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It was all too much to bear : the endless excited chatter of people that hurried along the halls and corridors, discussing and deciding the last of preparations. Women and men alike fawned over the young king’s fate-to-be, mourning with envy for the pair. Maids supervised the rooms, readied and redeemed them all for the guests and the ceremony. Distant music floated in and out of the many large windows, a traditional tune that was both a melody and menace to Zoya’s ears.
The view from the High Tower of the Little Palace—the one the younger Grisha children had dubbed the Crown Castle—was far from despicable. The city sprawled like spilled milk and into an endless labyrinth before her, mapping the villages, lakes and the woods beyond the outskirts to finally settle by the foothills of Sikurzoi.
The view, and the climb to the view, always brought an equal sense of homeliness and adventure to the children. That had been why the place had been made into a comfort space for the youngest Grisha students. They could clamber up, hanging onto the spiky and blunt stone railing and watching their steps as they climbed, and would reward themselves with a nap while the nannies recited tales and lore. They could ask the east wind, who unlike his rascal brother, would promise to carry their messages and complaints and missing wishes to their homes. It helped the children with their homesickness.
Where it usually set a serene scene, slanted with warm sunshine and soothing blues, the city now beamed in green and gold with the occasional red and blue of the celebrations. This high, Zoya could see the awnings droop happily with lanterns. Drums and gongs went up in a joint throng with the symbols of double happiness grazing in the sky with the infernis’ help. A soft Shu folk tune, magical with the strings of the khaatur and the flute, filled the air by the Palace gates.
By no means was the night despicable. Zoya could appreciate the gaiety of the shineless night. She could try to not feel sorry for the city’s celebration. They were rejoicing their darling King’s engagement afterall, to a Princess born of the Heavens. It was a lucrative match and a noble one.
Yet every voice, every burst of colour and charm dampened her cheer.
There was nothing else to look at in the darkness surrounding the Little Palace. Some nights, nannies, instructors and a few volunteer guards would crowd the stony but warm floors of the tower and hold out the warmth of their laps and maturity of their age to guide the Grisha children in their loneliness and pain. They had all been sent away a week before now, with the Castle closed until further notice, to homes or to the branches of orphanages that her friends took perfect care of. With a war in plain sight and a looming threat of abduction or death, Zoya had safeguarded their security.
But just for how long?
The crowd was numb and silent here. Zoya ran her fingers over the dragon of her watch, ticking off the minutes she had in hand before she’d leave for the council room. She was to monitor a regiment of the Palace’s security, which was tons better than having to dress up for a party. Zoya had no mind, nor strength or heart, to make it through the evening and the ceremony. It might have accounted for the only occasion when Zoya didn’t attend a ball.
That didn’t however mean that she was going to meet her death poorly dressed.
She had opted to stay alone, far from the blustering festivities of the day and night. That did not however stop the wave of loneliness that washed over her. At this godly overarching height surrounded by the empty dark of the Little Palace, Zoya let her heart grow heavy. She had no one to whisper her complaints to, nor were there any who would receive her letters.
The lights glowed too bright and the music boomed even louder; the windchimes and the jewellery twinkled their mourning song. Boots bustled incessantly. The watch ticked away; it all made her want to tear her hair apart.
And she would have too, had she been the dainty youngling she had been who tempted fate despite the ruin. It would disrupt the careful crawl of ribbons winding through her braid on her head, that finally wrapped around the flowers she’d chosen to adorn the side of her face with.
“You look like some warrior of old,” Genya had mused, eyeing her unusual assembly of adornment in the mirror. “Are there any Saints to pray to for victory? You might as well be one.”
Zoya rolled her eyes. She drawled, not unkindly, “There’s a reason why people envied my beauty too, Safin. I know damn well how to turn heads.” She timed the hands of her clock. “The people did always like the Grisha as Saints anyway.” It allowed them to stay away from the responsibility of treating them as people.
Genya leaned into the touch of Zoya’s careful braiding instead. “‘Env ied? ’ You should reconsider.”
“I’m flattered you find me beautiful,” Zoya retorted flatly, though her reflection cracked a smile. She knew they were awed by her beauty first, and then disgusted at her disdainful manner. A long time ago, Zoya had taken into account the impressions of people and her peers. Now, she made an alibi of her beauty. People wanted to value her beauty first, so she let those arrows fly and strike, let them see and seek it in whatever ways that appealed to them. It wasn’t she who would repent their gross negligence or lack of estimation later.
She didn’t dress to impress any longer, though Zoya had immense respect for the manner of dressing and the effect it had on herself and people. Thus so, a small part of her craved that wonder and the brief loss of sense she saw in him . It was a strange power on its own, one she wanted to extinguish all while hungering for more.
Zoys let her eyes meet the strange girl in the mirror, straying back to the gold hoop around the side of her nose. She might have called it a miracle to find it after abandoning it for more than a decade. A harbinger of good luck , a nose ring symbolised, she remembered.
Saints knew she might need luck, if such a thing existed.
She struck a strange sight. The nose ring spread out the features of her face more evenly while also commanding attention to itself. But that wasn’t the only reason; stranger was the sense of certainty it brought. When Zoya felt her consciousness slip away, she’d gaze at the metal alloy, evenly toning the warm and brazen shades of her skin. The girl she gazed at remained someone different, yet Zoya was grounded with the comforting presence of it, in the light engravings on its surface whispering home like the hilt of her sword did. She could ground herself to reality while still letting the emotions drown her in.
That didn’t stop the onslaught of memories the ring resurfaced. Of the pain when her skin had been pierced open in her ears and nose, and then the subsequent awe that came from studs and rings on her face. It was before their sorry family had forgotten love, when nights had instead been filled with cakes and games of dice and logic, and stories whispered in the wonder of her father’s lap. It was when adventures were true, when the cost of them was always up for a compromise and not a sacrifice.
Sometimes, she let the thought of their current residence or their life haunt her. It brought back Liliyana and Lada, and the heavy stone that kept falling. Don’t look back .
She swallowed them all down. She pushed down the wave of wisdom rising from Juris within her. High above the city now, higher she stood over these remnants of her past.
It scared her how much she was letting herself wander away with the possibility of an alternative. Zoya blamed it on the diplomacy and strategies of negotiation she had been dedicating her time to.
She should be making her way to the council room in the Grand Palace, to check the last of the warnings for the Palace and city’s security. But Zoya hugged the wind close, her feet planted magnetically to the stony steps, waiting despite her twisting gut to catch at least a glimpse of him.
Because it was only in that distance could she let her heart ache and blister in anger, no matter how selfish or unfair. This was the space between foolishness and a fantasy where she did not want to pull clear any hope, the weed it was. She let it flourish.
In this space here, Zoya was not herself. Nor was Nikolai who he was. Here, she was a figment of a vivid, momentary fantasy, where her endless, answerless questions of a selfish future could find a home. Where she could reach for him without preamble, and he would let her. Where the light of a shared happiness rose with the tender rays of the morning sun on an otherwise dark and dawnless night.
Zoya’s shame knew no bounds. It was a childish ache, one Zoya had very well distanced herself from. She chased it at times, wondering of a future, a what-if. But the line between chasing it away or reaching for it had blurred too closely for her to stop and consider. And when it turned to regret at the sight of him, Zoya had no time to repent.
He looked magnificent, she’d give him that. Nikolai valued his dressing sense meticulously, a trait she greedily appreciated. Donned in the blues of a clear sky, Nikolai looked sharp and composed with only a hint of shyness. He was the perfect groom and a perfect king.
Zoya resisted the urge to gag; Nikolai was anything but shy.
He would be brushing his fingers over the hilt of his sword, a telltale sign of his nervousness.
Zoya cringed at herself for knowing it.
But she couldn’t dwell on it any further. Commotion sprung from somewhere below the balcony. Footsteps crunched the dry leaves. Whatever gifts Juris’ presence had brought her were working razor sharp, prickling instantly to jump to action.
The wind came to standstill as Zoya watched masked men—currently two of them—set up ammunition around the castle. She heard their whispers, barely made out the words of their language before she was conjuring a harsh wind that blew their hats away.
The men gasped and sprung their heads around. Zoya crouched low then, palm on the stone hard floor until she felt the tremor of the ground and the mud. She loosened the large masses. Before the men could gather their wits, Zoya pictured the movements of a sandstorm and gently moved the mud. Are we not all things? She’d done this before, and impossibly it had worked too.
The earth answered her call. It opened a gaping, hungry grave and slowly erupted a sinkhole into existence, toppling the men’s foothold and burying them up to their knees. Zoya distantly remembered an old myth from the Suli school of faith—of a salvation, of going home into the earth, unlike death could ever be.
But Zoya was not finished. She rushed stealthily to the bottom of the tower, moving her palms against the wall attentively, hissing when she struck an accidental thorn. She reached for the wind around the vines that curled the ancient building. This was never attempted before, and Zoya struggled to parry the wind to do her bidding.
Are we not all things?
Reaching over the parapet, she fisted her hands under the ground to find the water table. Electricity crackled through her veins. Zoya directed the current forward and towards the weight of the men the earth bore, biting her tongue until she heard their muffled screams of pain, effectively trapping them.
For good measure, Zoya stuffed mud into their mouths before she rushed to the council room.
“We must wait for Commander Nazyalenksy’s—”
“There she is.”
Zoya marched into the council room, breathless and steel-spined, commanding the whole room to attention. She evened her breathing and opened her eyes with the coldest stare she could muster. The officers jut their chins high and seeped hard resolve into their eyes.
“The Little Palace,” she announced.
“Is under attack?”
“Not necessarily, but it will be if we don’t act now,” answered another.
Zoya cast the two a sharp look. “Two men. Dressed in Tavgahard black with Fjerdan gretnaki .” Zoya looked up pointedly at each of them. “They’re not the Shu.”
Tamar’s eyes were wide with mock surprise. “Huh. I supposed that they were crashing the wedding party, not busy blowing up our buildings,” she gritted her teeth. “Yet here they are.”
Zoya did not turn to look at Nikolai when he strode in. “It seems to me that there might be an attack from behind the Little Palace,” he announced right as Zoya took her place by the large map. She only briefly looked at him: he looked even more magnificent in close quarters—an observation that left her more speechless and disgusted than she cared to admit. “Not a merry way to start off this lovely evening. An event such as this must be warm, though I’m afraid I might sweat through the suit before I make it till the end.”
You’re not supposed to be here.
Zoya cast a long look at his person and ignored him while he inquired the details Zoya had filled the council with. She left out the part where she’d electrocuted the men. “What of the troops stationed around the city’s walls?”
“They are all in place,” the nearest Officer answered. She pointed at the map and illustrated the areas designated with security points. She also grabbed a few bulletin pins and etched them into the map, signalling a lack of resources in those areas. “All dispersed in civilian’s clothes, but armed.”
“Are we prepared?” Zoya asked coldly, still focused on the map.
The Officer’s hard gaze was firm with worry. Yet, she stood confident and bristled with resolve and action. Zoya was strangely proud. “We are at our best, Commander,” she nodded.
It was what she liked to hear. It was what she made themselves hear.
She turned to the rest of the council. “We employ squallers then,” Zoya commanded. “Make a cain of wind to throw off any explosives.”
Tamar tensed but nodded. “And heartrenders. They’ll ease or kill if they sense movement.”
“No killing,” Nikolai objected. “Too auspicious for killing—”
“—if they must,” she added, directing a glare at him. “Strike them unconscious, and we interrogate them.”
Nikolai leaned forward and tapped the lake, close to where Zoya had let her fingers sprawl on the map. She stayed firm, secretly loathing him for possibility and loathing herself for even considering it. To his credit, Nikolai kept his distance. “If need be, we use this lake to douse them. Have some materialki conjured up a dulling agent?” He shook his head sadly. “A worrying fishing expedition.”
Zoya sighed. “No firing at any cost,” she reiterated.
Tamar cheered darkly, thumbing along the inscriptions on her axes. In the lowlight, they glinted maliciously, eagerly, hungrily. “Our numbers are few, so is our warfare. But we give them hell anyway.” A few officers nodded. “The Shu might not attempt anything, but our intelligence of Queen Makhi's plans are debatable. Regardless,” she clapped, “stay alert and stay alive.”
Zoya wished Nikolai would stop fidgeting. She wished he’d focus rather on being charming and smarming and every other appeasing sack of people pleasing blyat to get through with this engagement.
But Zoya also knew better than to stop him or tell him off for it. It wasn't something he could help.
“Don't let the snares catch.”
“Precisely,” Tamar agreed, hands crossed imperiously as she glared at the table.
With a final nod and the other alternative plans and security arrangements secured, Zoya reminded them one last time of fixing a mic control system around their necks. It activated at the press of a button for communication, thanks to the advancement that the materialki had made in the recent months. Fear wound itself like a noose around her neck and not for the first time did Zoya wish that it would tighten itself and get it done with before she'd have to relive the worst again.
Somberly, she spoke in private with each officer, fixing each of them with whatever confidence she could muster for their assurance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the rest of the high-ranking officers whisper their own assurances or goodbyes. This was war and that meant that any moment they had could be their very last. The youngest and the newest of their troupe actually shivered when she approached them. Zoya had to marvel at their freeness.
When the last of the officers stepped out, Zoya joined the twins. Brave, indestructible lot they were. Their eyes bolstered with the fire of life. She realised belatedly that she didn’t want to lose them. “When the monster slips its leash—”
“We know what to do,” Tolya interjected.
She tugged at her cuffs. “Good,” she whispered. Then more fiercely, “Good.”
Zoya clenched her fists before immediately releasing them. Her anger, this fear did her no good, and to try to leash it in was to try to tame a storm.
Good . This was much better than leaving room for whatever tenderness her foolish heart longed for. She wasn’t made for it, no matter the longing. However did she entertain that a mere few minutes ago?
“That settles it then,” Nikolai concluded.
Tolya stood next to him, exchanging words and warnings. “ Yu ye-shesh ,” Tamar whispered to her. Zoya squeezed Tamar’s hand back. It wasn't for her to answer the phrase back, but to only appreciate the strength she could find in them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tolya shoot her a worried glance but Zoya looked away before Nikolai followed suit.
She watched them exit the room, praying deliriously to not let this be the last time she saw them. She didn’t think she had it in her to bear any more losses, or add their names to her ever growing collection of grief.
“You don't look well.”
Zoya closed her eyes. She wished he would leave too, all while hoping he’d stay stubbornly, if only for a moment longer.
“Were you expecting me to?” she exhaled. “I was under the impression you liked me best at my most disgruntled.” If the jab stung, Nikolai showed no sign of it in his tone or words. “If it comes to the worst,” she went on, “step away and—”
“I know.” She saw him nod. “I know what to do.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t trust you.”
“Then for once, you must.”
Nikolai wasn’t looking at her either, Zoya noticed finally. This close, she could reach for his elbow and try to steer him out of his misery as she had countless times before from the monster’s hold. If she trailed a little further down, she could link their fingers. She liked doing that, a lot , she realised, ever she’d first become aware of the steadiness his hands entwined with hers brought.
She did neither of those. His eyes unfurled the map of the city, just like hers had before the emergency. She watched him in guarded silence, tracing the memory of his face, from the way his hair curled to his parted lips to her own. It was overwhelming to let the flint of hope catch fire. To imagine a selfish life or a dream, away from fear and doubt where Zoya didn't have to think twice before she could reach for him. To think of tendrils of light burn through the dark like hope. To wrap her arms around his stomach, gently hugging the rolls and scars around his torso. To imagine kisses trailing to the nape of her neck that would eventually make her erupt in unstoppable laughter because she was too ticklish.
To let herself be carried away into a dream without securing that future.
Would you give him up so easily?
There was and would not be any version of that story. Zoya was not made for them.
She blinked back into consciousness, hyper aware of the worry and doubt of her unusually silent companion. Nikolai was fiddling with a flower in his unmasked palm, idly turning it around, his other hand holding his glove. He seemed to have plucked it off from the caveat knot at the side of his neck.
Zoya resisted the urge to sigh, and deftly took a step away from him. He was everything warm and light despite his worry, golden like sunshine and filled with opportunity and optimism.
He is not mine to keep . Nor would he ever be.
Because in all her dreams and ill-suited fantasies, Zoya was selfish. She could imagine all the happiness she might have in his company. But it was poison enough to return to that realisation. To be born unloved, to grow to please and prove. She'd lost her life to her mother and then to the Darkling, trying to be recognised.
She'd come far from her insecurities to recognise herself and understand that all she had left to prove, all the audience she had or will ever need was her and her alone.
The ache to be wanted, without asking for her to be someone malleable to be wanted was not Nikolai. And despite his infuriating self, he'd become endearing enough to be tolerable.
That didn't change the fact that Zoya had nothing to give him. Nikolai wanted a love she could never give, nor the one she could ever ask to want. She wasn't even sure what she wanted or how she wanted it. She was all thorns with no fruit or flower. A wilted flower in an exorbitant vase.
“Zoya?”
So she stepped further away with a resisting sigh. She locked her gaze on the map, determinedly distancing herself. “What is it?”
She froze when his hands brushed the side of her face, where the braid behind her ear weaved into her hair. She stood ramrod straight, breath held as he pushed the stem of the flower he'd been holding through the gaps of her hair, pressing it down gently with his other hand. Zoya blinked many times, too shocked to form words.
She shut her eyes tightly. “Come back,” Nikolai whispered. She felt his fingers move the loose strands of hair tuck behind her ear. He breathed sharply before saying, "Come back to me, Commander. Promise me that.”
We both know that is a heavy promise to make, Nikolai, stood at the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t grind it out. He knew that, she knew that, so why was acting like a fool, a child pleading for a happy ending?
Why do you want me back?
Nikolai’s hand continued to remain in her hair, and just as he gently began to slide them off, Zoya turned to him, eyes wide, aghast and hurried, her own hand reaching up to hold his in place. She allowed herself the luxury of this moment. If none other, she could treasure this until living became easier. Juris rumbled his disagreement with a snarky foolish girl; Zoya couldn’t tell if he was mirroring her own words back to her in mockery.
Zoya knew better than to cling to a splinter of hope like this. Yet .
Quinces. He’d gifted her quinces amongst a million other things. The clock on her wrist. The incessant, nonsensical chatter. His dry wit and humour and his insurmountable determination to keep going. This country and a purpose.
Love . He’d gifted her a kind of love and desire and future Zoya had never dreamed she’d want to cling to so badly. They had no time for such nonsense. She was cheating herself, depriving herself of this need, if only to keep proving to herself that she was unwanted. She wanted him, and she was too late. There was nothing to be done.
And so Zoya offered him a no-promise. She reached forward and touched her forehead with his, eyes falling shut. I will , she wanted to say. She wanted to slip her hand into the space between his ear and neck and pull him down for a kiss. Her hand slipped to hold his wrist and pulled him a little closer. She let herself hold him as hers for this singular moment.
I will , she wanted to say.
But that was a promise she was ill-fitted to make.