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He remained at Kribirsk for less than a day after the revelation of what had happened within the curtained depths of the Fold. Aleksander would have left sooner - he had intended to travel in the damn carriage himself - but there had been too many details to see to first. Too many palms to grease to keep the First Army’s mouth shut. Even among the Grisha there had to be strict orders to restrict the news as much as it could be. Of course that was rather difficult with the size of the audience who had been in the pavilion, but efforts still had to be made. The longer that the Sun Summoner’s existence was kept quiet, the longer she had to travel safely to the protective walls of Os Alta.
It took longer than he expected, but eventually Aleksander resolved that enough had been done. He took up his horse and guards to attempt to catch up with the carriage he’d sent ahead. It had made sense to send the Sun Summoner right away. Kribirsk was no stronghold even with the large army presence. There was too much activity, Aleksander would argue, where trouble could slip in and out with little care.
He had remained for too long, his nerves whispered. His temper was short when an oprichnik requested that they stop once more to let the horses rest. But while snapping at the woman would soothe Aleksander it would do nothing to abate the fact that all their horses were heaving and panting from exertion. Making up half a day’s travel on the heels of another group also trying to move as quickly as possible was no small feat.
The afternoon sun was dipping below the treetops when they spotted a column of smoke. A sentry went on ahead, his steed white-eyed and nearly foaming at the mouth when he returned. “An ambush,” the oprichnik reported. He met Aleksander’s eyes only once before dropping his gaze to Aleksander’s shoulders instead. “All quiet now, but they’ve burned the carriage. Scattered the horses.”
“I don’t care about the horses,” Aleksander growled. “What of my Grisha? Of the Sun Summoner?” He had sent Ivan along to keep her safe along with others. A stop-gap until he could rejoin them and keep an eye on the single-most important young woman in the entirety of Aleksander’s long life.
The sentry’s mouth opened and shut several times before he managed to spit out an answer. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Were there any survivors? Speak up!”
The tight circle of riders around Aleksander were all staring at the sentry now. Rifles moved restlessly from shoulder to hand and back again. The two Corporalki that Aleksander had with him had black embroidery, not white, on their keftas. No Healers. This was a task to defend not to recover.
Too slow, Aleksander’s conscience nipped at his thoughts.
“I didn’t check everyone. I-I don’t know what the Sun Summoner looked like,” the sentry admitted in a rush.
Aleksander barely had to lift his chin to direct his soldiers to break formation. The scant minutes that it took to reach the fallen trees and smoldering carriage were the longest in Aleksander’s painfully long life. He dropped to the ground before his horse even started to slow.
The aftermath of battles were never the same, not exactly, but they were hardly new. Blood sank deep in the ground from the bodies left behind. It didn’t matter what side one was on. Dead was dead.
She had been wearing red, Aleksander recalled. He’d made them give her a kefta to keep her safe. Ivan and Fedyor were found, both in poor condition but still breathing. A few more were barely clinging to life. Others were already gone. There was one red body - one red kefta - still missing.
“There are footsteps leaving the carriage,” the sentry called out. His hand shook as he pointed deeper into the treeline.
Aleksander followed. Then when he caught a glimpse of red fabric he threw himself forward.
She’d lost her kefta. It was left in a pile on the ground. Dropped or pulled off, Aleksander couldn’t tell. He continued forward, following the torn up earth from harried footfalls in a deadly chase. Every step pulled the air from his lungs and every shallow inhale brought only more fear.
If everyone else had fallen or been incapacitated, what chance did a single, untrained Grisha have? Aleksander recognized the Fjerdan weapons that had been clutched in the hands of the assailants. Drüskelle. Elite soldiers. Deadly.
He couldn’t lose her. Alina Starkov, the Sun Summoner, his only Saints-damned chance to make things right. But surely she couldn’t have stood up against the drüskelle on her own. Surely he was going to pass the next tree and find the bloody end to his hopes and dreams.
A drüskelle was laid out on the ground in a heap. Aleksander barely paid the body any mind, sweeping past to continue the search for his Sun Summoner. He was ten paces beyond when the realization hit - there had been too many limbs splayed out. White pressed linen was not the attire of Fjerdan agents.
Aleksander returned swiftly, shoving past the sentry that had followed him. “Sir?” He ignored the questioning call.
The Sun Summoner was First Army, dressed in white and faded olive. Aleksander dropped to his knees and shoved the drüskelle aside. Deep in his chest his heart spasmed as he took in the blood blooming across the young woman’s shirt. A knife fell away from her hand, both equally stained.
“Alina?”
If she hadn’t survived…
If the blood really was hers as well as the witch-hunter’s…
Aleksander’s chest squeezed tight as he pulled the young woman into his lap and prayed for some kind of response. He couldn’t find a wound, nothing serious beyond the scratches on her forehead or arms. Yet she lay motionless and cold in his arms.
“Alina, please,” he murmured. A request. A demand. A prayer that somewhere there might be a Saint who would smile upon her if they wouldn’t be moved for Aleksander. His hand brushed her hair back into place. It was as close as he could bear to get until he caved to his own anxieties and cupped the side of her face in his palm. “Please don’t leave me here, solnishka.”
The hot flare of warmth underneath his fingers seared and burned as sunlight burst forth from her skin. Alina Starkov lurched up from his lap to gasp a desperate breath. And Aleksander could not stop himself from pulling her close to his chest with equal fervor. The sound of her breathing - wracked with coughs and gasps though it may have been - was music to his ears.