Chapter Text
Great power comes at a cost. Zoya knows this, far better than many ever will. She has watched its creeping grip close around the man who summoned shadow, known the double-edged blade it poised at his throat. Merzost gave and it took in a twisted sort of justice, dangling the promise of more and more before you in a gilded trap that closed if you reached for too much, always taking a part of you with it into the dark. In all honesty there had been a part of her that had pondered the thing; and though she refused to pull from it the temptation had become real, grown and festered in her mind, the beckon to see what she could do, what she was truly capable of. The Darkling’s downfall had crushed that voice, but even then a whisper of it remained. The war was over, the Fold was gone, Ravka a mile closer to peace and still she had wanted more. There would always be part of her that wanted more; for better or worse, a part of her that believed she wouldn’t know true satisfaction until she had it, even as she swore off the possibility with every fiber of will in her. She wouldn’t become what he was. She couldn’t. And then it had returned, in some sickening excuse for a miracle, him and the darkness and all of it. Now fear of that old temptation roils in her gut, old and dark as the scales glinting on her wrists.
Not all that is strong brings ruin , Juris murmurs in her mind and she groans. The Saint did not always come to interrupt her thoughts but when he did, Juris seemed to have an endless supply of infinitely infuriating proverbs. There is another power, that is of life and not of death. From giving and not of greed. It was mine, and now yours. The strength of-
“Enough,” she mutters, slamming a stack of papers down with a harsh thud. “I have work to do, in case you can’t see that from whatever dark corner of my mind you’ve taken a liking to.”
And a good, towering pile of it at that. Petitions, forms, proposals; the sheer amount of paperwork she had to go through on a daily basis was more than ridiculous. She was slow enough without a liver-spotted dragon philosophizing in her head.
He gives a low rumble, something that might have been a chuckle or a sigh. It is your thoughts that disturb you. You fear yourself and it troubles your mind.
“Is that so?”
Zoya of the lost city. A heavy gift is not a curse.
“I don’t need your paradoxes, you old lizard,” she hisses, slamming her hand onto her desk. Though she hadn’t intended to summon air rushes to her command anyway, sending the table rocketing towards the ceiling and crashing into it with a deep boom; sending papers flying and glasses crashing to the ground.Not even a thought and the wind had come, rushing with strength. There is the heart-stopping moment of chaos and the dreaded aftermath as Zoya can do nothing but stare while a cacophony of thuds and shattering fills her ears, glimmering shards of crystal now scattered about the room, her table lopsided, the ceiling cracked and peeling. An eerie silence follows, though more in her mind than around her. The laughter of Grisha children still echoes outside her window, footsteps still move through the hall, but Juris has fallen completely silent. She digs her fingernails into her palm, though it does nothing to stop her shaking.
Not all that is strong brings ruin. Then what was this? She’d found refuge in strength, forged her name with her gifts and her might and her work; built herself up with her blood in the snow. She had excelled; from promising to talented to the best of the Second Army, and yet she had never felt such effortlessness, such ease as she did now. She had no doubt she could bring this palace down in a second, send it crumbling with wind and water, strike with flame and leave it nothing but a pile of ash. She hadn’t ventured far outside the Ethrealki order but already she could feel the pull of the metals beneath her feet, of the hearts she could stop with a flick of her wrist. And it would be so easy . The pulses of the palace Grisha seem to swell in her ears, louder and louder. She lifts her hand-
The door swings open, Nikolai half-barging into the room. “Zoya? Saints, are you alright?”
“Nikolai?” she asks, still dazed. He seems almost translucent at first, as if she were seeing him from behind a twisting glass, but slowly the image sharpens, the very sight of the king like a lifeline pulling her from the swirling mass of interlocking pulses. Nikolai. Nikolai. He comes into focus, and the thrum and throb ringing in her ears softens slightly. He’s stripped to his very rumpled shirtsleeves, hair a tousled, slightly singed mess. Splatters of what seem to be oil dot his clothes in a pattern that reminds her vaguely of dalmatians. She is Zoya Nazyalensky, general of the Second Army and she is fine. She’s fine.
“I heard a crash from the laboratories,” he explains. “I came up here as soon as I could.”
Zoya blinks. Her head is throbbing. “You- your pants are on fire.”
He looks down at the smoldering cuffs at his ankle. “Oh,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “David's mechanical volcano must be working, then.”
“David's what ?”
"Its not full-scale," He reassures her. "Only about three-quarters of a real one."
She exhales shakily. "Nothing to worry about, then."
He grins, though Zoya doesn’t miss the flash of concern that had appeared in his gaze before he’d wiped it away with a smile. "Precisely." Nikolai’s eyes the rest of the room as he raises a brow. “Not fond of paperwork, it seems.”
“What makes you think that?” Zoya retorts.
“Just a hunch, my dear general. Though was smashing the ceiling necessary? I was quite found that ceiling.”
She raises her chin. “I will-” The world spins, her knees buckling. Nikolai catches her barely before she hits the ground.
“Nazyalensky,” he mutters, bewildered. This time, there’s no mistaking the worry in his voice as he lowers them both to sit on the ground. She’s shaking badly, and her attempt to stand is met with nothing but dizziness. Strength and weakness.The irony of it is sickening. Or perhaps that was just the nausea. Nikolai scans her for injury, brow knit upon finding nothing but minor scrapes. His arms are still around her, steady; but his mind is a tempest of agitation in her head.“I’m calling a healer,” he says anyway. “Just–”
“No,” she mutters hoarsely. “No, Nikolai; it was only– I'm okay.”
The look he gives her is enough to warrant an eye roll that only worsens her headache, but the gesture seems to placate him slightly. Nikolai’s emotions continue to wash over her in waves; confusion and concern and too many others below the surface but she forces herself to block it out, barring out the world until she feels her mind begin to settle. “I’ll be fine,” Zoya repeats, stronger this time. She’s not entirely sure if its more for his benefit or hers.
“You’re sure,” Nikolai prods. He’s hesitant, and though she knows he wants to ask what had happened she’s grateful that he doesn’t pry, only studies her; hazel against blue till at last he nods, a small dip of his head. “Alright.”
As she comes back to herself her awareness returns and she becomes conscious of it all; her head on his shoulder and arm around his neck; the gentle pressure of his hand still supporting her back, the other wrapped just below her palm. Zoya can feel the rise and fall of his chest, feel every slow breath. He smells like the ocean, feels as warm as morning sun, and as he absentmindedly brushes his thumb back and forth along her wrist her walls nearly crumble again. If there wasn’t a vise around her head she would have laughed.
How thin it is, the line between falling apart and finding yourself brought back together. How weak that she has not the strength nor the will to pull away. She would not have asked him to stay if he had moved to leave, would not let herself fall so desperately for the sake of her pride or his people but Nikolai only turns his face to rest against the back of her own and lets his thumb rest over the pulse point of her wrist. A slow inhale, then wildflowers , a murmur so soft she wonders if she heard it at all. And still she cannot even begin to want to move away.
It is too easy to let themselves go in moments like this, when she can do nothing but give in to hopeless dreams and childlike wishes. The world will come crashing down on them soon. She knows outside of this room they are only king and general, that this warmth will soon blossom into hurt, that she is still afraid and war still brews on the edges of their home but for now; for now she is here; Nikolai a tether woven of sunlight and sea breeze, steadying the beat of her heart.