy from the onslaught of General Herring. I’d say Saints save him but he’s also the one who imposed this on us to begin with so...Saints save him for other reasons, but not that one.”) before she had to go to the one class she had been dreading all day.

~

Summoning practice would normally be held in the Summoner’s Pavillion right behind the Etherealki Hall, however in her case the General had offered his own personal training field in the woods outside the West Wing of the Little Palace. It was a bit of a trek, so Alina left lunch early, stomach roiling with cloying fear and claustrophobic anxiety.

Captain Guseva led her down the path, one that a glance at the ground told her was well travelled by horse. A forest clearing appeared ahead, a relatively large one that was far too neat and geometric to be one born from natural circumstances. A small black gazebo sat off to the side of the square clearing, white asphodels blooming around the structure. The pillars were seemingly grown from the ground as trunk and roots twisted and then straightened into a palladian pavilion. Carvings of various kinds of flowers wound their way up the columns and wooden imitations of the wisteria she had seen in Balakirev, this time in full bloom, weaved in and out to create the roof of the structure. Inside, a single imposingly large armchair that was closer to some austere throne was left empty, but sitting side by side on three much smaller black wooden chairs curved in an arc around a small table set on top of a mosaic eclipse were three older grisha sipping tea.  

On the left was an older man, very clearly Suli given his tanned complexion and sharp facial features, with kind, if tired brown eyes, salt and pepper hair that was neatly tidied away and a well groomed short beard. To the right was a petite woman, somehow even smaller than Alina , which was a first. She was a Southerner from the way that she tied her grey hair into a braid with glass beads and then into a severe updo that somehow couldn't take away from the fact that she was bouncing on the chair. She reminded Alina of Irina, in that she looked like she wanted to set something on fire despite being the Squaller by the looks of her kefta. In the middle was a large woman, dark haired, plump, missing an eye, and terrifying. A black eye patch and fierce scowl on her face, her remaining pale blue eye was cold and sharp as ice.

“Sun Summoner,” they chorused together with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Alina instinctively took a step back.

“Ha! I told you she would be freaked out if we did that!” the short Squaller cackled, “you owe me fifty, Shenyechka!”

“I never agreed on the bet Vika,” the Inferni said tiredly, “you just ran away before I could say no.”

“But you still said it with me!”

“That’s because I can’t be bothered to listen to you whine for the rest of the day.”

“Alright, enough,” the Tidemaker rapped her knuckles on the ebony armchair and the other two quieted down. “Sun Summoner,” she repeated evenly, “come here, let us have a good look at you.”

Alina warily stepped forward, only to yelp when a strong gust of wind chivvied her forward. 

“Vika,” the Tidemaker said warningly.

“She’s so slow!” 

“ Vika .”

“ Fine,” the Squaller grumbled, crossing her arms and flopping back in her seat petulantly. 

“Do you know who we are, Sun Summoner?” the Tidemaker asked.

“A little,” Alina said. Genya had told her a bit before the Tailor shooed Alina out of her own room when Alina tried to drag her feet in the Vezda suite. Senior Tidemaker Daria Kusmichna Lebedeva, Senior Inferni Gennady Gerasimovich Golubev, Senior Squaller Viktoria Valeryevna Orlova. Known informally as the Bird Summoners (though not where Lebedeva could hear apparently) due to their last names meaning Swan, Dove, and Eagle respectively, they were some of the oldest grisha in Ravka. They were normally posted in Ejora, and it was incredibly rare for any of them to leave the city, let alone all three at once. That they had all been pulled from the City of Waterfalls just to teach Alina…

“Summoning is not only an art, it is a journey,” Golubev said, “it is to listen to the World around us and learn how to answer its call. The longer we search, the more we learn the nuances as to how the World calls to us as individuals, how we as individuals can stand in the world.”

“You will fail,” Lebedeva said bluntly, “you will have days where nothing you want is happening, and everything you thought you understood about yourself and your powers will turn out to have been an illusion.”

“But you won’t give up right?” Orlova leaned in excitedly, dark brown eyes flashing in the shadows of the pavilion as she bounced in her seat, “you won’t be boring like that, will you?”

“I–.” Alina shifted in place, nervous and uncertain. Even as warm as the Inferni Golubev's gaze was, the way he and Lebedeva were watching her made something inside her cower, made her wish that she could burrow away. She wished she could make herself small so that their eyes wouldn’t see her, so that they would look over and past her, the way people always had before. 

At least Orlova wasn’t paying attention anymore. She had jumped off her chair and was now crouched on the ground overturning rocks seemingly at random with a stick.

“All grisha must begin somewhere, Seeker Starkova,” Lebedeva said, “It is not merely the duty, but the privilege of Senior Grisha to teach the next generation. It is built into our ethos, our culture, one of our great sayings. Do you know of what I speak? I doubt that you would have gone so long with the General without hearing the words.”

Alina frowned and searched her memory. The General had told her so much about the grisha in the dizzyingly short time she had known him that she wasn’t certain what Lebedeva meant. Yet for some reason it felt as though the words were at the tip of her tongue, tantalizingly near, close, and familiar. Like the feeling of Matron Demina sitting down on the end of her bed in the orphanage getting ready to kiss her goodnight, the sound of Petya singing that strange haunting tune to that wild syncopated beat. Yet it was beyond her recollection, a stranger to memory and thought and heart, like a song she knew the rhythm of but not the melody.

“You are grisha." Lebedeva said quietly. "You are not alone. You never have been. And you never will be.” Her cold eyes were not kind, not gentle, but there was something there, just a fraction of a second where the blizzard abated, and she could see the sanctuary granted by winter, frost, and storm. 

“Tell us about yourself, Miss Starkova,” Golubev said, filling the cups of Lebedeva and Orlova as well as an extra she had not seen before, hidden as it was behind the teapot. 

Alina blinked. “What do you mean?” Alina asked, as Lebedeva reached out and grabbed Orlova by the scruff as the small Squaller ran by before depositing the pouting Etherealki in her chair.

“Where were you born?" Lebedeva prompted, "What do you prefer to be called? What is your favorite color? What is your favorite food?”

“Do you even like tea, or do you think it’s just hot leaf juice like me?” Orlova chimed in before slurping her entire cup of tea loudly.

“Now that is the real heresy right there,” Golubev said drily, before shaking his head. “Tell us about yourself, Miss Starkova,” Golubev asked, a small gentle smile on his face. “Every grisha has a story to tell,” he held out the newly filled cup of tea out to her. “What is yours?” 

“...Well,” Alina began quietly, tentatively, yet slowly growing...hopeful. “I was born in Tiyato, a small village in the South by Dva Stolba. My father was from Shu Han, my mother was Ravkan…”

~

“So how were your lessons with the Bird Summoners?”

Alina shrugged as best she could, standing where she was with a metal brace strapped to her back. It wasn’t a medical brace, not meant to support her in any way, but it was a corrective tool, meant to reshape her posture.

“Words, Alina,” Genya said gently, “with any of us you can shrug, but it is considered improper in Court.”

“This is dumb.”

“Can’t use that word.”

“This is absurd.”

“Better. Also correct but,” Genya shrugged.

“You just did it!”

“I’m allowed to,” Genya said primly, “I know I will not shrug in front of the Tsaritsa. You would .” 

Fair. Unfortunately.

“While you practice walking we should work on your accent,” Genya said, as they walked together slowly around the East Wing Equinox Receiving Room. The room was a grand affair, the reception area where non-Little Palace personnel who were invited by the inhabitants of the Vezda and Noch Suites, presently herself and the General, would wait for an audience. The ceiling was painted a midnight blue that transitioned through the dawn into a brilliantly vibrant noonday sun before the dusk reclaimed the rest of the space for the dark so that the ceiling was equal parts dark and light. The rest of the room followed similar theming, one half black upholstered furniture and ebony woodwork, the other half gold damask with white painted furniture. Receiving room it might be, but for the foreseeable future it was to be Alina’s etiquette classroom by the General’s insistence, and anyone who wished to see him would wait in the officer’s lounge a floor below. 

“ But what about if I wanted guests?” Alina had asked Genya at one point. 

“The Little Palace has never allowed outsiders to come visit easily for security purposes, however exceptions have been made for family and close friends who wish to visit. Should they pass a background check by the Oprichniki, they will be allowed to visit. Those do take a while, the Oprichniki are very thorough out of necessity. In the meantime, put this brace on— hey, where exactly do you think you’re going? Get back here!”

“Court Enunciation is an artificial construction,” Genya told her as they turned the corner, “a way of speaking frozen in time, preserving the sound and memory of Ravka's Golden Age."

“Which one?” Alina asked distractedly, mostly concentrating on not slipping on the polished black and white marble floor (one that was covered in sun in eclipse motifs naturally, and again, she bet her nonexistent income that the marble was from Caryeva), “the Long Peace after the Fracturing, or the Revival after the Boyar’s Rebellion?”

“The Revival, there is no way even the most stubborn of traditionalists could hope to keep an accent from over three hundred years ago alive for this long, though you wouldn’t be able to tell if you heard the General complain about it. He says the Apparat massively botches his Fracturing Ravkan, though how he knows for certain what Fracturing Ravkan sounded like is anyone’s guess, but whatever. Darklings are going to Darkling.” Alina couldn't help but snort. Now that sounded like a grisha saying, cadence even vaguely there despite the words being hilariously irreverent and Genya saying it in such a long-suffering way. “Point is, Court Enunciation is from the Revival because Ravka was strong, powerful, and prosperous, despite being cut off from the rest of the world and suffering from a major rebellion that nearly overthrew Tsaritsa Elizaveta who instead, turned out to be one of the greatest rulers of Ravka in generations. The current Court likes to pretend that the current time is a continuation of that period and so one way they like to do so is through trying to emulate various aspects of the Revival, such as keeping the accent, eating some of the same dishes, and so on.”

“Is that why the women of the Court pretended to care about charity in front of the General?” Alina asked, trying not to wobble on her most pressing fashion nemesis now that the lampshade had presumably been vanquished.

“Oh no, they just think he’s hot — Alina are you alright?” Genya cut herself off in alarm.

“Ah — yeah, I’m alright,” Alina groaned from the ground where she had lost her battle against the infernal contraptions they dared to call shoes, “just — startled.”

“What, that the women of the Court think the General is handsome and are on their best behavior around him on the chance they might be able to get into his pants?” 

“Yes, also that you would be so blunt about it,” Alina said, rubbing her back, locked in the metal brace. 

“I have eyes!” Genya giggled, a dainty, airy thing that did not sound quite right to Alina's ears. “And so does the Court. The man is pretty and knows it. Ah, but that is itself a lesson to be remembered. Always watch for the beautiful ones, especially those who don't bother to hide that they're dangerous.” 

“That include you?” Alina asked, taking this rare moment where Genya Leonidovna Safina, a surprisingly hard taskmaster for all her levity, allowed her brief reprieve.

“Aww, you're sweet,” Genya's smile flickered into something knife sharp, mirror bright-fierce, dangerous and yet all the more genuine for it. "Of course it does."

“And what’s Rule Number 1?” Alina asked, watching the Tailor closer now. Who are you really? What are you hiding?

Genya wasn't looking at her. The Tailor's eyes had drifted towards the window, towards the East, at grey clouds brewing overhead, at a gathering storm.

“Beware of powerful men.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 12: The Weight of History and Expectation

“Today is a day of remembrance, where we come together to remember those who gave their lives to defend Os Alta in the siege that held our city captive for four long years. We remember the brave men and women who sacrificed everything to ensure that walls remained standing, and our people were kept safe and alive. 

However, today is also a day of celebration, where we salute the courage, the tenacity, and the determination of the people of Os Alta in supporting one another, protecting one another, banding together in the face of overwhelming odds. Today, we celebrate the one truth that all the world now knows. Even through the blackest of days, through the darkest of nights, Ravka stands! May she never fall!”

- The Fifth Duke of Dorodva, “the Grand Dorodva” 

The Hero of Os Alta

~

The next few days were much the same. Conditioning, theoretically with Botkin but because of her injuries from improper exercise with the First, it was really with Nazyalenskaya who was very cold and standoffish. Then came combat training, actually with Botkin, who patiently guided her through the stances, and then watched as she slowly practiced the movements, only speeding up when Botkin deemed that she had the fundamentals down well enough. Summoning lessons that were very intriguing and demanded a surprising degree of  introspection at times, and were... quite the experience at other times. Her other classes were straightforward, and though her schedule was very packed, she was surprised to find herself enjoying it all. 

In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Life in the First Army had been marching, tent making, marching again most of the time, and dangerous when it was not. The orphanage was a similarly dull cycle of rote memorization, sermons, and chores that didn't even have the danger to break up the monotony. 

All her life she had been discouraged from thinking, punished when she stepped out of line or even glanced in its general direction, but here? 

Here it was different. 

Her teachers encouraged her to ask questions, and were patient with her. When she didn’t understand a concept, she could ask questions and get an answer . What a difference it was from the orphanage matrons who would never entertain inquiry, the Brothers of Sankt Dmitri who talked at her rather than with her.

If only– if only she could... 

She blinked when she saw Genya was waiting for her outside of her door.

“Are we having etiquette classes early?” Alina asked. Normally at this time Genya was...somewhere else. Probably the Grand Palace, but to be honest, Alina had no clue what Genya did there most of the time. Presumably Tailoring the Tsaritsa didn’t take the whole day so what did Genya get up to when she wasn’t attending to the Tsaritsa or teaching Alina?

“No, I am simply here with your riding clothes,” Genya said, hoisting yet another garment bag behind her head. This was starting to become a pattern. This time however she also was holding a box of some sort. “You have riding lessons today, and you won’t want to be late.”

Oh Alina had not looking forward to those. Sometimes she thought she could still feel the ache in her tailbone and the soreness of her thighs. According to her schedule she was supposed to have them the second day of lessons but Genya had appeared on her doorstep to inform her apologetically that her instructor had been called away to tend to other affairs for the time being and that she would not have lessons until he was available once more. “So I’m finally having the horse lessons then?”

“Equestrianism.”

“Potato, spud.”

“That is not how that saying goes.”

“ It is now .”

The riding clothes turned out to be a very beautifully tailored white blouse with a pair of handsome cream riding breeches that were so smooth and buttery soft she could hardly believe it.

“Alina, you know the idea is that you put the pants on at some point, not just pet them?”

“Shhhhh. They’re so soft.”

Eventually she did, and it was a perfect fit. How did these Durasts do it? She hadn’t been measured by a Materialki or a tailor, the kind that actually dealt with the making of clothing that is.

“Oh, I gave them your measurements,” Genya said when Alina asked, “the proportions and measurements of the human body come to me when I reach out to ask, and I have long since learned how to translate what my senses tell me into numbers for the Durasts. You seem surprised?”

“How do you get someone’s measurements just by looking? Is this a Tailor thing?”

“If one is skilled or experienced enough, then yes. Understanding proportionality is vital to the art of Tailoring. How else would we be able to create change that appears natural?”

“Natural?”

“Everything has an innate sense of right and wrong, a range of acceptable permutations before something goes wrong, and human features are no different. When you looked at the Tsaritsa, what did you see?”

“I didn’t,” Alina admitted, “for some reason my eyes didn’t want to look directly at her.”

“It is because she does not listen,” Genya replied, “she pushes the boundaries of not what Tailoring can do, but what the human eye registers as natural, and therefore beautiful. She looks at the aesthetics of objects and demands that the best of their qualities be given to her. She cannot comprehend that there is a difference in kind between skin metaphorically described as porcelain and skin that becomes porcelain. As grisha, our gifts allow us to perceive the mismatch on a more fundamental level. Our psyches cannot bear such a mismatch, and so your eyes ask to look at anything else.” Genya smiled, a sharp, empty thing that brought to mind the jagged shards of a shattered mirror. “The irony astounds.”

“What irony?” Alina asked, curious.

Genya shifted in place. “Too many to count, but the ones that come to mind most prominently right now? That a woman who sees other people as objects would unconsciously demand that she be made into one, that someone who craves adulation for her appearance would change herself so unnaturally that makes it difficult to even look in her direction.” Genya shook her head. “Forgive me, I must sound depressing. I find using my power makes me introspective, and even maudlin.”

“No, no,” Alina murmured, mind racing, “you’re good.” A brief silence before she nudged Genya. “Hey,” Alina said softly, “I don’t mind listening if you need me to. Don’t feel like you need to censor your thoughts around me, okay?”

Genya blinked at her, hesitant with some other emotion that Alina couldn’t quite place flashing across her face but wiped away just as soon as it appeared. “I…,” Genya shook her head, “what am I saying, we don’t have time for this, you’re going to be late!”

Alina blinked at the Tailor as Genya hurriedly grabbed the black box from where it had been forgotten on the parlor room table. “Open this,” Genya demanded.

“Okay, okay!” Alina reached for the box only to notice belatedly the silk ribbon that wound its way around the package, tied neatly into a bow. A little bundle of flowers was tucked into the bow, and Alina eyed yellow branching florets artfully arranged next to pink heather, larger white flowers with red centers boldly positioned above small tiny white flowers with branching arils on a curling vine that almost coyly hide among fronds of fern. She would have to consult her little book on the language of flowers, but for now her attention was focused on the color of the bow instead. “Is this from…?”

“If you can tell me anyone else in the Little Palace who would dare to use black silk to mark packages, do let me know, I’m sure the General would love to have a talk with them about the importance of personal aesthetics .”

Alina tugged the black ribbon to undo the bow and gingerly put the ribbon off to one side. It was a nice ribbon, maybe if she asked nicely, she could keep it to tie her hair or something.

Tall black leather riding boots nested in black cloth with a pair of gold spurs glinting off to the side, waiting to be put on. A small black and gold scarf was neatly folded beneath the spurs.

“They’re not actually gold,” Genya said when Alina looked at her quizzically, “the spurs I mean. That would be impractical. But if you use the right alloy, it can mimic the color.” Genya waved her hand around in a vaguely exasperated manner, “the General has very strong opinions on–”

“–color coordination. I know, it’s been a bit hard to miss.”

Alina sat down to pull the boots on. They slid easily over her breeches and when she stood up, she could see that they fit quite well, snug but not tight. They didn’t pinch her toes or feel rough underneath her feet and when she bounced a bit in place to get a feel for her range of motion, she immediately noticed how sturdily they were constructed, a far cry from the standard issue combat boots the First Army issued that would fall apart far too quickly and wouldn’t get replaced until long after the sole started separating from the rest of the boot. Alina shrugged on her daily wear kefta and fastened the belt neatly around her waist. She held up the scarf. The pattern in silk had looked like simple geometric patterns, but when Alina held it up closely, she could see that the circles were actually eclipses alternating and interlocking with suns.

“Boots fit well?”

“They’re perfect.”

“Good, the General will be pleased to hear that.” Genya took the scarf from Alina’s hand and then tied it artfully loose around her neck. “In fact, you can tell him yourself at the stables. Come, I’ll lead you there.”

…What?

~

General Kirigan was standing in the stables, unmistakable with his straight, proud bearing and his black kefta. He was standing in front of a black horse, a basket at his feet, and Alina could just barely catch the sound of him murmuring soft nothings to his steed who had gently leaned forward to rest its head over the General’s shoulder as the General...was he braiding his horse’s mane? He glanced up at them as they entered the stable.

“Miss Starkova,” he greeted, neatly finishing the final jet black plait before patting the neck of his horse one last time and taking a graceful step away from his steed. “Miss Safina, thank you for bringing Miss Starkova, I will take it from here.” Genya curstied and then left. “I see you are wearing my gift.”

She looked down at the silk scarf, the breaches, and the shiny black leather boots. “Do you mean the boots, the scarf, or the clothes?”

“All of them,” he said.

“They’re nice,” Alina said, “nicest clothes I’ve owned, but that doesn’t exactly mean much.”

The General looked away. “No,” he said softly, “I imagine it does not.” He goes quiet, seems lost in the fog of days gone by. “Once, even the poorest orphan in Ravka could expect food on her plate, a good pair of shoes on their feet. Not as fine as the ones I have gifted to you today, but. Something better than what one can expect these days, what I imagine you had to live through. War has taken much from this country, indeed.” He goes silent for a moment, lost in thought, in memory, before shaking his head, “No matter,” he says, voice firm with the conviction of a Lord at War; implacable, relentless. “Here we stand. This is the reality that we must contend with.” Quartz grey eyes pin her in place, wildfire roaring in the forest around a candle, dragon watching mouse, and for a moment, her heart stops. She finds herself peering into the darkness of a realm that is supposed to be several days' ride away. Cold, unforgiving, hungry. Watching. Waiting .

Waiting for whom?

Then the General blinks before reaching up behind him absentmindedly to pet his black steed who had walked up to snuffle at his perfectly styled jet black hair. Dark brown eyes glance backwards. “I see Nightmare has elected to kindly remind me that we are here for a reason.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Alina let out the shaky breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding in as she weakly attempted to escape the inevitable. “I’m perfectly fine meeting her, her? From a distance. Preferably at least this much.” Alina vaguely motioned at the good ten feet and a General in between her and the horse that she vaguely recognized, but was honestly not certain. Horses all looked the same to her, especially the seemingly identical black horses that she had only ever seen the General ride. It would figure that the color coding apparently also extended to horses.

“Her,” General Kirigan confirmed, “and you will not be riding Nightmare again in any event. Turn around.”

“What?” Alina whirled around to see a young stable hand lead a white mare into the barn.

“I considered finding a white stallion instead, just to play with expectations,” the General said, “but then I thought the symbolism of a white mare was too great to not lean into.”

“ And She shall ride upon a white mare and will bring salvation to land that has known its lack.” Alina recited from one of the more common sermons she had sat through at Keramzin, then frowned, “but what does Sankta Lizabeta have to do with the kind of horse I ride?”

“Time, ignorance, and malice can often distort knowledge. Tales become unrecognizable in the retelling,” General Kirigan said, “the original verse did not refer to Sankta Lizabeta at all, but rather a Saint who yet to received her name.”

A Saint who had not yet received her name. What did that even mean? Sainthood was an ex post facto position, where the church took the names of the newly dead and made them into objects of veneration. You just didn’t have Saints without names, not unless… 

They hadn’t been born yet. Not unless they hadn’t died yet.

“Surely you aren’t talking about...me?” Alina asked. How? The Maiden's Hymn predated even the Fold, emerging in the historical record some six hundred years ago. Surely he wasn't implying that a song from that long ago predicted the rise of the Fold and the Sun Summoner? Even if, how did the General know that the Hymn had been different? Alina had never heard of a different version of the Hymn existing.

"Perhaps. But perhaps not,” the General shrugged, a strangely casual movement for such a formal man, made oddly hypnotic due to his ever-present sinuous grace. “It certainly did not refer to Sankta Lizabeta, who did not ride a white horse and certainly did not bring salvation. As with most things in this world, only time will tell. For now, Daydream seems rather eager to meet you."

The young stable hand in a sharp black and silver uniform led the horse forward. The mare leaned down to Alina's eye level and moved her head back and forth curiously. Alina went still, stiff with nerves and uncertainty.

"Afraid?" The General said teasingly from where he was walking up from behind on her left. "Alina Starkova, slayer of Volcra and Druskelle, intimidated by a horse?"

"Not afraid, just nervous," Alina said, "what if I hurt them?"

"I rather doubt you are the type to hurt a horse," General Kirigan said, "and Daydream is quite friendly. Not docile per say, I thought such a match would be ill suited towards one of your temperament. Daydream is amicable, curious, sweet. A little bit of a mischievous streak."

"Are you implying something?"

"I implied nothing, I said it out loud.” The General casually ignored the squeak of indignation that Alina made by continuing without missing a beat, “if you are nervous, there is an easy method to ingratiate yourself with Daybreak, one that works equally well with horses and humans alike."

"And that would be?"

The General smiled. “Bribery.” He poked at her hand and motioned for her to open her hand, which she did, and in turn he deposited a sugar cube in the palm of her hand.

Alina gasped as Daydream leaned forward and began licking the sugarcube, giggling when the horse's tongue scraped against her hand. "It tickles," she murmured.

"Thank you Danil," she heard the General say, "we'll take it from here."

After Daybreak finished her treat, the General took the time to help her get on the saddle. Showed her where to place her feet in the stirrups, how to best sit on the horse without causing her steed undue distress. Then he demonstrates how to balance on the horse, telling her to keep her head up and her posture straight without being stiff. “ Comportment can be everything at times,” the General told her, “If you are uncertain and ill at ease, how can you expect any to follow your lead? Besides, human heads are rather heavy. If Daydream stops suddenly or needs to jump, you may fall into her neck.”

“Daydream is a seasoned horse, well trained by the Little Palace Stablemaster,” General Kirigan said, “simply give her leave to move forward and she will. Gentle now.”

Riding Daydream was nerve wracking at first. She was constantly afraid that she was holding the reins too tightly, and then she had to ask, was she holding them too loosely? Was she sitting up properly? What if Daydream made a turn when she wasn’t expecting, would she fall off without the General keeping her upright? But after a while, she slowly got used to the rolling gait of the white mare, who steadily followed her bigger black counterpart.

General Kirigan was a calm, patient instructor. He wasn't gentle per say, in the way Botkin was at times, but neither was he overly stern or abrasive. He was attentive, carefully correcting her mistakes while giving her time to put his instructions into practice.

“This way,” the General eventually said after Alina had gotten somewhat used to riding a horse and could remain upright for longer than ten minutes. He guided his horse down a path through woods within the compound. “There is a small clearing to the West that I would like to show you. We should avoid the East for now at any rate.”

“What’s wrong with the East?” The way Genya had darkened in relation to the East and now the General? Something was up in that direction and she couldn’t think of what. There was nothing to the East, not after the Desolation of Sankta Larissa laid waste to the Morean Empire and rendered the land beyond virtually inaccessible as well as completely uninhabitable. A small blessing considering that Ravka had border problems in every other direction already.

“You will be spending quite a bit of time in the Grand Palace,” General Kirigan said, “no need to come under the Tsar’s eye before it is necessary, I should think.”

Alina went silent at this. She looked away, feeling oddly unsettled. The implications of that statement…

She blinked. “What are those Squallers doing?”

They were trotting slowly past several Squallers and an Alkemi, who were standing on the path next to a large lawn. The Etherealki were steadying themselves for...something. One of the Squallers took a deep breath and lunged forward, sweeping an arm wide! A blast of wind ripped through the trees and Alina yelped as it blew past her, taking her scarf with it. She watched with wide eyes as the wind condensed into a flat, narrow arc that scythed across the blades of grass, sending the tips flying into the air.

Her scarf fluttered in the wind, just barely beginning to float gently downwards when a thin black tendril shot out and then swirled into a blur of motion before reforming into a magnificent bird of prey that grabbed hold of the black and gold silk in its beak. Shadow turned Ravkan Night Swallow swooped down before landing on an outstretched arm clad in a black kefta.

Oh , Alina thought dumbly, one hand frozen from where she had lifted it from the reins to hastily push back her hair, when did he get so close?

“Here,” General Kirigan said gently, striking quartz grey eyes shimmering brightly as he plucked the scarf from his construct and turned towards her, the bird disappearing in a wisp of shadow, “if I may?”

He was asking permission for something, though for some reason Alina’s brain wasn’t working and all she could hear was white noise. She felt herself nod, but it was a far off sensation, as though someone else was performing the action.

The General leaned in and Alina held her breath. He was warm, she could feel him breathe, his body heat radiating from him as he reached around and gently lifted her hair so that he could pass the scarf around her neck. He tied it in a simple, artful knot. “There,” he said quietly, “not too tight, is it?”

Alina dumbly shook her head, eyes focused on the sharpness of his features. His face was as handsome as she remembered, black hair artfully slicked back out of the way of his face. This close, Alina could see that what she had not the last few times she had been distracted by his beauty. His face was just a touch sallow, the bags underneath his eyes darker and more prominent than she had noticed before.

But none of this mattered the moment she looked into his expressive dark brown eyes, how they were bright with amusement at first, but quickly turned soft with some strange emotion that Alina could not dissect. It wasn’t the disgust, the indifference, the disdain that Alina had become so used to over the course of her life, not the pity that she had come to hate fervently but was often the best she could expect to receive. What was it that she was seeing here?

“Good,” the General said softly. He seemed to hesitate before reaching upwards and Alina breathed in sharply as he unexpectedly pushed a strand of hair that Alina hadn’t noticed had been knocked loose by the wind behind her ear. “There,” he said, lingering for just a moment before he blinked rapidly twice and abruptly sat back upright in his saddle.

“The Squallers are cutting the lawn,” the General said uncharacteristically quickly, an odd note underpinning his voice, “an advanced control exercise for Etherealki on the cusp of becoming Senior Summoners.” He waved his hand absentmindedly at the saluting Squallers, who had snapped to attention the moment they noticed the General behind them. While he did so without looking, it did not escape Alina’s attention that some of the Squallers were slow to return to their activities, gawking at them as they were with ill concealed expressions of disbelief and…glee? Good grief, Alina had been  waiting for the other shoe to drop. Alina was already dreading the stories that would go around over the dinner herring. Yes, the might Sun Summoner was a clumsy idiot, now you know. She loses her brand new scarf and has to have the General of the Second Army catch it before it fly away. “It is a required component of the Senior Disciplinary Examination.”

“ Lawn cutting ?” Alina asked incredulously, “What does lawn cutting have to do with control?” 

“The true difficulty of the exercise is not the act of cutting down the grass per say,” the General said, “but rather doing so evenly across the entire length of the designated area in one motion. One must account for the slope of the terrain, the shape, force, and velocity of the summoned element. Even a slight miscalculation may result in a subpar outcome.”

The Alkemi knelt down and seemed to concentrate for a moment.

“Like most bio-Alkemi in residence, Senior Alkemi Ivashina is particularly attuned to the structures of plants. She can tell precisely whether the entire field has been cut to the correct length.”

 The Alkemi shook her head, and the Squaller groaned, defeated.

“It appears it has not been this time.”

Alina watched as the rest of the Squallers piled in around their unsuccessful peer and began jostling the despondent Etherealki. The young woman laughed as another mischievous Squaller cheekily dug their fingers into her side, and the group devolved into a puddle of helpless laughter. The General shook his head, but even he had a faint smile on his face. 

“Come,” the General ordered, gently nudging his horse and starting down a path that went into the forest. “Follow.”

“Never stray from the path,” General Kirigan said firmly as they crossed the neatly maintained border between the Little Palace grounds and the Twilight Woods, eyes sharp and deadly serious, “the woods around the Little Palace are off limits for a reason.”

“I had wondered about that,” Alina said, “why are the Twilight Woods off limits again?”

“Genya told you of the little surprises that the Alkemi leave for those who walk on the Little Palace lawns?”

“Yes?”

“Let us just say that the ones in the woods are similar, but have a little more of a bite. A remnant of a bygone era, but then again, dangerous times are upon us once more. I understand the irony of saying this to the Sun Summoner, however, should you ever find yourself in danger in these woods for whatever reason, avoid the light.”

“Avoid the light?”

“The Grisha have ever found refuge in the dark. Asphodel growing in the shadows of thornwood shall guide you to safety, but with any luck, you will never need to use this information. We are almost there, just a little further now.”

The General led her into a small clearing in the woods before dismounting in a single fluid motion. Alina was less successful, nearly falling off of Daybreak entirely before catching herself against a nearby tree. General Kirigan tied the reins of their horses to the tree that she was leaning on just to look cool and not because she couldn’t feel her legs, before walking over to a little stone well.

The well was nestled in the trees, appearing almost neglected by the way the overgrowth threatened to overrun the pool. However, the reason why the little well still survived was made eminently clear when the General began picking out the branches and roots that had made their way into the basin.

“How have you been, Alina?” General Kirigan asked, glancing at her from where he was throwing branches aside. “Have you been settling in well?”

“I’ve been doing alright,” Alina shrugged, “classes have been... going, I suppose?” She shifted awkwardly, desperately grasping for something to say. “The food’s good,” she offered, “very filling and tasty.”

“Even the herring?” he asked dryly.

She snorted before tilting her head. “I thought you liked herring?” she asked.

“I am partial to herring for reasons other than the taste,” the General said, “and I am not unaware of the opinions my grisha hold regarding my insistence on its place in the menu.”

Alina shrugged, “It hasn’t been so bad so far. Much better than anything I’ve ever had before.”

“Good, I am glad to hear,” General Kirigan said, “not regarding the inadequacy of your past meals I mean. But that you are… being fed well now.”

That was an interesting pause. If she had been with anyone else, she might have even called it a nervous one, but that would be absurd. The Black General, Lord of the Second Army, King of the Grisha nervous? Of what even? 

“Speaking of sustenance,” the General said abruptly, “I had the kitchens pack us lunch.” He held up the basket that she had completely forgotten by this point.

“It’s not black,” Alina noted, “a bold choice sir.”

General Kirigan sighed theatrically. “I had requested my Durasts to change the color of the weave but they informed me that the war effort comes before the coloring of my picnic basket,” he said, “that any of my people can not understand the importance of committing wholly to a color aesthetic wounds me deeply.”

“Yes, can’t imagine why they wouldn’t consider changing the color of a picnic basket to be a high priority,” Alina said dryly.

“Indeed, it is quite vexing,” General Kirigan said as he took out a picnic blanket from his horse’s saddlebag before shaking it out and laying it on the ground. Alina supposed it was good for the General’s peace of mind that the blanket was black, with gold thread embroidering little eclipses around the edge.

“Let’s see,” he said, rummaging through the contents of the basket, “some sandwiches, Olivier salad, fruit, and ah excellent, a bottle of the strawberry kvas.”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” Alina asked, moving to sit next to him on the picnic blanket. Though strawberries did sound very nice right now, even if she had never had them in Kvass before. Barely had them at all honestly, only got to try the wild ones Mal somehow found in the woods, even after the woods had already been picked over by the town foragers.

“I am the General,” the General said easily, “I grant you permission to have a glass of Kvass with lunch. I will have my secretary Kolya draw up the order if you need it in writing.”

“Well if the General is giving me permission,” Alina smiled, making grabby hands at the glass that General Kirigan was elegantly pouring the kvass into. General Kirigan handed over the glass after it was three quarters of the way full, and Alina immediately took a sip. It was smooth and sweet, the strawberries giving the drink a tart flavor that was immediately smoothed out by the honey that coated her tongue. As with much of what she had experienced at the Little Palace, it was the best kvass she had ever tasted.

“Strawberries and honey from Caryeva, brewed in the cellars of the Little Palace itself,” General Kirigan said, “it would be an excellent prestige brew if only I could stop myself from monopolizing the entire vintage.” He frowned, “and if we lied about where it was produced.”

“Why would you have to lie?” Alina asked between sips.

“For a significant portion of the individuals who would be able to afford what is more or less a frivolous purchase in the midst of a two front war, the provenance would be enough to devalue the brew significantly,” he said, “they would offer a pittance of what the kvass would be worth and call it generous, if they offered any compensation at all. Grisha are, of course, incapable of grasping the subtle nuances that underpin the art of brewing.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am very much so,” the General said, before he raised his glass. “To the Court.”

Alina clinked her glass obligingly before taking a deep swig. She suddenly really needed it. “I’m really not looking forward to going to the Grand Palace,” Alina admitted, “the thought of just…” she absentmindedly waved her glass around, “parading around before the Court.” She squeaked in surprise when the General gently flicked her on the forehead, immediately clapping her unoccupied hand to the place where the light sting lingered.

“Do not treat your Kvass so lightly,” General Kirigan admonished, “Kvass is a fine, traditional brew, with generations of excellent craftsmen pouring their hearts and souls into honing their craft. To achieve the mastery required to layer such delicate flavors into a single harmonious song is no less than the artistry needed to craft word into lyric.”

“Okay, okay! Don’t disrespect the fruit juice.” Alina saw the next flick coming, and leaned back giggling.

“What of your peers,” the General asked after they had finished savoring their glasses of kvass in surprisingly comfortable silence, “have they been treating you well?”

“Oh, everyone’s been really nice to me.” Okay, maybe not everyone exactly. There were those maids, and Nazyalenskaya, but after Genya had dealt with the maids she had never seen them again and she wasn’t about to mention to the General that she was bothered by a Squaller being a little cold and standoffish, Alina wasn’t a baby.

“Oh?” General Kirigan prompted with a raised brow.

“Well, every time I see Fedyor, he keeps putting food in my hands–”

“–Oh, he does that to you too?”

“Yes! And he always stares at me so expectantly, so when I don’t eat it right away he just makes this face–”

“–like a kicked pup–”

“– YES ! Exactly !” He understood what it was like! Thank the Saints, she wasn’t crazy.

“Fedyor has been that way for as long as I can remember,” the General said, turning to lean his hip against the edge of the well. “A mother hen since birth.”

“Marie and Nadia have been very enthusiastic about telling me everything about who has been getting together with who.”

“Vital intelligence of course.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not,” Alina paused to squint at the inscrutable expression on the General’s face. Damn it, the man must be really good at Ketterdam Snatch for all the nothing she was getting.

She snapped her fingers. “Genya! Genya’s been great, even if she chases me around with terrifying metal contraptions and makes fun of me all the time.”

The General frowned, “Making... fun of you? Do you mean mockery?”

“Uh, sort of?” Alina was taken aback at how serious he suddenly became. “But in a friendly sort of way,” she was quick to reassure him, “you know, the kind that you have with friends.” Wow, she was very articulate today. Brilliant Alina, well done.

“Ah I see, banter then,” his face smoothed out and he was suddenly as elegantly unruffled and inscrutable as he always seemed to be when he wasn’t burning a cartographer with the intensity of his presence. How did he do that? “Continue.”

“Errr, okay then…” Alina eyed him cautiously before deciding to conduct a strategic retreat to safer territory.

“Natacha has been very helpful,” Alina continued cautiously, “and she’s been so patient with me, if a little–” Alina waved a hand rather helplessly, “mysterious?” Had a tendency to say really ominous and cryptic sayings and then looking at her like she was supposed to know anything that the Inferni was talking about.

The General snorted, an expected sound if the way his eyes widened briefly in surprise before   “That sounds quite like Natacha, yes,” the General said amused, “she’s a rather dramatic person.”

I don’t think you should be throwing stones from that glass house of yours sir. “Nearly all of the grisha I’ve met have been, one way or another,” Alina said, watching the General’s reaction carefully, “I’m fairly certain it’s a requirement to be a grisha.” She relaxed when General Kirigan let out a short, surprised laugh, a pleasant sound that made Alina smile.

“Katya’s been great at helping me study in my classes,” Alina said, pushing off her tree now that she recovered enough to regain use of her legs, and walking up to the well before hoisting herself up to perch on the edge, “though I’ve been late to some of them because I was following her to the classroom.”

“A strategic miscalculation I’m afraid. Ekaterina may have grown up here at the Little Palace but remains incapable of navigating further than the next room over from where she begins. It is why she is assigned a partner for any and all duty shifts she has.”

“Yes, well I only figured that out after she took me to the Dawn Annex when I had training on the other side of the grounds with the Bird– I mean Senior Summoners Orlova, Lebedeva, and Golubev ,” Alina smiled sheepishly when the General glanced at her, amused.

“And how have your classes been going then?” the General asked.

“Classes have been fine,” Alina said, “not much to say really. Science was independent study, so I’m just reading a bunch of books until Senior Durast Ilyin decides that I’m ready to start the ‘fun stuff’, whatever that means. For survival I had to read over a bunch of safety forms–”

“–An unfortunate necessity I’m afraid. The number of easily preventable injuries that result from congregations of adolescent grisha are… quite something.”

“Why are spoons a controlled substance?”

“Not terribly long ago, a young Squaller accidentally cut off the toe of a fellow Etherealki. Luckily one of the trainees in that group happened to be a Healer who reattached it immediately. Incidentally, you have met all of the ones involved in this incident. Certainly the Squaller and the Inferni, though if I am remembering correctly, Arseni should have been on the Training Supervisory Rotation for your shift…”

“Arseni?”

“Senior Healer Smirnov.”

“Oh, he’s the healer assigned to oversee Conditioning in the morning,” Alina said before she bit her lip and bounced in place, deep in contemplation. “A Squaller and an Inferni though. I haven’t met that many other Etherealki just yet. I’d guess Nazyalenskaya and Marie but wait. If Senior Healer Smirnov was taking the class at the same time...you can’t possibly mean?” 

“Indeed I am.”

“ You’re kidding .”

“Indeed,” General Kirigan smiled fondly, “the two of them hardly needed to take the class in the first place, but I had made it mandatory and I suppose that Viktoria had become rather bored. We should be grateful that she did not bring a fork instead.”

“ I have so many questions .” Also did he say ‘not terribly long ago?’ Senior Squaller Orlova and Senior Inferni Golubev have grey hair! When exactly were they taking Survival?  

“I am afraid I am not the best person to ask in regards to the unique form of comradery that those two share, however I can say that the incident did lead to a class on Unorthodox Weaponry being developed for both grisha and oprichniki, so there is that. Sandwich?”

“Yes please.” Alina was famished. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

“While we are on the subject of the Summoners,” the General said, “how were your Summoning lessons?”

“Well,” Alina took a bite of her sandwich. Kielbasa, mayonnaise, cucumber, havarti cheese on sourdough, very nice, and surprisingly humble peasant fare for a General. Wait no, this was General Herring, nevermind. “Senior Inferni Golubev gave me the overview of what I should come to expect.”

“Summoning is quite difficult to teach and learn, in part because it is so instinctual” the older Inferni said as they walked along the forest trails, “do children require instruction on how to breathe? Do fish need to be taught how to swim?”

“But I’ve never summoned before the skiff,” Alina pointed out, watching her feet carefully for the winding roots that encroached on the otherwise neatly tended path.

“No, and that is the interesting part,” Golubev said, easily ducking underneath a low lying branch. “Rarely have grisha lived to your age without summoning somehow. Or lived to your age at all to be honest. You are an anomaly in multiple ways.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It is not a bad thing,” Golubev smiled, laugh lines creasing even more so as he did. “And even so, many others come to Ejora with similar troubles to you, and each one resolved their issues differently, for the reason and manner of the block on their powers manifested differently in each of them. The true task will be to understand how your block is manifesting in you.”

“So how am I going to do that?”

“That is what we are here to do, our task is to help you find out what is preventing you from summoning and then work to alleviate it.”

“Senior Inferni Golubev had me focus on the sun, asked me what the sun felt like to me.” 

“And what does the sun feel like to you?”

“Vaguely warm?” Alina shrugged helplessly when the General’s eyes flickered to her, very clearly bemused. “I don’t know! He tried to explain how summoning can feel like–”

“ Some will feel the fire burn in their veins, rage and war pulling at the heart to ignite. Others will be driven by the pulse of the world, drawn to the magma and lava that we know simmers and moves. We draw upon those feelings, and extend who we are into the world and then use our minds to create fire.” He flicks his wrist and holds a flame, warm and oddly comforting. A feeling strangely familiar in a haunting sense that filled her with a discordant melancholy, a memory just out of reach.

“You didn’t snap your fingers,” Alina noted, “how did you use your flint without rubbing anything together?”

“Oh, the flint is a bit of a farce,” Golubev said, “a disguise to give our enemies an obvious weakness and to lend credence to the ‘scientific’ explanation that we tell outsiders. We don’t actually manipulate flammable gas.”

“Really?” That’s not what Makari told her when she asked back at Outpost 32, but wait, she would have been an outsider then...

“Oh yes. Could you imagine if that’s all we did? Add a spark to flammable gas and drag around flame like that? Vika would never let me live it down if we were actually just overly specialized Squallers. Now then, Miss Starkova, what makes you thrive? What sets you alight?”

“I couldn’t tell him what I felt. I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t– I don’t feel what he said, what Inferni feel.”

“That is not terribly surprising,” General Kirigan said, “it is not unusual for Summoners of a single type to draw upon their element differently, and you call upon another concept entirely. ”

“That’s what Senior Tidemaker Lebedeva said.”

“ Water, fire, air, do you seek these elements for the same reasons? Then why would the path to them ever be the same? When Gennady asked what makes you set you alight, did you think he meant it literally? Did you think he meant it exclusively? Think of our instruction not as orders, but more so as guidelines, possible areas of inquiry to explore. All summoners are different, in the same way all people are different. Some will be very similar, some will travel parts of the same road, and may even do so together. But very rarely will two ever be exactly the same.” 

“Did her advice help?”

“I’m not sure. I think I get what she means but– I don’t know.”

“What of Viktoria?”

“ DEATH FROM ABOVE!” 

Alina shrieked as Senior Squaller Orlova dropped out of the trees on top of her head, sending the two of them tumbling to the ground. Orlova landed on top and was therefore completely fine. Alina was on the bottom and was therefore not so much. 

“She was...interesting.”

“Ah.”

“ What was that?!” 

“Oh boo, it didn’t work!” Orlova pouted from where she was perched suddenly on a high bough, swinging her legs. “Once I got a itty bitty summoner to make everything go whoosh , and then boom! Tornado! And I went WHEEEE!”

“ What-Do-You-Mean-There-Was-A - Tornado ?!”

“I mean there was a tornado! Like, whoosh whoosh, whirrrr! You do know what a tornado is right, Sun Summoner?”

“Yes, I know what a tornado is!” 

“Well I wasn’t certain you know, you’re from the South! Anyways, I went flying, and it was so much fun! But Shenyechka got all nervous and panicky-like, and the Shadow Mister said I shouldn’t do that sort of thing on Little Palace grounds. Spoilsports.”

“Shadow Mister?!”

“General High and Mighty, Duke of Ballyhoo and Good Fruit, Earl of the Splashy Place. Got the nice stuff in that stash of his though. Have you ever heard of Schokolade?” 

“ Viktoria knows about my –! Um. Ahem . That does sound like Viktoria. She’s quite the character.”

“That’s one way to put it. Did she actually make someone summon a tornado on the Little Palace grounds?”

“If I remember correctly, young Dmitri did not summon the tornado per say, but the gale he brought forth was quite strong and would have leveled Baghra’s hut. Which in all honesty would have been rather amusing, but then Baghra would complain incessantly and well, it is likely for the best that Viktoria spun the gale into a stationary cyclone and just let herself get whisked around a bit. Quite eccentric, our Viktoria, but in a way, I admire her all the more for it. Very few survive the battlefield, let alone leave it with the spirit that she does.”

That’s very depressing sir. Also– “wait did you say Dmitri? Any chance that’s–?”

“Dmitri Romanovich Lavrov. The very same.”

“Oh wow .” Dmitri never mentioned that he almost leveled someone’s house in training. But then again, they had never really been that close, not like she had been with Emilia. The rest of the squadron sort of just... tolerated her, which was more than could be said for most of the First so she had been perfectly fine with that. Still. “So wait when Senior Squaller Orlova jumped on me, was she really expecting a tornado? A sunado?”

“I do not believe there is such a thing as a…‘sunado’.” Alina may have giggled at the pained look that briefly crossed his face. “Even then Lavrov was a strong summoner, as well as in good health. In your case, I imagine that Orlova thought the risk was worth taking due to your poor health and lack of summoning altogether.”

“But in the Fold I burned away the Volcra! What if I had hurt her?”

“In the Fold, in an active prolonged combat situation, your instinctual summoning banished the volcra but left the skiff and its inhabitants untouched. In any event, age may have slowed the Silver Gale ever so slightly, yet still she remains one of the quickest combat summoners the Second has ever known. The moment she even suspected a rise in your power significant enough to cause harm, she would have been well out of reach.”

Orlova did get really high up on that tree really quickly. How did she do that?

“Viktoria is quite fond of pulling sudden updrafts together to launch herself at great speed into the air,” the General said and smiled when she looked at him, startled. “You did not say anything, I simply inferred from your expression what you were likely thinking of. Was I correct?”

“No,” Alina said petulantly.

“...”

“...Yes.”

The General smiled as Alina pouted before he tilted his head. “Is there something wrong with your sandwich?”

“Hmm?” Alina blinked at him before looking at the second half of her sandwich, the half that she had only taken a single bite out of. “Oh, no, I’m just not hungry, that’s all.”

“You must eat Alina,” the General urged, “the Wasting Sickness drains the appetite, true, however it does not remove the need for nutrition and food. How exactly do you intend to seek your power, if your body is not up to the task of carrying you?”

“Fine,” Alina caved and took a bite of her sandwich. It tastes of sand and ash, but that is alright, she is used to this by now. Food only tasted of anything when she was absolutely starving, but afterwards...

“Ah, I almost forgot to ask,” the General snapped his fingers, “have you found your accommodations to be suitable?” 

“My suite? Oh, it’s been more than alright,” Alina said, “it’s incredible really, I couldn’t have imagined how nice a room could get, I couldn’t even imagine having my own room , let alone a set of rooms. ” It was pretty excessive actually. Exactly when, how, and why was she going to use all of the chairs in her room? She couldn’t exactly sit on all of them at once, and it wasn’t as though she was going to do something as silly as try them all out and argue with Genya over which seat was the comfiest one in the Vezda Suite.

(Incidentally, it was totally the short plush black and gold trimmed cabriole in the corner furthest from the windows, behind the tall bookshelf, and not the red and black high-backed armchair right underneath the skylight. If she curled up in the cabriole, she could pretend she was a cat in a basket! When she really sprawled out, she liked to think she could even be two cats.)

“But?”

Alina blinked, “hmm?”

“You are ill at ease,” General Kirigan observed, “some aspect of the Vezda Suite is discomforting to you.”

...He really did have her pegged huh? “I don’t want to sound ungrateful.” Alina said quietly, “It’s just so…opulent. There’s five rooms and dozens of chairs and tables, a receiving room for guests I don’t have, a dining room for meals that Genya says I should have with the others in the Great Hall. The walls are covered in more gold than I’ve ever seen in my life, and the paintings are so beautiful that it’s almost a crime that it’s only me who gets to see them–” Alina cuts herself off when she realizes that her words are speeding up, and she’s getting far too emotional, spilling too much to a General, the General of the Second who was looking at her far too kindly, listening so patiently to a pathetic little slip of a girl like her.

“You like the paintings?” General Kirigan asked, and Alina saw him perk up ever so slightly.

Seriously? That’s what he took away from her runaway mouth? “They’re very nice,” Alina told him instead, “I really liked the one of Balakirev at sunset, and the one with the sun rising over a lush green valley. Do you know who the painter was? I’d love to look for more of their work in the library.”

“I painted them,” the General said, “back in the days when I had time for such hobbies I mean.”

He painted them?! “I didn’t know you could paint!” Seriously, was there anything this man couldn’t do?

“Only landscapes,” General Kirigan said modestly, looking down at the surface of the water, what Alina could only describe as a faintly embarrassed smile on his face. “I can not paint portraiture to save my life, and the less said about my only attempt at a self portrait, the better. Nikolai is...was an excellent painter in his own right, and before the latest border wars began we often spent what little time we were both free in his studio painting. Most of the paintings in the Vezda Suite were his, but the two you mentioned were mine.”

“Nikolai was...Senior Heartrender Romanov, right?” Alina asked delicately, thinking back to what Genya had said about the man, the moment of melancholic silence that the Tailor had lapsed into when had mentioned his name, “he was the person who lived in the Vezda Suite before me, yes?”

“Yes,” the General said softly, shoulders turning inwards ever so slightly, “My Second in Command. Senior Heartrender Nikolai Maximovich Romanov was a good man, an exceptional heartrender, one of the finest soldiers I have ever known. I had the honor of not only being his commander but also being counted as one of his friends.”

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Alina asked quietly. She wasn’t certain of her footing here, whether or not she had trespassed into forbidden territory. 

In the First she would have never dared to ask such a thing as a junior cartographer to a General. But ever since she had become a grisha, been discovered as the Sun Summoner, her place in the hierarchy was...unclear to say the least. She hadn’t been accorded a formal rank, but then again, the Second Army as a whole seemed a lot less...army than she had become used to in the First. As far as she could tell, the Grisha seemed to only have four, maybe five ranks? The General was the undisputed leader at the top, followed by the oft-mentioned but as of yet unseen ‘High Command’, with the Senior Grisha outranking regular grisha, and trainees at the bottom. But even then, the grisha were so much more...casual with each other. Hell, Senior Grisha even ate in the same mess as everyone else! Officers never did that in the First, nobles were too good to eat with the peasants, let alone joke around with the rank and file like they were– friends!  

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The relationship between Senior Grisha and regular Grisha seemed less like that of officers with enlisted, and more like...teachers with students, maybe even familial. Senior grisha mingled and joked around with the rest of the grisha, and asserted their authority only rarely when unspoken, but widely understood boundaries were crossed. The only one who everyone really treated as an officer the way Alina had known it was the General himself.

Theoretically she should be at the bottom of the pecking order, with all of the other trainees, but she had spent enough time actually at the bottom of the barrel everywhere else to know when she was there, and in the Second she very clearly wasn’t . People jockeyed to be around her, quick to try to include her in their little groups and cliques. Senior Grisha often took the time to ask her how she was doing, and she was clearly receiving special treatment by having multiple personal tutors and individualized attention in nearly all of her classes. Hell, right here and right now, she was getting personal instruction on horse riding from General Kirigan himself. No way he personally taught the entirety of the Second Army how to ride. 

And then there was how he treated her. The way he asked about how she was feeling after nearly getting killed by druskelle and then gave her validation for having those feelings. The way he had noticed that she was feeling overwhelmed during the audience, and told her about the high heels he once wore to make her forget herself and laugh. 

The way he listened to her like she was an actual human being with opinions worth listening to.  

Sometimes it made her feel nervous, sometimes it made her feel afraid. She wasn’t what he thought she was, wasn’t the legendary summoner that the grisha had been hoping for, wasn’t the savior that Ravka had waited these long centuries for. 

So was she truly beyond her remit? Perhaps. Maybe not even the Sun Summoner, nebulous position in the Grisha hierarchy and all, didn’t have the authority to ask anything of His Soverenyi , the Lord General of the Royal Second–

–But if he needed– no, wanted someone, anyone to talk to, if she could give back in any way–

–then she should at least try. Give what little she could, in the face of all that he had given her.

“No,” he took a deep breath and then stilled, body uncoiling, grief shedding from overburdened shoulders with heartbreaking ease that spoke of far too much practice doing so. “Nikolai was a good man. But war has taken many good men before their time. He was far from the first, but perhaps,” he looked at her then, and the look in his eyes was different now. The intensity of his gaze remained, but there was something new in the way he looked at her, the light of his eyes just a little too bright, a little too feverish, a little too unsettling. Something about it put her on edge, but she couldn’t understand what. “Perhaps he will be one of the last.”

“I…” Alina shifted uncomfortably in place.

The General looked at her, and then shook his head. “What am I saying? I am terribly sorry, Miss- Alina. I am rather out of sorts today. The war weighs heavily on me I’m afraid, and the endless meetings with the Tsar and the First Army General Staff do not help.”

“I can imagine,” Alina murmured. She didn’t actually know any of the First Army Generals. How could she when almost all of them tended to stay in Os Alta or the well defended satellite cities, even in wartime? General Kirigan might be famous (or infamous depending on your perspective) for fighting on the front, but he was well known for being the exception , not the rule. However she had been in close enough contact with Colonel Chenkov, and if his behavior had been any indication… well. She didn’t envy the General. Not at all.

“I understand how you feel,” the General said, “regarding your rooms I mean. I felt similarly when I was young.”

“What, really?” 

“Oh yes,” the General said, “when I was a boy being a grisha was far more dangerous than it is now, and being shadow summoner even more so. I spent my entire childhood on the run, never staying in one place for more than a single season. I was hunted because of what I was,” he clenched his fist, knuckles white and tense, “because of what they feared I might be.”

“That’s awful .” But it made a sickening amount of sense. If General Kirigan had been born in the years before the Revival, then he would have been born in the midst of the Boyar’s Rebellion, or maybe even during the Sundering War before that. A child living alone, born to that infamous lineage whose power was known to change the tides of war, determine the fate of empires– but, wait. Hold on. “Why were you on the run? Couldn’t your father have done anything to protect you?”

“Ah, that is a rather longer tale.” The General set his glass of kvass aside and rested his elbows on his knees where he was sitting crossed legged, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. General Kirigan said, "in the waning years of Tsar Pyotr II's reign, a realization was had by the fifth Duke of Dorodva, the one you might know as the Great Dorodva. Tsar Pyotr the Old was just that–old. His health had been clearly waning for years. His son, the White Prince, had been dead for quite some time, leaving the five year old Elizaveta as the sole legitimate heir. She would need a regent to rule for her until her majority, and then an advisor to council her on the major issues facing Ravka. Thus a deal was made. The Duke would lure the Strategic Council of the Grisha to his estate in the South, and in exchange for the new test subjects, the Shu would eliminate his remaining rivals for the Regency.”

“ That's – ” Alina was speechless, aghast and horrified, “how could anyone do such a thing?”

“Someone once posed the question, ‘what is infinite?’, to which the answer was ‘the universe and the greed of man,’” the General said, “never underestimate the depths to which man will sink to in order to achieve their goals, to claim what they believe to be rightfully theirs. But lust for power alone may not fully explain what occurred on that day. Tell me, have you spotted the oddity that lies within this scenario?”

“The oddity?”

“The unexplained event, the action that requires elucidation. What have I not told you that you must know to understand this tale?”

Alina thought for a moment, mind racing, heart pounding. What didn't he explain yet? The answer lanced through her like lightning racing across the night sky. “How did the Duke convince the Strategic Council to come to his estate?”

“An excellent question.” He folds his hands together and deliberately rests them in his lap, looking down at his fingers. “The Grand Duke of Dorodva had once been a friend of the Grisha. A brilliant general, and a fierce spirit, he had been the White Prince’s most loyal supporter, even greater than the Shadow Summoner of the time, and likely the greatest tactical mind Ravka had ever seen. The Sundering War had forced the three of them, Prince, Shadow Summoner, and Duke, to work together, harness their collective talents so that Ravka might survive for just another day.”

“The three of them quickly became friends,” General Kirigan continued, “forged in the flames of war, the bond between the three was thought to be unbreakable. Through their efforts, Ravka held its own in a three front war for far longer than any outside analyst could have possibly predicted. Ravka had been weakening for years, plagued by a series of poor rulers and more recently a spate of bad harvests. With ever decreasing access to the coast, the Fjerdans and the Moreans formed the Dual Alliance to invade and occupy Ravka with the goal of splitting the land between themselves.”

“The last year of the conflict had been bittersweet, but events were finally appearing to go in Ravka’s favor,” the General said, “The sacrifice made by Larissa of the Ice-Field had destroyed the Morean Empire and struck fear in the hearts of the Fjerdans.”

“Then, just as it seemed even that against all odds Ravka might emerge victorious, the White Prince fell in the last battle of the war. An arrow shot by one of the retreating Fjerdan Druskelle had pierced his heart, and the greatest King that Never Was bled out right there and then in the Shadow Summoner’s arms.”

“ No.” Alina gasped softly, hands coming up to cover his mouth in horror. She had known parts of this story already, the exploits of the Grand Dorodva and the White Prince was the stuff of legends and national folklore, and she had grown up sitting by the Duke Keramzov’s fire listening to their exploits. She hadn’t known that there had been a third companion who accompanied the famed duo, and certainly not that he had been the General’s father . And the way that the General told the story made it feel less like history and more like the events were playing out right before her eyes , as though he was not reciting information passed down to him through others, but almost as if he had been there , so vivid a picture he painted of an era long since passed.

“The Shadow Summoner returned to Os Alta to report the Prince’s death to the Tsar, but before he did so, he sought to honor his and the Prince’s friendship with the Duke by informing the Duke first in person. He could not have foreseen how the Duke would collapse at his feet in grief before a black rage would consume the Duke and cause the man to launch himself at the Shadow Summoner’s neck and attempt to strangle him. The Duke did not succeed, after all the Shadow Summoner was still a General, an acclaimed fighter in his own right unlike the tactician Dorodva, but the damage was done. The Duke blamed the Shadow Summoner for the death of the Prince and had to be dragged away screaming and cursing by his retainers.”

“That’s insane,” Alina blurted out, eyes wide in disbelief, “how could he possibly blame your father for the Prince’s death? It was war! Some people die and others survive, that’s just how war is!”

“Perhaps it is because he had the audacity to survive when the White Prince did not,” the General said placidly, “some say that the Shadow Summoner had promised the Duke that he would see to it that the Prince would return to Os Alta alive. Yet other sources suggest that the Prince and the Duke were not merely friends, but paramours, and the loss of his true love drove the Grand Dorodva to the brink of insanity.”

“Whatever the case may be, the Grand Dorodva left Os Alta for his estate in the countryside. He demanded not to be disturbed, and out of respect for his contributions to the war effort and his loss the Court obliged. The only one who would dare to break his solitude would have been the Shadow Summoner, but he was preoccupied with fending off assassination attempts against the young Elizaveta and preempting the machinations of the court that would see a regent prejudiced against the grisha ascend to power. He also played no small part in raising the young Tsarevna, as her mother had died in childbirth, and her grandfather had passed away the same year as her father.”

“When young Elizaveta was ten, the Grand Dorodva emerged from isolation in dramatic fashion, proclaiming his loyalty to the throne. He claimed that the time he had spent in contemplation had led him to rediscover himself, and that he was now ready to serve the daughter of his beloved leader. It was quite the tale, one that worked in his favor as the people cheered the return of the celebrated war hero.”

“Already signs were beginning to emerge that all was not as it seemed. Nobles were discovered dead in their homes, grisha were beginning to disappear at rates unseen since the end of the War. However, the Shadow Summoner had not noticed. He was gladdened by the return of his dear friend, and had welcomed him back with open arms.”

“The Duke had embraced the Shadow Summoner as though nothing had ever come between them, and promised his support in guarding the Tsarevna until she came of age. He then invited the Shadow Summoner and his companions to come with him to Dorodva in the summer, to holiday in his dacha. The Shadow Summoner agreed, grateful for any opportunity at furthering reconciliation with one of the few people who had accepted him for who he was, who saw him as a person.”

“The Shadow Summoner arrived at the dacha that summer with the three remaining members of the Council, diminished as they were by the hardships of the three front war. Only the four of them went: as hardened veterans and accomplished fighters in their own right, they believed they hardly needed an escort through some of the most secure territory in Ravka, and certainly not when their destination was a known quantity who had championed the grisha cause for years.”

“The assassins struck at the evening meal,” the General said grimly, brow furrowing now, the first signs of emotion slipping past his guard for the first time since he began telling his story, “they had laced the wine with a soporific, and waited for it to take effect. The grisha were bound and readied for transport, put under by more powerful narcotics except for one. The Duke insisted that the Shadow Summoner be left semi-lucid so that he would be able to do nothing but watch as the new Lord Regent dismantled everything he had ever sought to build.”

“ He’s insane ,” Alina cried out in disbelief.

“Was he?” the General asked, “I do not believe so. I think he was completely sane, that he knew exactly what he was doing and why. That, I find, is the more frightening scenario.”

“But why kill the grisha then?” Alina asked, aghast, “like, maybe if I was a lunatic I’d blame the Shadow Summoner for the death of the Prince, but what did the others do to him?”

“Perhaps he had learned over the years that the reason why the White Prince died was because the arrow that hit him had not been aimed in his direction at all, but at the Shadow Summoner’s head.” Alina gasped. “Oh yes. Did you not find it strange that a Druskelle would shoot the Prince? Would the death of the Prince not be more strategic? Certainly. But for a Druskelle to pass up an opportunity to kill a hated Drusje , particularly the wickedest of them all…?”

“A Squaller redirected the arrow, didn’t they?” Alina said with dawning horror. She had seen the drills in the practice yard, how the summoners used the wind to change the trajectory of bullets. How much easier would doing the same to arrows have been?

“Just so. The arrow was seen too late, and all the Squaller could do was knock the projectile sideways. Just enough so it would not hit the Shadow Summoner’s head, but the new trajectory sent the arrow into the Prince’s heart instead. A tragedy in all respects. The incident occurred in plain sight of the whole of the Sixth Lions Battalion, it would not have been difficult for word to eventually make its way back to the Duke in some form.”

“However,” the General continued, “there is another explanation that would explain the Duke’s actions, one that is based less on conjecture and more upon basic pragmatics.”

“What?” Alina asked, “what explanation would that be?”

“They were in the way.” The blunt, dispassionate manner he said the words was jarring. “The Shadow Summoner was the General of the Grisha, even in those days before the creation of the Little Palace, before the investment of the Generalship as an independent Command post, before the Third Founding recreated the Second as a fully fledged autonomous Army in our own right. Had any of the Council survived, they would have rallied the grisha and served as a bulwark to counter the Duke’s designs against our people. The Duke was well aware that they were capable of such actions, having served in close quarters with the very same grisha he would murder at his dinner table.”

“Wait,” Alina interjected in disbelief, “if you’re saying everyone died that day, then how do you know what happened?”

“The Duke did not stay to watch the Council die. After telling the Shadow Summoner of his intentions, he left the grisha behind to wash his hands of the matter. What he did not realize was that Alkemi burn through narcotics faster than any other. Anya awoke and managed to free the two remaining grisha awake in the room, herself and her General. The other two had their throats immediately slit by the assassins from Shu Han, to prevent them from escaping. The two of them fled the dacha, only for the detachment left behind by the Duke in the event of any unforeseen complications to surround them. The Alkemi was a survivor, capable of calling the forest to her aid to disrupt armies, waylay pursuers, but she was not truly a combat summoner. The Shadow Summoner ordered Anya to make for Os Alta and rally the grisha, protect the Tsarevna.”

“She never made it,” Alina said quietly. Anya. Anya of Thorns. Sankta Anya of Thorns.

“No.” His eyes shuttered in grief. He couldn’t have known her, at least not well. Not when she died in the opening acts of the Boyar’s Rebellion, at the Battle of the High Groves where the Saint had transformed the Black Forest of old into the White Forest that still stood south of Balakirev today. But perhaps one did not need to know a martyr as an individual to feel sorrow at their sacrifice, at the prospect of a world that demanded it. “Anya had the misfortune to run directly into a surprise invasion force by the Shu Han, one that was being sent to capitalize on weakness exposed by the Grand Dorodva’s treachery. Having calculated earlier in the conflict that war with Ravka would end unfavorably for the aggressors, the Tanban regime believed that this was the moment to strike. With the White Prince dead, the grisha decapitated, and a ten year old on the throne, what could Ravka do against such a force?”

“Anya would die after holding the line against the Shu Han for three days and three nights, but she would live just long enough to tell of what happened at the dacha to the advanced Squallers sent to investigate the disturbance. But upon their return they found the city under siege.”

“The Siege of Os Alta.” A military triumph by all accounts, one set to song and epic poetry, the brief moment of glorious victory before intrigue and resentment led to chaos and infighting. Four years of siege mortars exploding, rooftops blazing, the people starving. Only through the efforts of the brave men and women of the Royal Ravkan Army under the direction of the Grand Dorodva had prevented the fall of Os Alta long enough for–

“–You.” Alina realized out loud. “The Siege of Os Alta only ended when you arrived on the battlefield.”

“Correct,” the General acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head, “Os Alta had been on the brink of collapse. The years of siege had taken its toll. Morale was at its lowest point in decades and the population was thinning at an alarming rate. A trio of desperate young summoners believed that the only way to save the city was to find the Shadow Summoner who might turn the tide of battle, either the General they lost, or the son that might be out there somewhere. One day, they disobeyed orders and set out to find him. At the dacha, they found evidence that the General had been captured, traces of a Shu Han field examination team indicated that someone had been taken to the laboratories near Bhez Ju, and so they followed the trail of clues to the Petrazoi.”

“Where they found you instead, didn’t they?”

“Indeed. They found me at the base of the Petrazoi, where I had been recovering from injuries sustained from a run in with a Shu scouting unit. They brought me to the fortress citadel of Caryeva, where a healer treated my wounds before we made for the Capital.”

“Ending the Siege was a simple enough task,” the General said in a detached, almostly clinical manner, “The Shu had become complacent, so used to a desolate countryside that could barely defend and feed itself, let alone muster enough resources to send any reinforcements to the besieged Capital. After a month training with the three summoners who had come to my aid, and exchanging a series of messages with the interim Grisha command, we conducted a series of night raids that destroyed the ability of the Shu Han to continue the siege, before facing now disoriented Shu head on with a grisha assault force, thereby creating an opening for the forces bottlenecked inside the city to strike at the Shu from behind after they had turned to face us. A decisive victory that ended the threat of invasion from Shu Han for a hundred years.”

“I never knew my father,” General Kirigan said, “I spent my childhood in hiding, ever staying in one place long enough for my hunters to find me. Os Alta was, and remains, no place for a child of a shadow summoner. Had I grown up in the capital, I would likely have been dead before I ever reached my majority.” 

“Kirill Artyomovich Kirigan would never return to Os Alta, and I came in his stead. Within a week of my arrival at the City of Dreams, I ended the longest siege of the capital in Ravkan History, was hailed as one of the Heroes of Os Alta, elevated to become Lord General of the newly created Royal Second, then met both the child-Empress Kirill had unwittingly left behind and the man who left him to die.” 

Alina felt sick, and her heart ached for the man in front of her. What must it have been like, to have your life upended so suddenly, to find yourself in front of the man who murdered your father?

“I’ve never heard any of this about the Grand Dorodva,” Alina said, head pounding, heart racing from the bombshell of a tale the General had just told her. “The stories just talk about how he and the White Prince defeated the Dual Alliance together, and how he emerged from mourning the death of the Prince just in time to save Rakva from the Shu! The books say nothing about how he was a murderer, a traitor! Why does history paint him to be some sort of–hero?!”

“Why do you think this might be the case?”

“What?”

“Why do you believe you have never heard this side of the Grand Dorodva?” The General asked patiently. “What might be the reasons behind history being portrayed that way that it was in your books?”

“I…,” Alina hesitated, before shaking her head, “I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” General Kirigan murmured, and Alina shrank at the slight flash of disappointment that she thought she saw flicker through his eyes. “Do not be so quick to give up without trying,” the General chided gently, “your classes at the Grand Palace will begin soon, and the Apparat has convinced the Tsar to require you to observe mass and take lessons with him at the Basilica of Sankt Illya. Do you think you will emerge from Court unscathed if you do not think critically about the motivations of others?

“The Apparat has what?!”

“Never mind that for now. Focus Alina. Why is the Grand Dorodva still considered a hero?”

“Al–alright.” Alina bit her lip in concentration.

“If you do not know the answer, then take it step by step,” General Kirigan told her, “Lay out the relevant information that you have at hand. Puzzle out the questions that you need to ask in order to obtain the remaining information that you need. Then move forward from there.”

“What do I know about the Grand Dorodva,” Alina thought out loud. “I know that he is credited with coordinating the First Army defense of Os Alta, and how his leadership saw the city through the crisis–”

“–a story which conveniently omits how the city had only survived four years of siege through the efforts of the Materialki to reinforce the walls and transform every inch of the city into arable growing space and the Etherealki who replenished the city’s water supplies by drawing rain clouds to fall into the city, thereby becoming self sufficient, but go on–”

“After the siege of Os Alta he continued to fight against Shu Han, pushing them back to the border. At the end of the Fifth Ravkan-Shu Han war, he retired to his estate, the Nosiyatov House for ten years, only returning at the end of the Boyar’s Rebellion when he was summoned by...you?” Alina blinked before looking up sharply at the grimacing man in front her. “You summoned him!”

“So I did,” the General confirmed wearily, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly with exhaustion.

“Why?!”

“I had no choice,” General Kirigan said. “After the Shu was defeated, Dorodva was tried in a secret tribunal for his actions.”

“A secret tribunal?”

“A public tribunal was out of the question. Dorodva had been the face of the defense effort for the whole of the siege. Putting him on trial would have invited civil unrest, rebellion, and possibly even civil war, none of which Ravka could have afforded after two wars and a long bloody siege of the capital itself. At the same time however, the Royal Inquest determined that Dorodva’s bargain with the Shu was a significant motivating factor for the invasion itself, exposing the internal divisions of Ravka during the early Regency, as well as weakening a significant military asset by betraying the leadership of the grisha.”

“Punishing Dorodva however presented the same issues as putting him on trial. He was far too beloved to be punished visibly without the public raising questions. Complicating matters even further was the fact that young Elizaveta had become attached to Dorodva during the previous four years, having come to see him both as a connection to the father she could no longer remember, and her valiant defender that fought fiercely to protect her during such tumultuous times.”

“He didn’t retire at all, did he?” Alina realized. 

“No. The Tsaritsa accepted his request to step down from office, however the request itself was a farce, a way of saving face for all parties involved. In truth, the Grand Dorodva was placed under house arrest. He was not to leave the Nosiyatov House for ten years, Dorodva itself for twenty, with two thirds of his private fortune as well as any and all profits accrued by his holdings for the duration of his punishment going directly as restitution to the Royal Coffers and the newly founded Second Army.”

“That’s blood money!” Alina exclaimed, aghast at how gauche a move that was. House arrest was practically a slap on the wrist considering what Dorodva’s actions had done to Ravka, he had killed the General’s father, and the best that could be done was money?!

“The payment of the Wergild is one of the oldest statutes in the Ravkan legal codex,” General Kirigan said, “a tradition brought from Fjerda by Hjalmar the Red in 357. It was indeed woefully insufficient, though there was some catharsis in using Dorodva’s gold as the principle means of financing the construction of the Little Palace. You are however correct that it has fallen out of favor largely because it offends our modern sensibilities. But what else could be done? The Court was aghast that even that much punishment was inflicted upon the Grand Dorodva. After all, that the Shu had mobilized so quickly clearly indicated that they were going to invade regardless of Dorodva’s machinations and therefore attributing causation of the invasion to Dorodva would be overestimating his culpability in the matter. Perhaps such extreme measures were even justifiable considering who had been the defacto Regent at the time.”

His father. “But what about the grisha?” Alina asked in dismay. 

“What about the grisha,” General Kirigan asked coldly in a clearly rhetorical manner.

“Surely it can not be denied that he had innocent people killed?!”

“Would that the Court had seen it that way,” the General said tiredly, “however they did not, and so the Wergild was the best that Tsaritsa Elizaveta could manage.”

“Why didn’t they see it that way?!”

“Because Grisha are not people.” Alina’s mouth clicked shut in shock. “Certainly not to the Court and strictly speaking, not legally. All lowborn grisha were classed as serfs, and remain so even to this day. With the exception of the Shadow Summoner, none of the grisha murdered on that day were nobility. Therefore, the only death that could be classified as homicide was that of Kirill Artyomovich Kirigan, and very few would have minded the murder of a descendent of the Black Heretic had it not been for the invasion.”

“Why couldn’t you just have, I dunno,” Alina helpless made a hand gesture that, no matter how discreetly she tried to convey her sentiments, was unavoidably the motion that could only ever be described as stabbing someone. 

“My dear Alina,” General Kirigan gasped, scandalized, “where did such a vicious notion come from?”

Alina’s cheeks reddened immediately. “I’m nineteen, not nine,” she cried to the sound of General Kirigan’s laughter, “I don’t like that people get disappeared and all, but I know that it happens.”

“I’m afraid Dorodva was a little too well protected to be ‘disppeared’ like that,” the General told her after recovering from his laughing fit, “during his time as Lord Regent he had taken steps towards consolidating power by creating the Secret Chancellory, which would later be renamed to the more discreet name that it is called by today. You may know it as The Third Section.”

The Third Section, the Tsar’s Secret Police. Petty snitches and thugs who threw their weight around with impunity because they were the Tsar’s own spies and brutes. All seeing, all knowing. Not as frightfully efficient or as imposingly intimidating as the General’s own oprichniki, and a younger organization by far, but still terrifying in with their nigh absolute impunity.

“The Third Section was much more competent back then,” General Kirigan informed her, “thereby making it impossible for the Duke to suffer any sort of ‘accident’. And so the fifth Duke of Dorodva remained Grand. Though he was considerably more impoverished, his reputation in the eyes of the public remained intact.” 

“When the Tsaritsa died of consumption seventeen years later when her only son was seven, the Boyars revolted. This was partially due to the increase in taxes on the nobility made during Tsaritsa Elizaveta’s reign in order to finance the reconstruction of Ravka as well as fund spending on the various social programs and educational reforms that had made her so beloved, but also in part due to the Tsaritsa’s will elevating yours truly to the position of Lord Regent.”

“I could have suppressed the Rebellion,” the General stated plainly, “the rebellious aristocrats were hardly the best strategists Ravka had ever seen. However, such a move would have been costly, and had the distinct possibility of inciting popular backlash. It would have been very easy for my opponents to paint me as the Black Tyrant rather than the Black General. In any case, Ravka was in no position to absorb the costs of any conflict that might arise, not when the nation was just barely beginning to recover from the war.”

“So where does Dorodva come into this?” Alina asked.

“The Boyars would not listen to me, refused to even begin to negotiate with the Darkling,” General Kirigan spat the slur out sourly, as though the name left a bad taste in his mouth. “However I knew there was one person who they would listen to.”

“Dorodva.”

“Dorodva,” General Kirigan confirmed, “I summoned Dorodva to Court and asked for his terms. He said that he would bring the Boyars to heel, so long as he was made co-Regent in all but name. Eleven years of whispering in the right ear, and five more in which the Duke did everything he could to solidify his legacy, and here we are today, a world in which the Grand Dorodva, rakeeter, traitor, murderer, is a Hero of Ravka.”

“That’s awful .”

“Such is the story of the grisha, and of Ravka,” General Kirigan said. “Centuries of human greed, cruelty, and misery obscuring the light of hope, of betrayal and self-inflicted wounds that fester and rot. But what can do other than live and seek to be better than what we have been before?”

“Alina, the reason why I tell you this story is because I understand how it feels to go from living in obscurity to sudden prominence. From crude housing and improvised shelter, to a bed far too soft, in a room far too opulent, among people you know not. I have long known that the people I work with would use me for their own ends, defeat their enemies, and cast me aside in the very first instant that they can. And yet I can not run. The grisha depend on me to protect them from the world, and ordinary Ravkans rely on my strategems to hold our enemies at the gate. The weight of expectation is heavy and it is inescapable. You see it in everything around you, in all the faces you see.”

Oh.

That was it. There it was .

Everything she had been feeling ever since she arrived at the Little Palace, the anxiety, the grief, the uncertainty, the feeling of insufficiency, everything that she had been pushing away, hiding inside, refusing to see, running away, cowering in place, allowing it to sink, gnaw, fester, rot, eat away at her from the inside. 

It was there. Out in the open, in the light of the sun, where both of them could see.

“You felt it too?” Alina whispered. Her eyesight was going blurry, where had these tears come from?

“I feel it still,” the General said simply. “Every day I must make decisions that will determine the fate of millions. A single misstep, a moment of hesitation, and I will have condemned my people to die.”

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. “How do you deal with it?” Alina croaked, she cleared her throat and shook her head before continuing. “How do you not go insane?”

General Kirigan smiled sadly. “I do not have the luxury of insanity,” he said, “The plight of the grisha has been ongoing since time immemorial, and until the day that our people are free to be who they are out in the open without fear for themselves or their kin, then someone must shoulder the burden of making decisions with no easy solutions.”

“But why you?” Alina asked, “why does it have to be you ?”  Why fight when it would be so much safer to run? Why stand when it would be so much easier to just hide?  

“Because if not I, then who?” the General said. “There are those who wish to take my position, and yet I find they wish to do so for the wrong reasons. They seek the power and privileges accorded to one of my station, while disdaining the responsibility that comes with it. Thus far I have yet to find another that can take my burden from me, and so I continue my work until the day all grisha can live without fear, the day one who is worthy can take my burden from me, or the day I die, whichever comes first.”

What an impossible man.  

“I fear that you will find yourself in much the same position as I,” the General said, “Ravka has long awaited the Sun Summoner, and their expectations can be as much a curse as it can be a blessing.”

The reminder of her situation sent her crashing back down to earth. “But what if I never summon?” Alina asked in despair, “How do you know if I’ll ever summon the light? I can’t even make so much as a spark.” 

“A bird makes flight look easy,” the General said gently, “but it was born to do so.” He shifted, only lifting his hand, long elegant fingers extended towards her. “May I?” he asked softly.

Alina felt her breath hitch as she nodded, not entirely certain what she was agreeing to, but heart and soul wanting it all the same.

A single finger lightly touched her forehead and she gasped as she felt something small rattling in her chest, like a mouse knocking pieces of shattered glass into each other and making the shards chime. Warm candlelight shone weakly into an infinite abyss, a vast expanse of some great starless night waiting, watching, looking.

But for what? 

“Look at you,” General Kirigan whispered, voice tinged with a strange note that Alina did not understand. “Do you not see it?”

“See what?” Alina whispered back, uncertain, unknowing, but not frightened. Not when and the dark depths of an ocean unseen did not press into her, did not make her feel small but just like someone else was there, a presence that listened, awaited her decision. 

“The light,” General Kirigan said softly. “See how it shines.”

“It’s so small,” Alina observed with quiet dismay. Little light, little heart. What was this candle to the Sun?

“But it does not flicker.” The General’s gaze was steady, fierce resolution, faith unfaltering, will shining bright in steel grey eyes. “It burns true, unwavering in the face of uncertainty, in the face of fear, in the face of doubt. A survivor. Just like you.”

“I…” That couldn't be right. Her power unwavering, her heart firm and certain? She hardly could be further away from those feelings than she did at this moment, that just could not be her.

He gently trailed his finger down from her forehead so that his hand could cup her cheek. “Close your eyes for me,” General Kirigan said softly, “concentrate on the feeling of that candlelight, that little star hiding deep inside your heart.”

Alina closed her eyes. She could see it in her mind’s eye, the little light that had always been just underneath her skin, that little glass house she had locked her star behind now ruptured, broken shards littering the floor. 

“Focus Alina. Follow the flow of your power. Now tell me, where are you?”

Alina opened her eyes.

She was standing on a beach, a darkened harbor that looked deceptively tranquil at first glance, but she could see waves roaring high in the distance. A tall and forbidding mountain chain loomed in the distance. Alina didn’t remember when she had taken off her shoes, but she could feel warm sand seep between her toes, rough waves in the distance breaking unnaturally and gentling to lap docilely at her feet. When she breathed in, her nose was filled with a strangely salty tang that she had never encountered before, and that particular smell of rainfall and lightning that heralded the storm, and yet when she looked up, there was only the clear moonless night sky curiously devoid of stars that stretched far overhead towards the horizon.

“What do you see?” The Generals voice echoed all around her, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“I see a harbor and a river,” she replied with certainty, despite never having seen so much water in her life. The part of her that had once been a cartographer and always would be provided her the terms, but the newest part of her, the one that was now grisha and always had been, providing the answer that she knew he wanted. “I see a world without sun.”

“Then what must you do?”

She didn’t want to leave this harbor, not when she felt protected, supported, secure. The sand was warm and comforting underfoot, and she knew that nothing could harm her here. 

But there was something missing, something that she desperately needed, a hollow in her skin that if she did not understand where it went, she would never be able to enjoy this safe haven. She turned towards the river and began walking along its shore.

She followed the banks of the river to a little house with a small garden in front that somehow seemed to flicker in and out of focus. Little stone walls protected the humble cottage, and she almost reached for the broom to sweep up some debris, shattered shards of jagged glass, crumbled piles of rubble that did not match the only walls in sight. The mess seemed so out of place in such a pastoral scene but she stopped herself just in time. She would have time to tend to that later.

The garden lay mostly fallow, though it was dominated by a large thornwood tree that she somehow knew was young and still growing. Underneath the great branches, she could see three blue irises and the early green sprouts of some unknown plant beginning to grow. What would they grow into, she wondered, before continuing inside. 

A little sun sat behind a glass case, and she watched in wonder as the light refracted into multicolored beams that painted the walls with their rich hues, though the light and the walls seemed to flicker strangely here too.

“Now call the sun.”

“I can’t,” Alina blurted out instinctively.

“You can,” the man's deep, rich voice rumbled in her ear. “You have. Don’t you remember? That day in the tent and in the audience with the Tsar–”

“–you helped me somehow–”

“–and so I will help you here as well. I am a living amplifier, my touch strengthens the connection of grisha to the Making at the Heart of the World. I will assist in summoning the light, as I have before.”

If she concentrated, she could feel the warmth of his palm against her cheek as he cupped her face oh so gently in a world far away and yet right next to this one. “...Alright.” Alina inhaled, a deep shaky breath. She focused on the hum in her veins, not the roaring flood that had rushed through her blood the last time he had coaxed her power forward, but a faint harmonic that longed to see the night. 

“Now tell me,” General Kirigan asked, his voice shaking walls and heaven and earth, but not her. “What is the light to you?”

She placed her hands against the glass and concentrated. At first, she could feel nothing but cool glass and a light that strangely was there and seemed to be retreating, seemed to shy away from her. Somehow, she was reminded of a little white mouse she had seen at Keramzin, one that was fearful and shy, even as it stared longingly at the little cookie Alina Starkova was grabbing from the cupboard even though she wasn’t supposed to. She did now what she did back then. 

She held out her hands and waited.

“What drives you Alina Starkova? Who do you want to be?”

Who did she want to be?

...Who Did she want to be?

It struck her as...sad that she couldn't think of anything at first. She had never been asked such a question before. When she was a nobody orphan, she had been expected to maybe become a maidservant, maybe a governess. When she was ten, in the last year the previous Tsar had ruled, the draft had been expanded to include women, and suddenly her destiny was to become yet another soldier, to fight and die for the glory of Mother Ravka.

"Men and Women Side by Side!" She remembered the words on the poster in the orphanage common room. A handsome man in a First Army uniform with pale skin, blue eyes, blonde hair and a charming smile, was offering a hand to a smiling dark brown-haired but also pale-skinned woman, who was trading peasant clothes for the same uniform. The pastel blue banner with the bright gold Lantsov eagle fluttered dramatically on the yellow background. "Fight! Together to Victory!"

Hell, even becoming a cartographer hadn't been her choice, but a product of necessity and desperation. Her health would have seen her dead long before the skiff had Petya not unilaterally decided to requisition Alina for the cartographer's unit.

"Are you mental? A Keramzin Hall education and you want to throw that into the meatgrinder? Get your head out of your ass, you know as well as I do that those lily-livered Central bastards have never worked an honest day's work in their lives. We're falling behind, too far behind at the rate this war is going, and I need people who can be taught what to do, then actually do what they're being taught. So if you're not going to be helpful Lieutenant, then I am going to find someone who will be."

Then she had become the Sun Summoner, and everyone expected her to do…something.

How long will she need to destroy the Fold?

Sankta Alina, save this country, g uide this country into salvation.

I have been waiting a long time for you.

So many expectations, but no one had asked had ever asked her this.

Who did she want to be?

I didn’t ask if you wanted a hug as if that would make up for what was done to you, what’s being done to the grisha! I asked if you, Emiliya Grigoryevna, would like a hug from me, Alina Starkova, because I don’t have a better reason than I want to give comfort to my friend, because a hug is within my power to give.

There's nothing inherently wrong with eating with servants, especially if you have friends there or because you just want to eat there. But if you eat with them because you’re forced to, especially if you have to eat with those ‘shrews’ that the queen foists on you, then you should eat with me. I like to think I'm much better company.

I think a religion based on healing is preferable to one based on suffering.

Cartographers made maps to help the lost find their way. What kind of cartographer would Alina be if she let a friend go into the unknown alone?

And her answer came to her, as strong as the change heralded by the Western Wind, as bright as the hope revealed by the Sun Ascendant. She didn't truly know if this was the right answer, how could she when she had never thought about such a thing before? When wanting had never been hers to have, when choice had never been part of the equation? Her answer was not absolute, not certain, but this was the most certain she had ever been, even if something within her felt as though her answer was incomplete, insufficient- knew that this was only the beginning of a long, terrible journey.

A safe harbor. She glanced out the window and smiled at the way mountains and plains shifted and unfurled. The midnight blue waters of a distant sound flowing in to fill newfound terrain, tranquil under the wings of a starless night. 

A hearth fire. Warmth blazed into being, a cheerful blaze burning merrily in the fireplace. The faces of friends near and far, new and old forming and then fading away in the swirling, shining, glittering motes of dust that caught the rays of light from the outside from a newly revealed sun.

A sanctuary. The interior of her little cottage rippled, and then began to rearrange itself. Pastel yellow wallpaper furled into being over dull flickering cracked grey walls. Broken glass shards dissipated into glimmering sand and joined swirling dust before all flowed out the broken window, which shattered and reformed until it was once again whole. Plush sofas and chairs of all shapes and colors popped into being, settling themselves down in all of the nooks and crannies of the room. Flowers bloomed, filling in the windowsill box, vases that appeared out of thin air to settle on small oak coffee tables, and on the desk where a map drafting kit, her map drafting kit materialized. Toys appeared on the plush white rug before the fireplace, bottles of juice and spirits appearing on the dining table, at least one of which she knew was a bottle of strawberry kvas. Her pictures of her friends took their place on the walls, and the way they smiled and gleamed made her her happy, but the sight of a box of empty picture frames somehow made her even happier.

A place of solace and understanding. She thought of all the suffering and sorrow that people held, ones she knew and all those that she did not, but hurt her anyways. She was only little Alina Starkova, remarkable for being unremarkable, extraordinary in her banality. She had been made special because of what she was, not because of who. But she had always been able to sit and listen. Maybe she could try and forge a space where some might have a chance to stop and heal. She looked around and smiled.

There was something strange about room she stood in, the image flickering strangely and shifting out of focus if she lingered on any particular spot for too long. But right now she couldn't care less.

This was it. A room that both old and young could settle in and feel comfortable. That place she had been chasing for so long, what every orphan longed for so dearly.

A home.

Then she felt it. The warmth of companionship, the feeling that settled in the soul at the sound of laughter, the relief at seeing the coming of spring after a long bitter frost. She could feel something retreating, withdrawing, but she was preoccupied with the joy that rushed through her veins, the feeling of hope and reunion and anticipation.

The glass case, the lone remanent of the old, dilapidated house, gleamed in the hearth light. Nestled in black silk drape, the little sun was now settled on a little wooden pedestal made of twisting thornwood vines that grew into existence around it.

The little ball of light, no larger or brighter than a candle floated inside, dancing in mesmerizing spirals before floating towards her. She held her breath, hands still held against the smooth surface that grew warmer as the little star grew closer. She backed up ever so slightly, as instinct and ancient whispers threading through her mind made her cup her hands together, as though she was catching something precious that she did not want to fall. The little sun danced and then split, a copy phasing through the glass before coming to hover just above her palms.

The light made her feel safe, the light made her feel warm, the light made her feel alive. The light danced in the air, glowing a warm yellow light that didn’t flicker even once.

~

Far away from the Sun and Shadow Summoners, a book gleams golden in the darkness of the catacombs. The covers creak open of their own accord and the pages begin flying before settling one that was empty. Words in gold ink begin to etch themselves across the page, and the runes on the wall glow with an unearthly light.

~

General Kirigan’s eyes sparkled with unfettered delight. He laughed, a bright, melodious thing, lighting up his face with beautiful joy. It made him look even younger than he already appeared, bringing to mind the boy he must have been once, in a time long since passed. He was sitting a little bit further away than he had been before, hands clapped together in his excitement.

Both of his hands were clapped together in front of him.

“–You!” Alina squawked. Sheer surprise made her lose the ball of light, but the revelation caused by what just happened rammed into her like she had just been run over by a speeding carriage.

“Me,” General Kirigan agreed, mischief now mixing with elation, quite clearly pleased with himself, and possibly even pleased with her. “I told you you could do it.”

“But, how– when did you–!” Alina was lost for words. When did he move over there? When did he remove his touch? How did she keep summoning without his ‘amplification?’

“You didn’t need me,” he declared with utter certainty in his voice, “You never have, not for this. Your sun is here.” He leaned in to tap her on her collarbone, an echo of that moment after the audience when the two of them last spoke before this day. “You must simply allow yourself to see it.”

“I–”

“You asked me how did I bear it? This. This is my answer.”

“What do you mean?”

Alina watched as the General began rooting around in the basket looking for something. “When I was young,” he said, “my mother and I were always on the the run. Every single coin, every last scrap of food and cloth, everything we had was put towards keeping us alive.” 

“I envied the children in town,” he continued, pausing in his search to stare contemplatively, eyes distant in a way that told Alina he wasn’t seeing what he was looking at. “How they had a bed that they could sleep in, how they could laugh and play in the streets, how they could have frivolous things like toys and candy. We could only afford the bare necessities, never certain when we would have to abandon it all to escape, and so my blankets were threadbare cotton on the rare occasions that I could have such a thing, my meals were bland and tasteless. The only time I had ever tasted sugar was when a kind baker’s wife slipped me a sugar cube after I had begged her for bread, and it would be years before I had such a thing again. We were surviving, not living .”

“Balakirev, Caryeva, Ejora, The Little Palace, the Second Army, all of it has been dedicated towards pursuing a single ideal.” Alina blinked at the two flat tin containers General Kirigan took out, one for him and one for her. “That even grisha can do more than just run, do more than just hide, be more than just afraid .” The General removed both lids with a dramatic flourish, and Alina couldn’t help but laugh when she saw what was inside. Miraculously intact after a day of riding, inside each tin rested a single slice of Bird’s Milk Cake. 

She looked up to see General Kirigan holding out one of the containers and a silver fork as he smiled at her. 

“That even grisha can have something sweet.”

Alina took the tin from the General and scooped up a bite with her fork. She brought it to her mouth.

The cake was even better than she remembered it being, but part of her didn’t even taste the cake itself. Instead she thought of long nights nestled with a good book in the armchair next to the hearthfire, the smell of blue irises at the height of summer, the laughter of friends and family both near and far, those who remained and others long gone, but never forgotten, a gentle hand cupping her cheek.

It was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

~

That night she took the time to open her book on the language of flowers and examine the bouquet that came tied in black ribbon with her gifts. It took a while, but she slowly matched the flowers she was seeing with the illustrations in her book. Almond Blossom, for Hope and Watchfulness. Pink Heather, to wish someone ‘good Luck’. Fennel for strength. Smilax, to tell someone that they were lovely.

...Lovely ?

That night Alina lies awake in bed, staying up well into the night thinking, wondering. 

Then, when she finally falls asleep, she dreams of a quiet sea harbor.

~

In the War Room next door, a man sits in a great ebony armchair, elbow resting upon the armrest, face resting upon his palm. He reads the file in his hand for a second time, knowing from experience that doing so will not change the facts contained within.

“And we are certain that he will not change his mind?”

Fedyor shook his head from where he was standing respectfully at attention at the opposite side of the table. “Zakharov insists on moving forward with the demonstration. He believes that there is nothing to be gained by working with the beneficiaries of a morally bankrupt aristocratic mercantilist system.” 

Lev Davidovich Zakharov. A merchant’s son, the young man had dropped out of his course at the University of Os Alta to work with a charity that resettled refugees fleeing the border wars. After becoming disillusioned with the disparities in outcomes inherent in the resettlement process, the boy began championing political and social reform. Handsome, clever, charming and charismatic, Zakharov had quickly amassed quite the following, one that would have been even larger had his Oprichniki not run damage control and mitigated his influence by suppressing circulation of his pamphlets, which even Aleksander himself had to admit were compelling. In them Lev eloquently articulated the need for Ravka to become a post-mercantilist, post-national, egalitarian society. A world in which the color of one’s skin would not determine the fate of their children, where every Ravkan would be free to prosper as equal citizens and not be chained to the whims of the monarchy and the demands of industry. 

What a lovely dream.

Aleksander had seen his like before. History never quite repeated itself, but it did rhyme. Their causes differed somewhat. Some would protest against the chokehold the Apparacy had on public worship of the Cult of Saints, then there were those agitating for sovereignty of whatever group or identity had become the fashion of the day to champion, and still others would rail against the wealth inequality perpetuated by first by feudalism, then by the absolute monarchy directly. Over the centuries, many young would be revolutionaries would rise and then fall, each burning quickly, if at all, before sputtering out. Unifiers and sucessionists. Pacifists and anarchists. Schemers and believers. Preachers, peasants, politicians, demagogues. Aleksander had seen it all.

From time to time, there were moments when he considered throwing his lot in with these people. After particularly excruciating meetings with one Lantsov or another, or in those dark moments after yet another one of his grisha died for sin of others, he wondered if the grisha would not be better off with a new form of government.

But no. There was simply too much at stake, too much to gamble on such unknown quantities. He had lived for far too long, betrayed by far too many to be lured in with pretty words and empty promises. In watching other countries throughout the ages Aleksander observed that revolutionaries often had grand ideas of what needed to be done, but once they were in a position to enact their promises often they became just as oppressive as the system they overthrew. A king by any other name is still a king. With the Lantsovs he at least knew what he was getting, was always in a position where he could observe the man that the next Tsar would become and understand their strengths and their weaknesses. If he allowed any of these rabble rousers to rise to prominence, who knows what havoc they might unleash onto Ravka. Who knows how much of the country would burn before they were satisfied and who knew what would emerge from the ashes?

Then there was the geopolitical situation to consider. Ravka was perpetually the Sick Man of the continent, with two hostile nations circling opportunistically, and the Fold becoming increasingly dangerous and cutting off increasingly more trade as time went by. In the past, Ravka had barely survived by the skin of its teeth due on the strength of a unified state, fortunate wartime leaders, and the power of the grisha. Now, absent a competent Tsar and lacking a better alternative for the foreseeable future, Ravka was barely keeping its head above the water, even after all of Aleksander’s own efforts to sabotage Ravka’s enemies and optimize domestic production and innovation well beyond what mundane technologies alone would have allowed. If the country did erupt into civil unrest, then soon enough there would be no Ravka to speak of. And if Ravka fell... 

No. Aleksander could not afford to let any of these insurgents incite rebellion. Ravka could not afford it. The Grisha could not afford it.

There was a standard procedure to dealing with these kinds of people, however it appeared that none of the methods would not work with Zakharov. Offers for the boy to join the government in any manner of low profile but unexpectedly influential positions that would bring incremental but meaningful improvement to the very lives he was championing were rebuffed with prejudice. Bribery had been ruled out since the start. His parents were dead, he had no siblings or extended family, and what few friends he had retained since embarking on his crusade were just as fervent as he was. 

The boy himself was a zealot. He would consider any harm inflicted upon them to be an act of martyrdom. Like Sankta Anastasia who gave her blood to cure the plague, he would give his life and the lives of his comrades to see a new dawn rise in Ravka.

A pity, a boy of his talents might have even been useful.

“We have no other choice then. Kill him.”

“Yes, moi soverenyi.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 13: Interlude: Letters To and From Elsewhere

“There is a certain quality that people tend to have, but most of you sorry lot seem to lack entirely. Any guesses? ...Seriously. None of you? ” 

-Captain Semyon Arsenyevich Volkov 

Training Master of the Oprichniki Special Assets Division

A young woman sat at a small corner table writing on a piece of rich grained paper, thick with a lovely heft and impossibly smooth to the touch. Her grip was unsteady, the heavy fountain pen feeling deeply unfamiliar in her hand and for a moment she missed the lighter drafting charcoal that would stain her fingers with inky residue but would still glide across her grid paper to outline the lay of the land. But the pen was a gift, black ebony handle with a sunburst carved in gold, an equally gold nib engraved with a bay wreath and a rather cheeky heather that was somehow lined in pink. Who the gift was from was obvious from the way it had been presented to her by Genya in a black box tied with another ribbon of black silk, and that it had been a reward of merit as indicated by the bay wreath was quite nice. A reward for her summoning a week ago maybe? However, the pink heather felt a bit like the General had been having a laugh at her expense when Genya proceeded to tell her that she now had to take calligraphy lessons. "Good luck" her ass. Her hand still had cramps from the way she now had to do all of her schoolwork in a much more stylized manner.

“The Court scrutinizes everything and a Lady’s calligraphy is considered a reflection of the quality of a Lady’s upbringing and character,” Genya said, “sending a letter written by a careless or uneven hand indicates an imprudent or injudicious mind as well as a lack of respect for the interlocutor.”

“...Isn’t that reading a bit too much into things?”

“Almost certainly. I suspect that it is less about character and more about having additional grounds to undermine others. In Court, any imperfection will be leveraged in the constant struggle for prestige. Little things like calligraphy are just excuses to demean another, particularly when a social superior is watching.”

“So you’re saying that I actually have to write like this all the time.”

“Sort of? The problem is if anyone from the Grand Palace or the Apparacy demands to inspect your work. The General is already fighting to keep you at the Little Palace for as long as possible. It wouldn’t do to give anyone an excuse to think his education of you to be lacking.”

“I see.” Dance, calligraphy, etiquette, and comportment on top of the regular grisha academic curriculum which was comparable to the core curriculum of the University of Os Alta (she had checked). If this is lacking, she didn’t think she wanted to see what ‘satisfactory’ looked like.

“You will have some leeway for personal expression, however like all things at Court, the degree to which you can deviate from the norm will directly correspond with how secure your position is there. For a baby Saint –”

“ –hey!”

“ – I would say get as close to textbook as you can and then when the dust settles back down again you can start to experiment a little. Only a little though, okay Alina? That means you have to stop adding bunny ears to your ‘P’s like that.”

“Aww…”

But that was then and here she was, writing at her desk by the light of the full moon with a fountain pen somehow perfectly sized for her. She lifted her pen and carefully dabed the excess ink back into the ornate lapis lazuli inkwell, a gift from Tsesarevich Vasily of all people, one that made her feel angry and then bitter when she asked what it was. Lapis Lazuli was not endemic to this side of the Fold, and the ink itself was a specific shade of Ravkan Blue flecked with gold leaf, formulated for the exclusive use of the Royal Family whose price per ounce made her choke on her pastry when she asked Genya. You could have fed a family for a good month with that kind of money! She wanted to throw the thing out the window, but Genya said that rejecting a gift from the royal family was not done . In fact, once her calligraphy was up to par, the first letter that she should write with the ink should be to the Tsesarevich, then to the Tsaritsa. 

Jokes on them, the first letter Alina wrote was to Genya. No, she didn’t care that she saw the Tailor every day. She got the first letter and that was that. (There might be a second letter that she didn’t feel brave enough to send sitting in her desk drawer. Was she being a little presumptuous tying the letter to him with one of the many black ribbons she seemed to be accruing from him these days?)

It was the third letter that she was working on now.

~

Dear Mal,

Don’t worry, I’m safe. I know you’ve probably worrying your head off, but don’t worry. I’m not dying, I’m not being tortured, I’m being fed. I’m okay. 

Actually I’m doing better than okay, I have a bed Mal, a bed! With the nicest sheets too and chairs, Saints there are so many chairs in this place, and I even have friends  

Sorry, I got a bit sidetracked.

I am sorry that it’s taken this long for me to write to you. I was only recently allowed to write to people outside of the Little Palace. The Oprichniki told me that I had to wait until a thorough background check and an interview were conducted, for my safety and that of the other residents. I tried to tell them that there was no way you would try to harm anyone here, but they said that there were no exceptions. 

How are you doing? Are you okay? When I asked after you, all Personnel would tell me was that you had been seen by a Healer and then taken to Balakirev to be a part of the Oprichniki? Are they actually telling me the truth? Did you actually join the Oprichniki ? I thought you hated the Greybacks? 

Mal, I

I didn’t 

Please don’t think  

There’s no good way to say this. 

I didn’t know that I was a grisha. 

That day on the skiff, I didn’t understand what was happening. I still don’t know what happened then. One minute I’m diving at that volcra that was going after you, and the next thing I know I’m being taken to the grisha tent and then the Little Palace because somehow I’m a grisha ? Not only that, I’m apparently the Sun Summoner? We always thought the Sun Summoner was a myth, a hypothetical, a nice fairy tale that the priests always told us about so that we would have reason to stay, reason to believe that someday Ravka might have a happily ever after in this world and not just the next. They're training me so that I can banish the fold, I don’t know how I'm supposed to do that, I can barely make my hands sparkle.

So, that’s where I am, I guess. I’m currently training at the Little Palace so that I can be more than a human lamp, and hopefully I’ll be able to do something. Whatever that might be.

Mal, I know that you have reservations about grisha, but I hope that even in spite of everything that happened we can still be friends. You were my first friend, the only one at Keramzin who would give me time of day. I would hate for something like this, something outside of both of our control to come between us. I won’t be able to leave for a while, there are people out there who want me dead and that scares me so much  so I’m going to have to stay at the Little Palace for the foreseeable future. But know that even though I can’t see you, I remember you, and I always will.

Yours In Faith and Under the Eyes of the Saints,

Alina Starkova

~

A young man perched on the beige travertine wall overlooking the vast city of Balakirev. He isn’t supposed to be here, no unauthorized personnel were and given he had barely been in the training program for all of a month, he was very much unauthorized. But here, above meandering streets, the sea of flower blossoms, and the full moon high and bright in the skies, he could almost ignore the signs that this was a grisha city, or maybe it was more correct to say that he was ignoring the signs that it was a very particular grisha’s city. 

In his new leather notebook he scrawled a letter to a girl that had always felt so close, and yet always just out of reach. When he was alone, he almost felt as though he could feel her, waiting. 

Could she be waiting for him?

~

Dear Alina,

Are you really okay? I’ve been worried out of my mind wondering about what was going on, if you were alive, if you were safe . They wouldn’t tell me anything here. Still won’t, not until I’ve proven myself. The Darkli General offered me a deal that I would only be able to see you if I joined his merry band of psychopaths. 

I mean that. These people are absolutely nuts.

~

“What do you mean I have to learn how to fight with a spoon?!”

~

I am at Balakirev training to be part of some super secret division that I’ve never heard of before, the Special Assets Divison, or the SAD because it's a sad bunch of cast outs.

Nevermind. That was lame even for me.

Anyways, did you know that people actually fight to get into the Oprichniki? I’ve met people here who say it’s an honor to be a blackboot. I don’t care how good the benefits are, anyone who recruits these kinds of people is not to be trusted, and the amount of shit they put us through here isn’t any sort of honor .

Let me tell you a story...

~

Senior Tracker Malyen Orestev of the 22nd Infantry Regiment of His Majesty’s Royal First Army, was, okay, no longer part of His Majesty’s Royal First Army. He was now Senior Sergeant Orestev of His Soverenyi’s Oprichniki.  

Or he would be, as soon as the man in front of him deemed him worthy of joining those ranks.

Captain Volkov stood at attention, brutally handsome with a very thick mane of red hair and an equally red bushy beard. Terrifying despite the singularly overwhelming disadvantage that should have prevented anyone from taking him seriously.

The Captain was short. Very short. At four feet and some change, the man was somehow even shorter than Sticks (Mal didn’t think that was even possible).

The man radiated menace like a bonfire radiated heat, but Mal was in a strange liminal state of acknowledging that he might once have been intimidated, but in this moment he actually was not. For just weeks before he had stood before all that was wrong in the world and lived to tell the tale.

Cold apathy and terrible patience on a too young face, a looming consuming consciousness that left no corner of his mind untouched, unscoured. Black leather covering bloodstained hands. Black eyes, pitiless and calculating that swallowed all light that stared into his soul and found him lesser, insignificant. 

This was not a man. Never a man. Nothing that could ever be as ordinary as a man. 

Malyen Orestev stood before a monster.

But the Darkling was not here, only Volkov. But Volkov was the one who he had to impress to get back to Alina’s side, so he stood as sharply at attention in front as Volkov as he would in front of the Darkling, albeit with significantly less fear involved.

There were thirty of them, himself included, and each and every single one of the others were...odd in some way. Some of them were pretty chill. Einar, the massive middle aged Fjerdan standing three down in the lineup had taught him some pretty cool tricks with the volkoboy, and thank the Saints for him because he had no idea how to use the whip like weapon that only the Oprichniki used anymore. Sparrow was a forager and a tracker, like him, except she thought she was actually a bird, unlike him. Other than the two of them, Mal hadn’t exactly gotten close to the rest, who were either standoffish and cold and looked at him like they were eyeing which limb they would cut off first, or were complete and utter lunatics like Jakob.

They never did find the body.

But it was the girl all the way at the other end of the lineup that he was most wary of. 

Layla was a young girl–no. Lady , whose sharp amber eyes glittered in the sunlight. She was Suli, or at least a Southerner with Suli heritage, given the shape of her face and her tanned skin. Impractically, she wore dresses and skirts nearly every day, from pastel yellows and blues to olive and even black, except when they were doing the mandatory horse riding drills. Then she wore pants. Mal had been deeply confused how the Oprichniki, in nearly all other regards a bunch of regulation obsessed tightasses, allowed this. Was it because the SAD was allowed to get away with more because they were a bunch of nutjobs made useful with loose leashes? Maybe her parents were rich and well connected? That would explain all the colors. That wasn’t a closet just anyone could afford on a peasant’s salary. But credit where credit was due, the Oprichniki, for all of their faults, (of which there were many such as being a certain Heretic’s Spawn’s eyes and ears, and the reason why most sane Ravkans treated the sunset like an official curfew no matter what time of year), were fairly meritocratic. Aristocratic children, of which there were a surprising number of both genders (and memorably, at least one who didn’t fall into either and beat the crap out of him for assuming that they were male), got the same soul crushing beatdown that the Oprichniki called ‘Initiation’.

Saints, he missed the Fjerdan front sometimes. 

That said, other than a predilection for impractical clothing and being absurdly pretty in a petite, doll-like way, Layla was completely ordinary. A perpetually bored teenager, albeit one who was in absurdly good shape given that she could keep up with trained mercenaries and active duty military personnel. Still, she put Mal on edge. The SAD were a bunch of crazy people. Normal was an anomaly . He was here because he had to go through Oprichniki training, and SAD training was apparently weird, but intense and the fastest way to get to Alina’s side as one of her personal detail. Why was Layla here?

“Today is a very special day,” Captain Volkov grinned, thick beard quivering in excitement, “today is The Hunt .”

Oh boy. Definitive articles and capitalization that he could bloody hear . That was never a good sign in this freakshow. 

“Today’s objective is Jurda .” A ripple of comprehension and anticipation went through the ranks at the name. Nearly everyone had tried a bit of jurda before, civilian, military, Ravkan or foreign, chewing the flowers being a good way to keep yourself awake, or in larger doses, having a pretty gentle high. 

Mal didn’t like Jurda personally. It made everything go too sharp and fuzzy at the same time. He lost all sense of orientation, all of the sound around him would just fade away, and he would always feel like he was trapped, like his skin wasn’t his own, like he was burning alive .

 It wasn’t the most lucrative stimulant out there, but between the Fold and Balakirev having a practical monopoly over the stuff outside of Novyi Zem, it still fetched a pretty penny on the secondary markets. 

“I expect most of you have seen the flowers while you’ve been walking around the city during your free time, so the rules are simple,” Captain Volkov said, “Collect as much Jurda from the City of Balakirev and bring it here. The person who collects the most wins. You are not to leave the Old City. Leaving the Old City will result in an automatic loss and ejection from the Hunt. Damaging infrastructure will result in an automatic loss and ejection from the Hunt. All non-involved inhabitants have been evacuated for the duration of the Hunt, however it should go without saying that harming civilians, should you somehow still come across any, or active duty personnel is strictly not allowed. Failure to comply with this rule will result in an automatic expulsion from the Oprichniki and criminal proceedings, Am I So Clear ?!” Captain Volkov waited for the waves of variously shouted or grunted affirmatives before continuing. “You can not return early to drop off your jurda. Damaging each other's Jurda collections will automatically be deducted from your own total at a rate of 5:1, as in you will lose five points for every jurda blossom you destroy. And if you’re wondering how we will enforce these penalties, Oprichniki squads have been deployed in the city and will be watching the area for the duration of the exercise. You have two hours, and your time starts now!”

Fuck’s sake . Mal immediately sprinted for the window closest to him. Not the door, in which people were already having a chaotic free for all. Mal ducked to avoid whatever the hell was in that cylinder Jakob had thrown too close to him for comfort, flailing as the Kerch scientist was from where he was being manhandled by Veronika.

Oprichniki training exercises were very much an exercise in rules lawyering. Exact phrasing mattered, so when Volkov said nothing about harming each other, that meant that knocking out the competition was fair game. Killing each other had been strictly forbidden at the beginning of the Initiation process, which was a really alarming clause to need clarification for a very concerning seven times. But what did Mal know, he was just a tracker.

A tracker who was very much swinging out of the fourth floor window and rolling out onto a very convenient parapet.

He dashed along the walls, thankful for the crash course on Rooftop Running that the insane fuckers made him go through. He thought they were kidding when they shuffled them all out at midnight on a full moon to run up walls and sprint across roofs. It was a miracle that he hadn’t twisted an ankle that first night, and it didn’t get better when they had to come out night after night, even as the moon waned and then disappeared. Now during the day, it was practically a breeze, though he had to wonder at what kind of crap Oprichniki went through that this was part of the mandatory training.

Speaking of mandatory training, a glance behind him confirmed what his instincts were telling him, and he leapt off the walls down into the city below to land on a nearby roof, listening as the arrow whistled by his head.

Sliding down the shallow sloped side of the terracotta tile roof, he slowed himself with the edge of his boot and his standard issue metal climbing cable, before letting himself fall off the edge and then wheezing as his stomach collided with someone’s flower pot. 

Fuck, I almost had it . Mal bent over and clutched his stomach for a moment, allowing himself a soft groan before he reached up and plucked the bright orange flowers in the pot he just collided into. He turned around, grabbing a nearby basket from a nearby empty market stall as he did and depositing his acquisition into his small basket. He could afford to relax for the moment. Oisin was a practical man, and nearly as good a scavenger as Mal was. The Kaelish crossbowman would consider hunting him down to be inefficient, especially when the arrow had served its purpose by slowing him down.

Mal scanned the area, absentmindedly gathering the Jurda in the window boxes next to his head. 

When people called Balakirev, the City of Flowers, they weren’t kidding. Giant fields of flowers outside the city walls aside, the entire city was covered in flowers. Window boxes, flower pots in porches and balconies, rectangular flower beds lining sidewalks and alleyways, vines climbing up travertine walled residences, the city was a riot of color that was...actually kind of pretty.

He also could see why people also called Balakirev, the City of Anal Attentive Bureaucrats. None of these flowers, or the containers they were in, were owned by the people who owned the houses. The flowers were part of the city zoning laws, a mandatory requirement to live in the Domain. The flowers were dye plants, like dahlias, indigo, woad, or healing herbs and drug components, such as yarrow, jurda, poppy, feverfew. Hell, even the trees and vines that were artistically planted every so often were trees whose bark could be harvested every so often for dyes or medicine. Each citizen had to water their plants, keep them nice and healthy and report when something wasn’t going right, because the plants were harvested every so often. Usually this was by the local school children, whose after school volunteering involved collecting the plants under the careful supervision of old pensioners (and wasn’t that a shock to see so many pensioners wearing Oprichniki grey veteran collars). Failure to keep the plants healthy either resulted in a fine or worse, a visit from said school children in which a tiny six year old asked you “why aren’t you keeping Mister Yarrow watered sir? Don’t you know you’re hurting his feelings?” 

Yep. Nothing like a six year old guilt tripping you with high pitch and high volume where all your neighbors can hear them to get someone to do something. 

(Seriously, he had only been here a month and didn’t realize the kids came into the fucking barracks too. But something in him suspected that someone might have just sent them his way to fuck with him. The kids might have been surrounded by full Oprichniki , but Mal didn’t miss how they only came to his door.)

(It worked though, he never forgot to water his bloody plants ever again.)

The whole scheme was actually quite clever in a bizarre sort of micromanaging way. Mal hadn’t understood why people were so invested in his plant watering habits until Layla pointed out the amount each flower box produced. One box wasn’t much, but all of the boxes inside the city, both New and Old, over the course of the year? The numbers Layla cited were staggering, so large that Mal couldn’t even fathom that much money even existing.

So did he see what the training staff were doing with this exercise? Yes. It was just another clever way to get free labor out of them, just like how cleaning the sewage system was definitely a training exercise. Subterranean Counter Insurgency Maneuvering his ass.

Mal stopped and frowned when he looked at the box and then down the street. That’s odd. This looked like Jurda alright, orange blossoms, strong floral scent, green stamen, and all. But his instincts were telling him that this wasn’t Jurda for some reason. They didn’t feel right in the way that the first few had.

“A hunch? You track based on a hunch?”

Well, Master Yan had said that he should rely on his hunches less and use his brain more. Jurda wasn’t exactly a plant that you could forage for in the permafrost wastelands of Tsibeya, but he had been issued some a couple of times at Chernast for particularly long watch shifts on the Fjerdan front. Even though he had traded his jurda for other people’s tea rations, he still remembered how bright and vivid orange the dried jurda blossoms were against the Tsibeyan snow, and this matched the flower in his memory perfectly.

How about that. Mal Orestev, not tracking based on his gut. If only Master Yan could see him now.

This street was done. Mal glanced around just to be sure, before moving to the end of the street in order to move onto the next. He glanced around the corner, making certain the coast was clear before he darted to a huddle in a bush one street over. This street had a few, he could see at least four on the top windows, but a glance down the street to his right made him realize that it would be better to just harvest that street, as there were more on the ground where it would be harder to spot him from the roofs. Hey, there’s a nice tree to hide behind. 

Witch hazel, Mal mused as he scanned the box on the windowsill in front of him, poppy, poppy, feverfew… jurda. He reached for the jurda only for it to be taken in front of his eyes by a thin girl from Eames Chin.

“Hey,” Mal said, placing a fist on his hip, but he still smiled. How could anyone be mad at Sparrow? The girl stuck acorns in his shoes every morning to say hello. “That’s rude. Haven’t you heard about finders keepers?”

Sparrow just blinked at him with her wide grey eyes. 

“Technically Sparrow got there first, so she’s the finder and the keeper.”

Mal whirled around, his tranquilizer gun raised. Layla stood there calmly, curly dark brown hair waving in the wind, pastel yellow dress and beige suede coat contrasting sharply with her omnipresent crimson scarf. Einar loomed over her shoulder with Oisin’s unconscious body slung over his shoulder. He waved at Mal when Mal glanced at the massive dark haired Fjerdan.

“Einar, Layla, Sparrow,” Mal greeted. “You guys seem very relaxed and...chummy.”

“That’s because we’ve come to a realization,” Layla said.

“By we, she means her,” Einar interjected, fiddling with the end of his volkoboy.

“I’m comfortable saying ‘we’,” Layla said.

“And I am comfortable giving credit where credit is due,” Einar said amiably, “and in this case that would be you, and not me or Sparrow.”

“Well, thank you,” Layla said, “alright, I had a realization.” She paused for no apparent reason, as if waiting for something.

Balakirevans. Drama queens, the lot of them. Mal sighed. “And what’s this... realization?” he asked dryly.

“Volkov said nothing about ties.”

Huh. So he didn’t.

“So you want to work together and then what, split the pile evenly in the end?” 

“Pretty much. Einar and I will keep the others off your back and Sparrow’s, and in return, we turn in the exact same number together.”

“Why come to me when you already have Sparrow?” Mal asked.

“Because Sparrow can’t collect fast enough for all three of us, even if we knock you out somehow. The two of you should be enough, if Einar and I can eliminate a few of the others.”

“And why should I work with you?” Mal asked. He had a tranq trained on Layla, and they kept shoving this tranq gun into his hands so often that he knew he could shoot both her and Einar before they could draw their own tranqs which he could see were still strapped to their sides for some reason. The doses wouldn’t knock them out immediately, but they would disorient them enough for Mal to dive behind that patio table over there until they did pass out. Sparrow probably wouldn’t bother him about it, not with the way that she was already off collecting Jurda from the nearby windowsills. She wouldn’t be back in time if he did end up tranquilizing the other two.

“Because this isn’t the only iteration we’re playing,” Layla said. Mal raised an eyebrow. “Game theory? No? Right, nevermind. You’re the best tracker forager in this class, so this is an exercise where you have the advantage. But next time you might not be so lucky, so if you don’t want to help…” Layla trailed off, presumably to let Mal fill in the blanks.

“Is that a threat?” Mal asked.

“Not a threat, an offer. You help us, we help you. Deal?”

“And how do I know you won’t just stab me in the back and knock me out, or grab one extra jurda blossom to pull ahead at the last minute?”

“Why would I do that when that would mean you would never trust me again? This isn’t the only iteration, remember?” Mal kept his tranquilizer gun steady. “Fine, that’s why I recruited Einar.”

Einar slammed Igor into the mat after the former street urchin faked tapping out in order to get the jump on the Fjerdan. “DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR!” he roared over Igor’s unconscious body.

Einar was whistling off to the side, casually polishing his knife.

“Anyone breaks their promise, Einar will go nuts. So what do you say?”

Mal considered his options.

“Alright,” he said, lowering his tranq. “Deal.”

“Excellent,” Layla grinned, “let’s get to it.”

~

The plan was going well. Mal could see Sparrow ducking and weaving between houses, jumping over roofs and scurrying back every so often to Einar with armfuls of Jurda. Einar had traded Oisin’s unconscious body for a basket, ( “The exercise staff will get him to the infirmary. Probably. He’ll wake up eventually”), and was happily accepting Sparrow’s bundles while he kept one hand on the tranquilizer gun. Layla kept watch, and disappeared every so often to keep an eye on what the competition was up to. 

He glanced upwards and peered towards the West, where the Clocktower loomed over the Old City. Thankfully the city and the Clocktower had been designed so that you could see the celestial midnight blue clockdial with its sun and moon clock hands from anywhere in the city, so Mal could see that it was about 3:30, so half an hour left. They could hit a few more streets before they had to start heading back to the Training Quarter. 

Now that he didn’t have to worry about watching out for himself, he sped up significantly, trading the small basket for a larger one. Layla had shown him a way to hook his cable to the bottom and top of the basket, so that he could wear the basket on his back and just throw the jurda in, in the same way as how they apparently collected the harvest down in Caryeva. How she knew this was beyond Mal, but it was very helpful. Much more comfortable than carting around a smaller basket on his hip. 

Actually the jurda harvesting was kind of peaceful. He could feel himself going into a half meditative state, going from one jurda plant to another. It became a rhythm, a tempo, and he could feel himself falling into time with a beat that only he could hear. The feeling just made him wish that he didn’t have to go through any of this, that as soon as he left the orphanage he could have gotten money for a farm somehow and just been able to do that, living as the earth did, tending to it and singing its tune. 

But as much as he wished to fall completely into harmony, he fought to keep himself half aware, mindful of the fact that contracting tunnel vision now wasn’t safe. At any moment, someone could slip past Einar and Layla, and he’d have to move fast to keep himself in the game and his precious cargo intact.

Which came in handy when he stopped his foot midair after noticing something off about the large flower pot next to him.

Namely, that it had eyes. 

Mal immediately threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding a tranquilizer dart hitting his chest. He swept his leg out, hoping to knock over the pot, and by extension the human inside.

Two legs sprouted from holes cracked into the bottom of the pot, and the person inside jumped up to avoid Mal’s kick. Mal shouted when he felt a pair of grubby hands grab a hold of the top of Mal’s basket and used their feet to push off from the wall behind them, using their momentum to pull the basket off of Mal’s back while pushing Mal himself onto face.

“Ahh-” Mal groaned, clutching his head briefly, before scrambling to get back on his feet. He glanced bewildered at the sight of a flower pot with arms and legs but no visible head yet clutching Mal’s basket above its head sprinting for its life. The pot-person made to dash around the corner, but was stopped by Einar who blocked the end of the street before landing a firm chop on their head. The person toppled over and the pot shattered, leaving Daan in his Oprichniki grey training shirt and pants unconscious on the ground. Layla caught the basket before it could hit the ground and possibly spill the contents.

“Where do they find these people?” Mal asked incredulously. Layla shrugged.

Sparrow landed on her feet on the windowsill next Mal and then leaned over to affix a Jurda blossom in his ear.

“Thank you Sparrow.”

Sparrow signed something too quickly for Mal to catch before running off to put one in Layla’s hair (which she accepted gracefully), and then to populate Einar’s beard.

“While you were having fun with Daan, Einar and I knocked out the Triplets,” Layla said, “that means there’s only one problem left before we have to make for the gathering point.”

“The Clocktower?” Mal asked.

“The Clocktower,” Layla said.

~

The Clocktower was the center of the town, the focus of the Duke’s Square. At the base of the gothic revival clocktower was a plinth where public announcements were first read out loud and written copies were disseminated from thereafter. Most of the time, the Duke's Square was full of people, the weekend and holiday markets drawing locals and tourists from all over Ravka.

Today was a special case. Today it was the site of a massive number of jurda plants, all temporarily repossessed from other parts of the city.

“What are the odds that we can just bypass this very obvious trap that the Staff have set up for us?” Mal asked, looking through his farsight lenses from where three of them were lying on their bellies on a roof overlooking the Square. Einar was squatting behind them, keeping watch.

“We don’t know how much Jurda is in there. We don’t know if we have enough collected for each of us that we can just go to the debrief room and submit it, and it was Volkov in charge of this exercise,” Einar observed.

“So, that’s a no then.” That sadistic fuck. He would design a lose lose situation like this. He was probably having a great laugh watching them run around beating the crap out of each other.

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that,” Layla said, looking through a farsight lens of her own. She lowers them from her face. “Volkov wants to see how we would react, so he designs a chokepoint to gather us and incite conflict.”

They watch as someone– young and with that hat? That was Igor alright– finally decided to make a break for it.

The dangerous part was covering all of that exposed terrain between the cover of the abandoned market stalls to the base of the Clocktower, and Igor actually did pretty well initially, dashing erratically left and right to avoid pot shots and actually nailing one of the people inside the Clocktower with his rifle, before falling to a return shot from another person at a different window.

“That’s the nine of them in there then,” Mal tallied up their observations out loud. “Well, eight now I suppose. Three at the windows, the five at the bottom floor you said went in earlier.”

“Two groups of three, and now one group of two, all of them at a stalemate” Layla confirmed. “They can stop anyone from getting in because they’re fairly dug in at this point, the problem is, the moment any of them try to leave, the others can also stop them easily.”

Sparrow moves her hands and fingers rapidly. Mal squinted. He still wasn’t very good at reading sign outside of the usual battle signals, and by the way Layla, who he knew was fluent in sign, was squinting, it was likely Sparrow still hadn’t gotten  used to Ravkan sign. Then Sparrow huffed and made two very specific gestures. 

Mal snorted. “Yeah, it’s a clusterfuck.”

“One we can avoid, yes?” They all turn to look at Einar. The Fjerdan shrugged and hefted his basket so that it would settle on his shoulder more comfortably. “Volkov designed a chokepoint to force conflict, but eventually we all have to go to the same place, no?”

Mal slapped his hand to his face. “Fuck.” The fact that he didn’t realize this earlier made him feel real stupid. “The drop off point.” They all had to hand over their jurda at the same place. The entrance to the Training Center itself was a natural chokepoint. 

Damn. And he should have known that. How many times did he freeze his ass off in the permafrost waiting at one pass the Fjerdans would have to take in order to get back to their base in Elbjen? Lieutenant Colonel Novikov loved planning shit like this.

“My bet is that there will be at least a couple of people lurking around the Training Center, hoping to ambush someone on the way in,” Layla said, “a risky move. You, Oisin, Sparrow, Igor, Ming Yue–There’s enough people in this group that are stealthy or quick enough to just slip past, and if several people rushed the entrance at once…” Layla shook her head. “But they’ll probably still try.”

“We haven’t seen the Shu team in a while,” Einar mused.

“They’ll probably be at the entrance,” Mal groaned. The four from Shu Han had quickly bonded together over shared cultural norms, though Mal had overheard things like Qian Fan making fun of Hui Zhong’s southeastern accent, or Ming Yue declaring Hu was a country hick for calling some sort of fruit by a different name. Hu and Qian Fan were trap specialists, and Hui Zhong had a pretty good head on his shoulders, so it made sense that they would probably work together and try their luck with setting up an ambush at the entrance.

“How’s your aim, Orestev?” Layla asked. “Think you can hit Ming Yue if we lure her out?”

“If she doesn’t know where I am, but I can see her?” Mal thought about it for a moment. “Probably. But how exactly do you plan to lure her out?”

“Don’t worry,” Layla said, looking to her right. “That’s where Sparrow comes in.”

~

Hu was very bored. Very very bored.

After fighting their way out of the absolute shitshow that was the front door, Huizhong quickly realized that they weren’t going to be out scavenging anyone, not when, as a Capital city upper class girl, Qian Fan had never seen Jurda in her life, let alone harvested any, and Huizhong himself was...very slow. Huizhong had however figured out early on that if they couldn’t collect their own Jurda, there was nothing in the rules that said they couldn’t just steal someone else’s. And if everyone had to come to the same place...

So that’s how he and Qian Fan ended up in this bush together. Ming Yue and Huizhong were stationed on rooftops nearby so that they could cover the windows. It was Hu and Qian Fan’s job to cover the door. Hu was just happy he could try the new trap configuration he and Qian Fan had been tossing around for the past week. If they set it up right, it should let Qian Fan independently pull on the blue cords to tug the forwards snares shut and open, without needing to reset the whole grid or making it harder for him to pull the secondary bindings shut prematurely...

“Enemy incoming,” Qian Fan whispered lowly. “Two men. Pulling in three, two–.” Hu watched her sharply pull her hand downwards. Two surprised shouts, and then there were two men stuck upside down, baskets of jurda fallen to the ground, the valuable contents spilled all over the street. 

“Ha! It worked!” Qian Fan crowed as quietly as she could, black hair cut short in a way that would be scandalous back home bouncing in her eyes, “ stupid men .” 

“Hey, watch it,” Hu warned. Qian Fan was great, but sometimes she fell back into bad habits. Misandry was a big issue in some parts of the Mainland, and nowhere more so than Amrat Jen. She was working on it, but sometimes she needed a bit of a reminder, and to her credit, Qian Fan winced at the slip.

“Sorry,” she whispered, before focusing on the task at hand. She sharply signalled to Huizhong, who paused from where he was emerging from hiding to collect the fallen Jurda. Hu turned to see a young thin pale girl with dark brown hair cartwheel into view. Sparrow. 

Fuck . Hu groaned silently to himself before bracing himself, seeing out of the corner of his eye Qian Fan tense up as well. This is going to end so poorly. He had warned Huizhong that if they weren’t going to go after Sparrow proactively, she was going to be the hardest to pin down, and she was currently in the process of demonstrating why. 

Weaving and circling, both feet never on the ground at the same time. Cartwheels and handstands, and backflips left right and right again. The girl was moving in a whirlwind of motion, always just barely slipping a limb out of a tightening snare just as it seemed like the coil would manage to cinch around a thin wrist or ankle. It was startlingly graceful, and in any other situation Hu might have even admired Sparrow’s clear mastery over her art if it wasn’t for Qian Fan cursing in his ear and the fact that he was also working hard to catch the girl as well. Part of him wished that he had managed to convince Huizhong to let them set up larger, less skill intensive traps, but Huizhong insisted that they would give away their position too early. 

Suli Shadow Dancers , Hu thought sourly. Always making things difficult.

It shouldn’t matter though, the traps were only part of the equation. Even if they couldn’t catch her precisely, the traps still served their purpose herding her into place so that Ming Yue could…

...miss entirely apparently. Damn, Sparrow was really good at her art. 

Then the girl looked at the general direction that the missed tranquilizer darts came from and stuck out her tongue. 

Shit.

Ming Yue roared in rage and no amount of shouting from an exasperated Huizhong could stop the former Tavgharad from charging into the trap zone.

Hu sighed. Ming Yue, her temper, and fucking up team plans. What else was new.

No matter. Huizhong had accounted for this and told him to pull even if Ming Yue would be caught up in the trap if it meant catching another. They could just free her in the end when the dust settled. He raised an eyebrow when the massive Fjerdan, Einar dropped in to stop Ming Yue from running over Sparrow. Even better. Hu prepared to pull on his own strings.

Then everything went to shit.

~

This was not going according to plan !

Mal grunted as he took a quick jab to the gut, which he returned a fist to Marko’s face. The eight stuck in the tower were early, or maybe they had executed their plans too late? Either way, the idea was to knock out the Shu Han team and make their way in before the eight in the tower got here, not at the same time.

At least Drakos had knocked out the two hiding in the bush. Saved the rest of them from worrying about what the fuck was going on with all of those wires. Less good was how Layla was running around out of cover trying to avoid Boris knocking her out, or how Einar and Sparrow were brawling with Veronika and Johann while avoiding pot shots from Huizhong. At least Layla’s other prediction had been correct. None of the newcomers had tranquilizer darts anymore.

“ The stalemate is only going to resolve when either no one can maintain the equilibrium, or they all agree to disrupt it. None of them are stupid enough to waste all of their darts trying to force the former by knocking out the other team, so the only way they all leave is if they agree on a temporary ceasefire, probably motivated by the time pressure. Of course, the eight of them likely won’t trust each other, so they’ll all hold onto their darts until they leave the Tower and then try to hit each other with them as soon as they can get out. Of course, all eight of them know each other well enough to know that this will happen, and they’re all good enough to dodge each other’s darts, so no matter what, the most likely scenario is that they all get here, but without any darts.”

Mal knocked Marko back, hurling himself from the roof to get some distance so that he could aim a shot at Johann to buy Einar some space–

“EVERYONE DON’T MOVE!” At the sound of Layla screaming, everyone stopped in their tracks. Layla never sounded panicked like that. 

Layla was carefully looking at a strange cylinder that was sitting innocently on a nearby picnic table where off-duty Oprichniki liked to have their lunch breaks. “Has anyone seen Jakob?”

Everyone immediately tensed and Mal himself started looking for ways of getting out of the immediate area, competition be damned. Then he saw sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and he immediately swung his tranq gun in that direction and fired. The dart landed on target, and the long and lanky chemist slumped over, this time definitely out of the game.

Only as the man from Kerch landed on his back, something gave a loud crack, and the ground beneath him and the cylinder on the table erupted in white smoke–

And everything went dark.

~

“Incredible.”

Volkov stood in front of them where they were all sitting in a giant clump clutching their heads. Squallers were working on airing out the area as quickly and safely as possible, and Healers had been by to make sure that there wasn’t any lasting damage, and as much as Mal hated the idea of the Blood Fuckers coming anywhere near him, even he let a Corpse Thief look him over. Who knew what was in one of Jakob’s concoctions. 

It actually wasn’t so bad. The red witch was professional and actually courteous about it, which he hadn’t been expecting. Grisha in Kribirsk were always on edge and so irritable, that the difference was actually remarkable. Was this because he was in Balakirev, an Oprichniki prospect or something else?

“Out of the original thirty, only twenty three of you made it out of the fucking door , and of those, four of you were eliminated in the first half hour. Then, just as I start to have hope that some of you would manage to get any of the Jurda in, you all manage to get knocked out in one fell swoop.”

“Does it even matter?” Boris grunted surly, “The Jurda’s all contaminated anyways.”

Volkov snorted. “Like we would have risked that much actual Jurda in an exercise with you numbskulls.”

Huh?

Volkov walked over to where one of the blossoms was limply lying on the ground. “This isn’t Jurda. This is False Jurda. Almost completely identical in appearance, with none of the stimulating properties. See? There are no spots in the middle here where there would be on actual Jurda.”

Huh. Now that he thought about it, the first flower he thought was Jurda did have spots on it, whereas most of the others didn’t. He thought he had just been seeing things or maybe that he had seen dirt, but guess he wasn’t. Was that why looking for them had felt...odd? 

Wait. Why was Balakirev growing so much False Jurda? ...No. Fucking blight, don't say it–

"Makes pretty nice orange dye though," Volkov grinned. "Thanks to you kids, I'm going to have a nice orange scarf to give the Madame this weekend."

Mal hated these people.

“So in short, none of you managed to get any of the Jurda to the drop off point. I’m actually impressed,” Volkov said, “I think that’s a record, no class has managed to fuck up The Hunt this spectacularly.” Volkov paused, “Or at least, that’s what I would say if that was actually true.”

Say what now?

Volkov pointed behind them and then the entire group turned around.

At first they could only hear the sounds of indistinguishable shouting, and the clatter of horses and wagons. Then they saw it. Wagon after wagon filled with mounds upon mounds of orange Jurda blossoms. Mal jumped when he heard a gasp and then a gleeful shout from by his elbow.

Layla was dancing in a circle, a victory dance if he had ever seen one. The sight made his heart ache, and for a moment he saw a different girl, shorter, thinner, more Shu, overlaid on the girl for just a moment before he blinked and the memory was gone.

“What did you do?” Mal asked her. The whole class was looking at her.

“I just stayed behind to ask Volkov some questions.”

“Which were?” Mal prodded.

Layla smiled and put up two fingers. “Do I have to collect the Jurda myself? And, what counts as the City of Balakirev ?” 

What counts as the City of –

Then it hit him.

The Flower Fields , Mal thought, she fucking got people to collect Jurda from the Flower Fields outside the walls.

He had thought that when they said “the City of Balakirev”, they had meant the urban city space, they all had. But the Flower Fields were strictly speaking also classified under the Officially designated City of Balakirev fief.

“Get it now?” Volkov grinned, “the rest of you lost almost as soon as you started.”

Saints. Mal was blown away and couldn’t help stare at the girl who was dancing with Sparrow in front of a baffled group of some of the most dangerous people in the world. They were mercenaries, weapons masters, experts of their crafts, strategists and tacticians. 

But Layla had beaten them all, not with some brilliant strategy that only a genius could have seen, or a specialized skill that took decades of practice. She had beaten them with–

Oh. That's why you're here, Mal realized suddenly, watching Layla grin in the light of the setting sun. You have the quality we don’t have. 

Common sense.

~

I hated this place Sticks. You have no idea how much I hated this place at first. I was basically press ganged into this. The exercises were hard and the drills were brutal. The instructors were crazy, the other recruits equally so. 

All I wanted was to get this over with and see you again. 

But slowly, I’m beginning to see the bright side of things. The people aren’t so bad, once you get to know them (or know which crazy to avoid). I’m slowly starting to acclimate to the pace, and as long as I’m here, I might as well learn how to be more useful. This way when I get to you, I’ll be better able to protect you, right?

So I guess what I’m saying is...stay safe Sticks. I hope you’re doing okay, and I’m sure you are. When I’ve been allowed on the streets, I’ve been hearing people talk about the Sun Summoner, and it’s weird to think that they’re talking about you. Little Alina Starkova, a grisha? You've never been anywhere close to being a monster, so I suppose it makes sense that if you had to be one, you'd be an exception. You might not feel comfortable with that, and I get it. It must be a lot of pressure to get all of this attention, and for once its not people looking down on you for being an orphan or half-Shu. But all I can think is that it’s about time people started seeing who you are, what you can bring to the table, not because you’re the Sun Summoner, but because you’re you. 

You’re Alina Starkova.

Ravka won’t know what will hit it.

Yours in Faith and Under the Eyes of the Saints,

Malyen Orestev

~

Two young adults stop at the end of their letters and put down their pens. They look up at the moonlit sky and sigh, looking at all the work that they had put into their letters, thinking about all the words that were written and all the words that would go unsaid. All this effort, to bridge a connection that they desperately longed for.

Now if only they could send it.

~

“Alina, I told you that you can not send letters to your friends until my Oprichniki have finished conducting their background checks.”

“But Mal and Petya would never do anything to harm me! And Emilya is one of your grisha!”

“Emilya Larissovna is currently on a long term deepcover mission, which is a separate concern entirely. Alina, I believe you when you say that Malyen and Petya Mikhailovna would never willingly harm you. However, the check is not only to assess their character, it is also to identify possible points of leverage that might be used against them to make them do what they would not ordinarily wish to do, in  order to harm you.” 

“Please, Alina. Let me keep you safe.”

~

“You think you’ve earned the privilege of talking to the Sun Summoner Orestev? You haven’t so much earned the privilege of polishing my shoes! Nothing is free in this world Orestev. You want to talk to your friend? Then make yourself useful.”

~

Not so far away from the two young adults, a short stocky woman sat at a small wooden desk. It was a fine yet humble piece of furniture, utilitarian yet well crafted, one that the Durasts in residence kindly adjusted for her height, even though the Healers made such an accommodation less necessary than it once had been.

She was grateful to be stationed here in Piaski, just an hour south east of Os Alta. The town, being situated next to one of the major highways that supplied the capital itself, had access to many of the goods that she had not had since she volunteered for military service. She was indulging in one of those now, a cup of Caryevan coffee that she sipped on to keep her awake. She now had a roof over her head consistently, compared to her entire tenure in the First Army where she had been systematically denied the privilege. She had expected it to a certain extent. It was well known among Domain prospects that unless they ended up with a certain set of officers, they would serve under less than standard conditions, always being assigned temporary accommodations and being sent on fucking combat tours of all things as a cartogarpher were among them. 

But still she served. She might have been born in the Valley, but her heart was Caryevan, proud and true. 

When the Lord called, the Domains would never look away. 

She had been working diligently at her post, scrawling annotations on work that was much more conscientiously done than what she had previously supervised, a product of both a more experienced cohort as well as the fact that these maps would be used in the Second Army Command Tent. The First Army Old Boy’s Club might have treated accountability like it was a foreign concept, however the Second Army was very diligent about keeping an eye on the flow of intelligence, particularly that of its integrity and minimizing the transmission loss that arose from too many people processing information at varying standards of diligence. The change of pace made her happier, more content and fulfilled with her work, and those feelings almost let her forget the circumstances by which she got to this point…

But it was currently the midnight hour, and so she paused her work to open the side drawer in her desk and take out her small incense burner. Before, she had not been able to afford the proper fragrance to conduct the rites properly, but with her promotion and her subsequently higher salary, she could now breathe in the smell of lavender, pine, bergamot, and jurda mixing in a perhaps cacophonous manner, but one that brought back memories of black marble temple walls, the kind monks who looked at the malnourished peasant girl, then gave her warm meals and taught her how to read. She snuffed the candle, plunging the room into darkness, then clapped her hands together and closed her eyes.

“In the name of the Redeemer, I seek to be redeemed and by his Name I know these Truths. When I am beaten, I seek resilience. When I am forsworn, I seek restitution. When I am in despair, I seek purpose. When I am defeated, I am never Fallen until I choose not to rise. When I am abandoned, I am never alone until I allow myself to be forgotten. When I am in darkness, I need not the light. We are the People of the Book, but I will be the Master of My Own Fate.”

A knock on the door interrupted her prayer, and she calmly stood to answer the door. She was not upset at her rites being interrupted, not when her faith placed duty and action above ceremonial practice.

A man in Oprichniki charcoal stood at attention in her doorway. Shimmering black collar and black eclipse pin, insignias every child of the Domains knew by heart but she had never expected to ever see in her life. She looked around the hallway making sure it was empty before saluting him in the old ways, fist over heart.

“Petya Mikhailovna Vernaya?” the Herald asked.

“Yes Sir.”

The man reached into his double breasted greatcoat and handed her a black envelope with her name written in shimmering silver ink. The Black Sun Ascendent gleamed in silver and black wax and Petya looked at the Herald in disbelief.

“The General expects a response.”

Chapter Text

Act I

Chapter 14: Speak to Me of Things to Come

“White Mare in Pure Silver,

Black Stallion in Burnt Gold.

The Maiden in Flowers,

The Knight comes as Foretold.

Darkness will no longer hide the Valley from Me.

When the Time of Salvation comes,

What will I see?”

-Popov, Yuri Danilovich. “The Sun Over Chebok.” Adapted from The Sixth Verse of The Hymn of Dawn . Nursery Rhymes for Children . 1693. 

Recirculation Authorized 1829 by the Most Holy Synod of the Royal Orthodox Church

~

“...heard from Mara that Astrid is being deployed to Arman tonight.”

“Tonight? Short notice innit? We’re supposed to get at least a week’s notice to prep, right? At least that means she’ll be stationed with Zhi Ruo again…”

“...and I told her that’s not how anything works, but did she listen? No! So now she’s just going off in class about how serfdom was ended by Otkazat’sya nobles fighting alongside otkazat’sya peasants and coming to respect how bravely they fought and we could earn our freedom too if we just did the same thing– meanwhile the rest of us have to listen to her unironically regurgitate Traditionalist talking points like they weren’t just propaganda released by nobles freaking out over their slave labor now having the audacity to demand compensation...”

“...look, ‘are we not all things’ whatever whatever, I literally do not care . Bogomolova is an Inferni , and she needs to go somewhere else to do her damn paperwork instead of staying in that classroom when my Advanced Anatomy class has the slot. She keeps trying to convince some of my students to try thinking along the lines of her abstract Etherealki mysticism and I keep telling her that Heartrending doesn’t work that way, damn it, she’s just going to confuse the babies–”

“–Morning Miss Alina.”

“Morning.” Alina gave Anton a small smile from where she had been standing just outside the doorway listening to the chattering of the grisha inside as she looked around for which of her friends were in the Great Hall today. 

With everyone having such different schedules, it was nigh impossible to see some of these people outside of the Great Hall. Take Fedyor for example. The man always seemed to be at his desk in the Front Office right before the General’s War Room shuffling through stack after stack paperwork. The same was also true for Katya, who always seemed to be working in the Healer’s Wing, and Marie, who Alina didn’t have any classes in common with. So to keep up with the people who she had come to like over the past month, she had taken to rotating between the tables of the three Orders for meals.

Alina immediately spotted Fedyor sitting at the Corporalki table, who was for once sitting next to Ivan for breakfast. 

“The General works all the time, even through breakfast most days,” Fedyor sighed the one day Alina thought to ask why he and Ivan seemed to more or less alternate sitting at the Great Hall for breakfast when they seemed (inexplicably) connected at the hip. “He prefers to multitask whenever possible, so he has one of us deliver the morning briefing over herring and toast. He did offer at one point to let us both eat breakfast with him, deliver the briefing together, but alas, I was always too distracted by my dearest husband’s handsome face, and I like to think that he was distracted by mine –”

“–whoa whoa whoa,” Alina had interjected at this point. “Husband?!”

“Oh, did I not mention that? Vanya and I have been married for…nearly three years now.”

“Married??” Ivan and Fedyor? Fedyor and…Ivan?? Alina had been baffled at the thought. Fedyor was just so…bright! And smiley! Was Ivan even capable of making facial expressions beyond scowling?

“In spirit at least,” Fedyor clarified, “legally, not so much.” He smiled sadly. “Legal marriage between grisha has only been allowed by Special Dispensation of the Crown, and the Ministry of Civil Affairs has not processed such a request for decades at this point.” He shrugged, a seemingly casual movement that was betrayed by the way his shoulders tightened ever so slightly. 

For Fedyor and Ivan to have such time was to snatch moments between duty, an act that even she could see was precious and rare, so she decided to leave them alone and look around for another one of her friends. 

It had been a bit since she had talked to Katya, maybe they could chit chat over the morning meal today? If Alina remembered correctly, Katya’s anatomy exam was last week wasn’t it? She should be free to talk instead of anxiously muttering over flashcards.

Huh, how odd, she didn’t seem to be there. That was extremely uncharacteristic of her. Katya never missed meals if she could help it. 

“Saints, I love food. I know I shouldn’t eat so much, but I can’t help it. It’s alright yeah? Nutrition is important, and the morning drills will keep me reasonably in shape, right? Right? I really hope I’m right.”

Big Heart, Big Appetite, that one , Alina thought, shaking her head fondly. Maybe she had gotten Katya’s exam date wrong after all. Or maybe the Healer had gotten called into the Ward for an emergency shift. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Who knew that a compound filled with children and teenagers with magic would be prone to injuries?

Well if Katya wasn’t at the table, then she should probably sit with the Etherealki table this morning. Chipper as Marie and Nadia were, the two gossips were absolutely dead in the morning. Poor girls. But their silent suffering would fit hers since she was still tired this morning. She might have gone sneaking into the kitchen with Fedyor last night for midnight snacks. 

(Those kurabiiki were excellent, and she regretted nothing.)

(And if she stole some of the small Bird’s Nest chocolate from the black plate sitting in the corner as well, then no one had to know.)

(Bird’s Nest anything was quickly becoming her favorite kind of dessert.)

(She wasn’t going to look too closely at why.)

Alina walked along the wall to her favorite spot at the Etherealki table, next to where Nadia was snoring next to her plate. She quietly tried to sidle past where Nazyalenskaya was perched on the table, surrounded by Adrian, Sophie, Keomi, and Amira. No dice. Nazyalenskaya’s eyes darted to her immediately, and so did the others. 

“Starkova,” Nazyalenskaya said, tone and glare so frigid that she could have been mistaken for a Tidemaker particularly adept at creating ice.

“Hey girl,” Adrian grinned, a crooked thing that had Alina squinting at where he was sitting backwards on his chair for whatever mischief this obnoxiously tall Kerch man was up to. “Finally alive I see!”

“I’m not going to steal from the shrine,” Alina said flatly. 

Adrian crossed his hands over his heart and gasped dramatically. “You wound me, my lady! I would never suggest such a thing. I am merely gauging your interest in the liberation of alms.”

“These sound like synonyms,” Alina said.

“Ah, but the distinction is critical! This way it could be considered a form of… cultural exchange.”

“Taking alms from the Shrine of Ghezen.” While officially the Second Army were required to convert to the Royal Orthodoxy, Alina had been told if she wanted to worship other gods, there may or may not be a section of the underground where clandestine shrines and temples to foreign gods were set up for the Second Army grisha from outside Ravka. While she had yet to find the time to explore these shrines, she had been told the Shrine of Ghezen, the Kerch God of Wealth was apparently one of the larger (and shinier) ones, as making money was a popular pipe dream for both Grisha and Oprichniki alike. While worship of Ghezen was generally characterized by the amiability of its worshippers and clergy, it was unclear to Alina whether this extended to allowing people to loot their shrines.  

Adrian shrugged. “If the person offering can’t defend their offering, they don’t deserve Ghezen’s blessing. If the poor can get the offering, then they’ve earned it.”

That…actually sounded quite plausible for the Kerch, but also like very much blasphemous bullshit, which also sounded plausible for Adrian. “Normal for the poor,” Alina said instead.

“I hate to break it to you,” the Squaller said, “but we are grisha, we are students, and that is two ways of saying we’re broke.”

Fair. “I’ll let you know if I’m feeling sacrilegious later,” Alina said. She waved to the other three Etherealki, only taking a moment to double check with Keomi, “history study session later this week yeah? Maybe Culture too? …Did we say Tuesday? Could we reschedule that to Friday, I have Science with Sergei and Iosif Tuesday,” before taking her leave. 

As she left, she tried to ignore how Nazyalenskaya’s glare had only sharpened, and was she imagining the temperature getting lower or was it actually colder? She slid past the rest of the table, waving at a few other Etherealki who were awake enough after morning drills to recognize her, before taking a seat next to a decidedly not awake Nadia.

“Sorry about that, Anton,” she said, jumping onto the chair and trying to get comfortable. Damnit, why were most of the grisha so damn tall? Was she one of the only short grisha around? 

“No trouble at all,” Anton was quick to reassure her.

“Still, I did make you wait,” Alina said apologetically as they watched the servants put the breakfast plate down in front of Anton. Herring on toast with Syrnyi pashtet. A bit of a strange combination, but the smooth cheese spread was probably going to taste okay with smoked fish.

Right?

“So how’s it going in the kitchen?” Alina asked, as she watched Anton cut off a corner of the toast to eat. “How is your friend doing? Anastasia, wasn’t it? She doing alright?”

Anton chewed, swallowed and carefully wiped his mouth before replying. “Miss Anatasia is feeling better, thank you for asking Miss,” he said politely, “she was feeling well enough to play with Katenka last night.”

That was good. Anastasia was Anton’s best friend, but the poor girl always seemed to be sick with something. “Katenka?” Alina asked.

“Ah, the um. Chief Mouser to the Little Palace,” Anton laughed nervously. “Don’t tell the chefs, we’re not supposed to play with her. Dulls her hunting instincts apparently.”

“Maker,” Alina said. “ That. Is. Adorable .” She leaned in and stared at Anton in the eyes. “Tell me more,” Alina said seriously.

“Um, we think she’s pregnant?”

“Pregnant?” Alina squeaked.

“Well, it’s too early to tell, but Anastasia thinks so, and I think she’s right because Katenka’s stomach has been getting rounder and she’s been taking naps which is pretty unusual for her–”

“– kittens?!”

“Yes miss, probably white domestic shorthairs, like her, though we’re hoping that she mated with one of the golden shorthairs because that would look really pretty–”

Nadia yawned from her left. “What’s all the ruckus about?” she asked sleepily. She shifted her head, staring up blearily at Alina but still not raising her head from where it was pillowed in her arms. Shit, Alina thought she was awake and just staring off into space, but she might’ve actually fallen asleep with her eyes open. “Oh it’s you.” 

“Sorry Nadia,” Alina said sheepishly, “we’ll be quieter, I promise.”

Nadia yawned. “What time is it?” 

Alina shrugged, “dunno, late I guess. I took a little longer than normal to change.” She was still sore from Nazyalenskaya kicking her ass harder than normal this morning.

“I thought you said yesterday that you had somewhere to be after breakfast?”

Did she? Alina glanced at her timetable, helpfully brought to her each morning by one of General Kirigan’s secretaries and then taken back in the afternoon (“ That’s the only copy allowed to leave the General’s office Ma’am! Do keep it in your possession at all times, and bring it back every evening when your classes are done! Burning it is part of standard procedure , can’t let your itinerary fall into the wrong hands.”)

Itinerary March 9

0730-0830   Morning Conditioning, Shift 4

                     Dawn Annex Training Grounds A

0840-0900   Breakfast

0900-0920   Appointment: Evgenia Leonidovna Safina 

                     Vezda Suite: Parlor

0920-0940   Appointment: General Kirigan

                     Midnight Apartments: Solstice Drawing Room

…Wait a second.

0900-0920   Preparations with Evgenia Leonidovna Safina

                     Vezda Suite: Parlor

Alina tilted her head to peer at the large analogue clock that was directly behind her. Come to think of it, it would probably be easier if she just had turned around instead of craning her neck like this, but too late, she was already committed. Let’s see, what time was it, 3:20ish? Wait no, that was the minute hand and she was looking at this upside down, so that would be...9:15, right?

…

Holy shit, she was late!

Alina Starkova peeled out of the Great Hall to the sound of laughter, cramming the piece of toast topped with obligatory herring (smoked this time, with cream cheese and some sort of leafy salad green, which altogether wasn’t half bad) in her mouth. She made a rude gesture behind her back and smiled into her toast when she heard her friends laughing behind her. She chewed carefully and made sure to swallow before picking up the pace, bolting for her rooms. 

“Morning Alina!”

“Morning Sergei!”

“Alina! You still up for–”

“Studying, Library, Tuesday, Science, yup!”

“Hey Alina–!

“Can’t talk Hugo, sorry! I’m late!”

“Late for what?!”

“Genya!”

She skidded around the corner before carefully slowing down when she approached the Old Infirmary door, lest Senior Healer Larson come out and scold her for making a racket outside of the secondary medical center again. She never felt as much like she was back at the orphanage than when the Fjerdan Healer gave her a tongue-lashing for disturbing her patient’s rest. 

Ten paces. Fifteen paces. Clear! Alina dashed down the corridor, waving absentmindedly to the two Oprichniki standing at attention at the entrance of the West Wing of the Little Palace, who nodded at her once as she approached before resuming their living gargoyle impressions. 

Up three flights of stairs, down the hall, round the corner again–

“There you are!” Genya exclaimed where she had been pacing back and forth inside the Vezda suite.

“I’m sorry!” Alina blurted out, kicking the door shut behind her. She winced and then cracked the door open slightly. “ Sorry ,” Alina whispered sheepishly to Pavel and Barend, the two Oprichniki stationed at her door at the moment. 

“Oprichniki have hair trigger reflexes,” Captain Guseva had told her. “Given that the General has specifically tasked us with your protection, we will be guarding your person at all times. If you could avoid making sudden loud noises, except of course should you be under duress, then that would be highly appreciated. We don’t want a repeat of the Wardrobe Fiasco.”

“The Wardrobe Fiasco?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re lucky I booked us extra time just in case,” Genya chided as she herded Alina towards the cream satin armchair and small wooden table that Genya had set up with her Tailoring kit. “Just imagine if I booked the normal half hour, then I’d be rushing all over the place getting you ready in time.”

Alina frowned and then glanced at her schedule. “It says you’re only booked for twenty minutes,” Alina said as she sat down in her chair and let the Tailor hastily wave small quantities of miscellaneous objects over her head and her face. 

“So I did this thing called lying to you–” 

“–Genya!”

“–Why do you act like I don’t have eyes? You’re always late–,”

“–Am not!–”

“–so I’ve calculated Alina Standard Time–”

“– Alina Standard Time? –”

“–which is building in twenty minutes for certain appointments so that you’re here when you’re supposed to be because you thought you were late! Your actual appointment with the General is at 10, just enough time before you have to go to the Noon Rites.”

“Oh my Saints .” Genya, terrible, horrible, no good human being she was, looked entirely too unrepentant and smiley for being an awful liar who lies . “Look,” Alina bravely began to defend herself, “Anton was telling me about the kitchen cat being pregnant, which means kittens – kittens Genya–!”

Genya swatted her over the head with a rolled up length of silk, but it was possibly a sign of how the Tailor was warming up to her that the fabric only lightly flicked at the back of her head. “A bit distracted, my very fine ass. Don’t blame your poor taste tester– or the hypothetical kittens– when you’ve had your head up in the clouds ever since you got back from that riding lesson last week.”

“Sorry!” Alina laughed sheepishly, “I can’t help it. Summoning is just so...” Alina trailed off then, lost in the memories of summoning these past few days.

“How is it?” Genya asked, pausing to peer at Alina’s cheeks, “summoning I mean?”

“It’s…” Exhilarating, brilliant, happiness and ecstasy. The feeling of belonging, of everything that is and ever was falling into place. Balance and chaos. The heart of the storm, the thrill of treading into Parts Unknown. Intoxicating, liberating, pure and unadulterated joy, terrifying, heartbreaking, breathtaking– all this at once and yet so much more.

How could I have ever wanted to give this away?

“Indescribable.”  

“...Yes, thank you for that, Alina. Very helpful.”

“Sorry!”

Genya sighed in exasperation, but there was a note of fondness that distinguished the more impatient ones Alina used to get from her former superiors in the First. “It’s not like you understood me when I described Tailoring, so I suppose fair is fair. Can you at least show me? I might want to change some of the colors I’m using based on the way the light plays on your skin.”

“Alright.” Alina raised her hands and cupped them together. She breathed in. 

“Don’t overthink it! Just do it! That’s my motto!” Orlova had cackled. “Don’t be so nervous! What’s the worst that can happen? Something explodes? Bah, the Materialki Labs explode all the time!”

“Small science or not, summoning is more of an art form than a mechanistic process,” Natacha had said, watching her struggle to form the light during one of her tutoring sessions. “Open your mind. Feel the world around you. Anchor yourself in your core. Orient yourself around your reason-for-being, your fundamental beliefs about the nature of existence and your Self. Then let go.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Alina opened her eyes and looked at how the light floated in the form of a sphere in front of her. It was a warm, buttery yellow that radiated a faint heat. It was smaller and fainter than the light she had summoned when the General was helping her, and she hadn’t been able to summon anything comparable since. But still, she was proud of how it didn’t waver even for a moment, only growing and contracting ever so slightly with her breathing.

“Yes, I think I’ll go with something a little lighter...” Genya continued, muttering to herself now. She pulled a vial with some sort of glittering metallic brown dust and rolled it over Alina’s eyelids gently before pulling it away. 

“It’s not enough,” Alina sighed regretfully, pulling her hands apart and letting the light dissipate. “I’m hardly going to destroy the Fold with a ball of light the size of my hand.”

“Baby steps Alina,” Genya said, running a comb through Alina’s hair, “you literally just started a month ago, and only started summoning regularly last week. You’ll get to where you need to be in time, just be patient with yourself. The Fold isn’t going anywhere.”

“...I suppose.” Her summoning had been improving with every lesson she had with the Bird Summoners. The second time she ever summoned voluntarily, she had been aghast at how her light was barely the size of a marble.

“ Having performance issues, Sun Summoner?”

“Vika, don’t be crass.”

“Well, well, look who has their head in the gutter! I meant stage fright. That’s my stance, and I’m sticking with it.”

Pulling on her light was still difficult, like how wading through the high snowdrifts on the Fjerdan front had been. It felt like a struggle, like a fight. Thankfully the exercises that the three of them had been putting her through had been working, her summoning had been growing stronger. She had gone from a marble to a small clementine if she concentrated. It felt as though she was stretching and exercising a muscle, slowly building up capacity where there had only been potential before.  

But part of her still felt uneasy, doubtful, uncertain. Once the afterglow of summoning faded, she couldn’t help but feel like the light was like a dream,  something fragile, an illusion, the mirage in the desert, fooling her and everyone around her. That her light would slip away between her fingers and she would be exactly what she feared she always was, she always had been, the only thing she truly knew how to be. 

Nothing and nobody.

"You want me to use these?" Genya asked, clearly surprised though Alina didn't quite understand why-

"Oh, yeah," Alina said, not nodding because Genya was holding up her hair. 

"This ribbon," Genya said in a slightly strangled manner. "And this scarf?"

Alina glanced at the mirror, looking at the way Genya's reflection was holding a black satin ribbon, how the Tailor was staring at a black silk scarf embroidered with eclipses alternating and interlocking with suns.

"Yeah?" Alina was very confused. "What's wrong with them?" You had to tie your hair up and cover your head in the cathedral, and these were the nicest things she owned. 

Actually she was fairly certain they were the only coverings she owned. Her old ones were still in her old rucksack. Wherever that thing went. Not that she would wear her old one in public now that she had the choice. She had never managed to get the stains completely out after the last time the boys thought it would be hilarious to put the half-breed's headscarf in the stable dung pile. 

"Nothing! Just...if you're certain." Alina was now vaguely concerned. Genya looked somewhere between gleeful and constipated, which meant that Alina was missing something that was probably obvious. 

“So what about your lessons?” Genya asked quickly. “You haven’t talked about practice with Botkin in a while.”

Alina eyeballed her for the very unsubtle subject change before replying. “That’s because I haven’t had practice with Botkin in a while.” The Shu mercenary had been a fairly constant presence at the beginning, nearly every lesson she had in hand to hand for the first three weeks. Alina had been thrilled. The Master at Arms was a pleasant soul to be around. He made morning drills not only tolerable, but almost enjoyable.

But this last week, she had been spending ‘quality time’ with Nazyalenskaya. She still saw Botkin every so often, but for the moment she had been paired up with the surly squaller, who never seemed to have a nice word for her...ever.

“Don’t think I’ll go any easier on you just because you can disguise yourself as a candle now. You’re about as resilient as one in the wind.”

“Barely adequate. Is this Ravka’s savior?”

“Starkova, you’re not actually dead, you just look like it! Pick up the pace!”

“What is up with Nazyalenskaya anyways? Why is she so...mean ?” And cold and bitter, and many other things not suitable for polite company?

Genya shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe she’s just not used to sharing the spotlight. Before you arrived, she was the star of the show, the most promising Squaller since the Silver Gale herself. Then when you came along, she became yesterday’s leftovers, so to speak.”

“What are leftovers?”

“What do you mean what are leftovers?” Genya stopped eyeing various swatches of shimmering fabric to lean over Alina’s head and stare into her eyes that way. Alina stared back at the upside down Tailor who used both hands to cup Alina’s cheeks, one hand on each cheek. “Alina, please tell me you know what leftovers are."

Alina just puffed out her cheeks in response. Genya poked them gently until they deflated.

“Leftovers are food from an unfinished meal that was saved for a future occasion,” Genya said slowly, as though she was explaining a difficult concept to a small child in terms the child could understand. “It’s food that was ‘left’ ‘over’, you see?”

“But why would you have any food ‘left’ ‘over’?” Alina asked, baffled. The words didn’t seem to make sense. She knew what they meant individually, but they just weren’t clicking together in her mind, and when she said them out loud, it just made them feel even more foreign.

“Because you couldn’t eat all of your food?” Genya shook Alina’s head with her hands gently in exasperation. “You can’t possibly tell me you’ve never heard of leftovers before. Is this one of your matchstick girl stories?” The next words were pitched in the voice Genya used to mimic her sarcastically. “‘At the orphanage we never had enough food to even get full, let alone save some for the next day!”

“...”

“...that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?”

“...Maybe.”

“By the Redeemer, I am not qualified to have this conversation. Go see the Mind Healing Circle when you’re free, they need more people to practice on or they’re going to start getting into psychedelics again which will make Ivan cranky, and the rest of us, miserable. Anyways, my point is, no one’s been paying attention to Zoya ever since you came along.”

“And how is that my fault?” Alina asked indignantly, moving to put her fists on her hips, before not doing that when Genya slapped at her arm so that Alina would stop moving. “I didn’t exactly ask for any of this!” Attention when eyes had always meant danger, expectations that Alina would never be able to fulfill? Ravka was looking at her as though she was some magical savior who could banish all of the country’s problems with a wave of her hand, but she couldn’t even take care of her own problems, much less what plagued the Kingdom.

“No,” Genya agreed, “but for someone like Nazyalenskaya, what does it matter that you did it intentionally or not?”

“…I guess,” Alina conceded begrudgingly. 

The explanation made sense. She had seen that same dynamic play out over and over again, from the orphanage to the First. There would be the girls who were pretty, charming, popular, and they would get people to love them, want them, want to be them. If anyone threatened that, then there would be gossip, little inconveniences, bullying, harassment, exclusion. The Queen Bee ruled alone.

Not that it had ever mattered to her. In both the orphanage and the First, people never stayed long enough for Alina to get caught up in that sort of nonsense. Either they got adopted, they moved to another posting, she moved to another posting, or, morbidly, they died in combat. Besides, as the sickly little halfbreed, who would want Alina Starkova to be part of their gang? Alina had quickly discovered that so long as she carefully got out of the way and stayed out of the way, she would be more or less forgotten.

Unless everyone was bored or frustrated and needed an easy target. Then she really needed a good hiding spot.

“At any rate, your arrival comes at a bad time for her,” Genya said, “You are aware that Senior Heartrender Romanov died in combat just before you came?”

“Well...yeah,” Alina said awkwardly, looking down and squirming ever so slightly in her seat, “It’s a little hard not to know considering that you know.” Alina twirled a finger, attempting to indicate the room as much as she could without disturbing Genya’s work.

Genya looked up before returning to her Tailoring, “yes, well. Fair point. Ordinarily the Vezda suite is reserved for the Second-in-Command, the General’s Wings. If you hadn’t revealed yourself when you did, the General would still be in the process of selecting the next Second, and rumor had it that Nazyalenskaya was a serious contender for the title.”

“Wait, how?” Alina asked, puzzled, “she’s so young! She’s not even a Senior Squaller yet!” Seriously, she had noticed that Senior Summoners were on the younger side compared to the white haired old farts of the First, but Nazyalenskaya was pushing it. Seriously, she couldn't be older than what, twenty five?

“Holding Senior status isn’t a prerequisite to a Command post,” Genya said patiently, moving on to the bottle of shimmering sea kelp that the Tailor used to make Alina’s skin feel and look soft and smooth, “come on Alina, I know I’ve explained the command structure of the Second to you before.”

“I know, I know,” Alina sighed, “it’s still weird though.”

“Pop quiz then, explain how our officer corps works to me then.”

“Do I have to?”

“Whiny little brat,” Genya said, her words undermined by the fondness in her tone. “Just do it so that I can tell the General I’m doing a good job teaching you and not lie about it.”

“Okay okay!” Alina laughed before thinking about how to phrase her answer. “Senior status just means that you’ve acquired a certain degree of proficiency in your Art to begin teaching others in that Art as well,” Alina began carefully, trying to remember how it had been explained to her by both Natacha in their tutoring sessions and Senior Healer Novikov in her Grisha Cultural Norms class. “So it’s more of a sign of mastery over summoning, fabrikating, heartrending, healing, than it is a proper officer rank as I would have known it in the First.”

“Correct. And why is that?”

“Well for one thing, the Second aren’t allowed to have officers.” Which was the stupidest Blighted thing that Alina had ever heard. 

“A legacy of the past,” Natacha had said when Alina had angrily demanded an explanation. “The prohibition on a formal officer corps occurred during the Second Founding due to fear lingering from the First.”

The Three Foundings. Historical terminology used by the grisha of the Second Army to divide the history of the Second as an institution into its most important divisions.

The First Founding under Anastas, the first time grisha had ever been allowed to gather en masse without being slaughtered in fear. 

(The Cursed Army, according to years of listening to the teachings of the Church. Followers of the Black Heretic, damned and wretched to the last.)

Then the Second Founding under Vasily I, in which –

“ – The grisha were only accepted once more in the public space after the Second Shadow Summoner salvaged the reputation of the grisha,” Natacha said, eyes bright with a strange…amusement? What could possibly be funny about this topic? “Anatoly Leonidovich Kirigan, known to some as –”

“ – Sankt Anatoly, the Redeemer.” The Black Knight, the son to atone for the sins of the father. He Who Delivered Ravka from the predations of the Clockwork Army nearly four hundred years ago. 

“A popular Sankt within the walls of the Little Palace, but rather less so outside these walls,” Natacha observed, and what an understatement that was. Worship of the Redeemer was considered heresy by the Apparacy. No spawn of the Heretic could be a Saint in the eyes of the Church. 

But if some shrines and temples in the South had an extra alcove, a smaller altar that didn’t seem to be dedicated to any of the Canon Thirteen? That was Southern business.

 “Under the terms demanded by the Tsar, the Exigency Auxiliaries were forced to adhere to the old warband structure,” Natacha had at that point continued, “with only a single warlord to care for however many who would fight under his banner.”

“But why?” Alina had asked. “Why cripple your own army?” No officers, no formal structure, no institutional processes to ensure fairness and merit? The Second, as organized then and still organized today was a system dependent on the talents of a single individual to organize, pacify, lead, motivate, order, unify. Not uniquely difficult back then perhaps, back when according to her History of the Grisha teacher, the population of grisha had been thinned so drastically by infanticide, burning pyres, indenture, and slavery. But now? When the size of the Second Army and its auxiliary forces had grown exponentially over the course of centuries, now making up, what was it? Nearly a third of Ravkan forces?

Madness.

“In the beginning, the greatest reason was the legacy of the First,” Natacha had replied. “After the actions of the Black Heretic, the idea of an organized grisha force had been anathema, only begrudgingly allowed in the face of the threat from the South. The organizational structure was mandated to reflect this, and the grisha were forced into a structure that was crude, barbaric, obsolete. In that way, the Tsars of old ensured that no Shadow Summoner would ever be able to threaten their rule ever again, for a single warlord burdened by so many duties would never be able to overcome a Kingdom.”

“However,” Natacha said, “as time went on, the prohibition was increasingly upheld on the basis of class, power, and politics. The increasing complexity of the Tsardom required increased delegation, but increasing delegation meant devolving more and more power to the nobility, a dangerous proposition to the Tsar himself.”

“That’s where the Officer Functionary came into the equation right?”

“Correct,” Natacha confirmed. “Rather than hand over more power to the entrenched hereditary nobility, confer it upon talented commoners instead. Deny power to the one, and make a servant beholden to the crown of the other. An elegant solution, if one can resist the urge to succumb to corruption.”

At the time, Alina had thought back to Senior Cartographer Rostovsky, a Baron’s second son who had taken the promotion despite Petya’s presence and record of excellence in the unit. Of Colonel Milyukov, who Mal disparaged as ‘an insane fuckwit who would order us to our deaths if it means that he’ll look good to his drinking mates’, who rumor had that his promotion was due to his family owning several steel refineries vital to the war effort.

“The Compromise of 1613 brokered by the desperate Grand Dames of dying noble houses allowed for grisha to access nobility through marriage, inheritance, and merit, but in turn – ”

“ – the Second wouldn’t be allowed to have officers who might have the potential to join the ranks of the Officer Functionaries.”

“Noble status was already considered a high concession at Court. Allowing grisha to have officers, with all the power such a position entailed? No, the Court would not allow it, not even for the Soldier King.”

“And the second reason?” Genya asked. And Alina refocused on the present question rather than her past outrage.

“Because being a good summoner doesn’t necessarily make you a good leader,” Alina said. “In the same way that being a good baker doesn’t make you a good bureaucrat.”

“An interesting comparison, but accurate.” Genya smiled at Alina through the mirror. “So, if being a good summoner doesn’t necessarily make you a good leader, why are most Command positions filled by those who have senior status?” 

“Part of it is cultural,” Alina said, more confidently now that she knew she was remembering correctly. “Ravka and Fjerda traditionally value a certain type of personality in our leaders– the sort of, strong warrior types who are the toughest guys around, a certain type of confidence and bravado. So even though strength in summoning doesn’t have much to do with leadership, we still gravitate towards stronger grisha because they tend to be the most likely have those sorts of personalities, and can thrash the rest of us even if they don’t. We’re drawn to them in the same way that ancient Fjerdans were drawn to the Clan Chiefs and pre-Unification Ravkans were drawn to the old Warlords.”

“And why do Fjerdan cultural preferences matter in the Second?”

Oh didn’t she know this answer by heart. “Because Fjerdans are the second largest ethnic group in Ravka.”

That was a fact that had caused her and, the more she thought about it, Ravka, no end of trouble. Living north of the permafrost was not easy, and honestly only possible due to a weird (read: theoretically impossible) ocean current carrying warm water from the coasts of Novyi Zem to the Fjerdan coasts. Inland Fjerdans were therefore some of the people most likely to leave their nation for newer pastures. As the only country sharing a land border with the icy country, Ravka had more than their fair share of Fjerdans, which, according to both her History and Politics teacher, was probably why Fjerdans were dead set on conquering Ravka. The pretense of defending the Fjerdan population of Ravka had been the source of many an invasion by the North, though it was widely believed by the Second Army Strategic Corps that acquiring the more reliable Ravkan farmland for their growing population was the more plausible explanation. 

The result was that Fjerdans and Fjerdan culture had long been assimilated into Ravkan society, with Ravka’s northern neighbors influencing Ravkan culture the most out of any ethnic group. The next largest, non-migratory ethnic group, the Shu, were significantly smaller in terms of numbers and subsequently had less of a cultural impact, due to the fact that significantly less Shu wanted to or could cross the border in the first place. A more moderate climate and the eternal summer centered around Amhrat Jen meant that most Shu were content to stay where they were. The height of the Sikurzoi meant that the only crossing points to the South were heavily guarded mountain passes. While the permafrost was also difficult to cross, the Fjerdan-Ravkan border was a contiguous stretch of plains and forest spanning the width of the continent, and therefore was significantly more open and difficult to guard. 

She would know. She sat on that fucking border for two whole rotations fighting to keep the damn Fjerdans out. Six fucking months of being part of one squadron out of hundreds playing cork in the flooding boat.

This meant that while Fjerdans were rather common, people of Shu Han descent were rarely seen outside of the South, and therefore were more widely discriminated against. Fjerdans brought hard work and good spirits. Shu brought plague and misfortune. 

Humans, Senior Heartrender Drozdov had said just before he had been sent to the Fjerdan border, were quick to hate what they did not understand, what they did not wish to understand. Easier to fear and hate the unseen than to learn how to live with them.

Weren’t people just the best?

Either way, while the Second Army was very cosmopolitan compared to the rest of Ravka and probably the whole world (seriously, she had never seen so many people from other countries in one place ever ), it was still majority Continental, and so the primary cultural influences on the Second were Ravkan and to a lesser extent Fjerdan. Shu Han also influenced the Second, but to a lesser extent due to Ravkan culture in general being less influenced by Shu cultural norms. 

(Seriously, why didn’t they learn about any of this in class when she was a kid? She would have totally paid more attention in history if this was what they taught instead of the ‘greatness and glory of the Lantsov Dynasty and Ravka.’)

(Though the discrepancy made her feel...uneasy at times. If she was missing this much, how much history was she not taught? Why wasn't she taught it?)

(How could she trust her knowledge of history? How could she trust anyone's history?) 

“And besides the cultural?” Genya asked.

Right. Theoretically she was answering a pop quiz. “Besides cultural reasons?” Alina thought about it for a moment, “Most people who pass the Senior proficiency test are usually predisposed to being placed in command positions, since being strong and skilled at an Art usually requires an intense amount of discipline and emotional maturity.” Which did not bode well for Alina to be honest. Those were not traits she usually associated with herself. 

“Though I’m not going to lie,” Alina observed idly, “I don’t really associate Nazyalenskaya with emotional maturity.” Snobbery maybe. Lady Arrogant? Miss Self Absorbed? Madame Hoity Toity!

Genya snorted, “no, neither do I. But the General doesn’t exactly think along the same time scales as we do. He picks whoever he thinks will suit his purposes, whatever those might be, and sometimes a decade in advance of when he thinks those purposes will play out. He’s confident that he’ll have the time and means to shape them the way he wants. Just look at Romanov– the man was what, fifteen, sixteen when the General tapped him to become his Wings? Apparently at the time people thought the General had lost it, the man was that bad at his job. Then the Battle of Neva happened and overnight Romanov was winning battle after battle, managing logistics and people like he had been born to it.”

“So picking Nazyalenskaya wouldn’t be out of the question?”

“Not at all. She fit the profile too. Driven, intense, charismatic when she wants to be–”

“– really ?” Were they still talking about the same person?

“Haven’t you seen her at the meals? She has people hanging on to her every word most days,” Genya said sourly. The image of Nazyalenskaya laughing surrounded by other Etherealki before Alina arrived flashed through her mind, a memory so vivid that she almost missed Genya’s next words. “Like a queen in her Court.” The words were said so bitterly that Alina had that disquieting feeling crawl up her spine again.

“You…don’t like Nazyalenskaya that much, do you?” That wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but it was the question she felt comfortable saying at the moment.

Genya’s dark eyes and bitter smile answered for her before she even had to say a word. “No.” Tailor paused in her work, gaze darkly contemplative. “Nazyalenskaya has...opinions of me that nothing I do can change, and so we are not on speaking terms. Which is perfectly fine by me.” Out of the corner of Alina’s eye, she spotted Genya’s reflection in the mirror making an odd movement, left hand disappearing into her sleeve as if to touch something, but what could possibly be up Genya’s sleeve? It wasn’t as though they were playing cards or anything (First Army and cheating at Ketterdami Snatch, name a more iconic duo).

(The First Army and corruption maybe.)

“It’s not her opinion that matters in the end,” Genya said with an odd note of dark satisfaction and pride in her voice before the Tailor slipped a mirror from her right hand into Alina’s. “Right, tell me what you think.”

Eyelids given a light dusky rose with a very slight bronze shimmer. Skin the same color as it had always been, but even throughout. Genya had gotten rid of the faint pockmarks that had been the remnants of the smallpox that had swept through the orphanage when she was eight, and the less serious scars from the acne breakouts she had occasionally had when marching in the First hadn’t allowed facial hygiene (or much hygiene of any kind at all if she was being honest.) She didn’t look dramatically different, just more...picturesque maybe? 

“Just until the Noon Rites and your Preliminary Processional at the Grand Palace are over,” Genya reassured her softly. “Then I’ll take it off.”

“Thank you,” Alina said. “It’s not anything you did, and there’s nothing wrong with your Tailoring, it’s just…”

“Doesn’t feel right,” Genya finished for her. 

“Yeah.” Like someone had painted over Alina’s flaws and imperfections, replaced the orphan with a beautiful stranger.

“Beauty is a blessing...”

“Some people are like that,” Genya told her, “some people don’t feel right in their skin unless it’s just their skin– no makeup and certainly no Tailoring, and vis-versa. It happens.”

“If I had been able to choose to be Tailored because I wanted it, I think I would have minded less,” Alina tried to explain, “but I’m not really doing this for me, you know?”

“No,” Genya agreed, “and that is an important distinction to have. But the Court has expectations for grisha and, in particular, for you . As the star of the show, it is safer to play to your audience.” In the mirror, Alina saw Genya frown. “Spotlight, audience, star of the show? Good grief, I have been spending way too much time around that man.”

“They’re excellent theater references!” Alina assured her in what she hoped was an earnest tone, but it was a bit tricky to pull off when she was trying not to giggle. “General Kirigan would say something along those lines.”

“He really is obsessed with theater for some reason, isn’t he? ‘All the world’s a stage’ yes yes. We know . Speaking of the Heretic, you need to get going. You mustn’t be late for–”

“Tea with the General, Noon Rites, Lessons. Right. Now how do I put on this Court Kefta again?”

“Stays, chemise– the corecloth and silk, not the cotton, then undercoat, then kefta. Remember, all of the clasps must be fastened shut.”

“The General leaves the top clasp open,” Alina grumbled petulantly, even as she clipped the top clasp together to form a high collar that straddled the line between fine and uncomfortable.

“The General has the power of audacity, being older than dirt, and being a man . You are not the General and more importantly, you are a woman. You keep that top clasp if you don’t want the Court insinuating things about your sexual proclivities.”

“You’re joking.”

“You keep saying that, but you know I’m not.”

“That’s depressing.”

“You also keep saying that too.” Genya laughed brightly before her face turned dark and serious. “But Alina, promise me you’ll keep that clasp fastened when you are around members of the Court.”

Alina blinked. “What? Why?”

Hatred cracking bone, cold bitter despair. Tar slick self-loathing flashed across Genya’s face, the way Alina had not seen since–

“Beware of powerful men.”

“Just, promise me,” Genya whispered. “Please.”

Lines in the sand, boundaries and borders woven from steel or perhaps glass. Who was Alina to shatter them when mind and thought, privacy and secrecy had once been the only sanctuary she had ever known? 

“...I promise.” 

But the clues were piling up, something vile and rotten festering in a way that Alina did not like, did not want for her friend. If this was what she was starting to suspect it was...?

Oh Genya. I promised, and I mean it. But I’m not certain how long I’ll be able to keep it. 

~

Alina walked out in the bright noonday sun, hair fluttering in the gentle spring breeze. She shaded her eyes and then looked around.

"There you are!" Alina turned and smiled at a cheerful Fedyor standing next to a rather familiar black carriage.

"Good High Sun, Fedyor," Alina greeted, walking over to the Heartrender.

"And a good high sun to you too," Fedyor said cheerfully. "The carriage the Grand Palace was sending to you has unfortunately been delayed. They've hit a snag in the road you see, so you'll be riding with us this morning. We're be leaving in a moment, we just have to wait for the Gener-" Fedyor cut himself off and snapped to attention.

The massive marble and thornwood double doors swung open.

"ATTENTION!" The Oprichniki Regimental Sergeant-Major called, dozens of black boots polished within an inch of their life immediately knocked together. Alina only belatedly realized that her boots had been one of them, her back instinctively straight and stiff the way that had been beaten into her during Basic.

"-have those expedited, I want those two here as soon as possible," General Kirigan said to a furiously scribbling young blonde aide, who snapped her black notebook shut, saluted and then ran off. "Ah, Miss Starkova it is good to see-" his voice trailed off before, "you are wearing my scarf."

"Um." 

"-Not that it is my scarf," the General coughed, "I mean. It is your scarf of course. That I gave you. And meant for you to wear. And keep!" He clamped his mouth shut.

"Thank you for that by the way," Alina said awkwardly, keenly aware of how Fedyor, Ivan, and even some of the Oprichniki were eyeballing the two of them. "I really like it." She fidgeted slightly, raising her hands to smooth the scarf down against her hair and hoping she didn't as nervous as she felt. "Was I not supposed to wear it like this-?"

"No!" The General said quickly. "It looks lovely on you. I mean. You look lovely with it."

Something warm bloomed in her chest. Lovely...

"Thank you," Alina said quietly.

"Of course," General Kirigan said, equally quietly. "I have said nothing but the truth."

Alina couldn't help but smile, and fluttered in her chest

A heartbeat of silence, before Alina jumped at the sound of Ivan coughing from where he had been standing behind the General.

"The Cathedral!" General Kirigan exclaimed hastily. "Yes! We should. We should go now." He cleared his throat as he waved to Fedyor who promptly opened the carriage door. "After you, Miss Starkova."

She hastily picked up the skirts of her midnight blue Court Kefta, and darted in.

~

The ride was quiet in a mostly comfortable way.

The General sat across from her, a small pair of reading spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He was shuffling through a series of files in folders marked with colored paper tags, upon which he would occasionally scrawl something with his black and gold fountain pen.

Fedyor and Ivan were also in the carriage with them. Fedyor was also looking through papers, occasionally pointing out something silently to the General who would glance up when the Heartrender indicated something on the page.

Ivan sat next to her, much to Alina’s disappointment. His hands were gloved but unencumbered, and his eyes were scanning their surroundings alert for any danger that might threaten the occupants of the carriage.

At least the carriage was quite comfortable and familiar in a way. Plush black velvet upholstery, black damask silk covering the walls which shimmered in the light that entered from the ebony wood window grates, which were carved in the shape of flowers on vines surrounding a single large cutout of an eclipse. Apart from more intricate detailing, the interior of the carriage and the feeling of the compartment rocking with the motion of the horses was nearly the same as the last time she had been in a carriage, when she had been spirited to Os Alta...

The splinter of wood barely missing her eyes, axe glinting, sunlight piercing. Engravings on the steel, knots and wolf’s teeth, Druskelle–  smog obscuring, screaming, shouting– damn these sleeves, too long! KATYA!

Alina shook her head and tried to distract herself by looking out the window. 

Mistake.