Chapter Text
The King of Ravka is in hiding.
It’s becoming something of an unfortunate habit. But when the alternative is sitting in a throne room and waiting for someone to walk through the walls and stab you, going on the run doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Dramatic last stands make for a good exit, but Nikolai isn’t ready to leave the world yet.
Neither is politics, it seems. On more than one occasion, he’s wished he could have left his council behind. What was the point in being an absolute monarch if you still had to listen to the nattering of men more afraid for their own skin than the concept of Ravka - of the world - falling into chaos?
“We have the parem,” one of them was blustering now. “And we have Grisha working on a cure around the clock. Sooner or later they’re going to hit on an answer - unless you don’t have faith in your own people, Nazyalensky?”
Nikolai resists the urge to groan. It wouldn’t be especially kingly. Zoya’s returning smile is all white teeth and death. When she speaks, it’s with the sweet tone of poison.
“I’ll tell you what, minister. I’ll force my people to take parem, when you take a dose first.”
A new shade of red is invented on the minister’s face that day.
They argue on - and on, and on. All the while, Nikolai feels the thick coils of fear turning around them, strangling. If he listens very carefully to the gaps between all the yelling, the Darkling’s chuckle lingers.
This would not have happened if I had been king.
“No one will be forcing anyone to take parem.”
Silence, except for his head. Does anyone else notice the way Zoya’s shoulders slump? The terror of Fjerdan nightmares is paler than usual, for all that Genya Safin has seen to the circles under her eyes.
“Your majesty–”
“Any Grisha on the drug is bad enough. A resentful Grisha? They might be unable to think about much beyond the next fix, but we aren’t the only source of parem. I won’t have the might of the Second Army turned against Ravka when some Fjerdan promises revenge.”
It’s paper thin and he can see the disgust on some of their faces already. Saints, even Nikolai isn’t sure he’s doing the right thing. He’s seen Grisha under the influence. They might turn traitor for more parem, but they’ll come back for the same. The idea of playing master with the drug for a leash turns his stomach, but so does the idea of seeing Ravka fractured and overrun.
If that happens, it won’t matter who’s holding the leash. The Grisha will all be slaves.
“How does your majesty propose we defend the nation against this new threat, then?”
It’s Zoya again, to murmurs of surprise around the table. He looks at the set of her jaw, the bottomless depths of those blue eyes, and knows she will kill him before she lets him force her people to devastation. Him, and anyone else who tries to force her hand, Ravka be damned. She might be a patriot - and more patriotic than any of the rest of the men in this room. But she is a Grisha before that.
He remembers a girl, powerful and arrogant, who begged for the Darkling’s favour with everything in her. He thinks that girl is probably dead. The same as the boy who had thrown on identities like they were new suits, who had run off to become a privateer without a second thought.
“We are not defenceless,” he reminds the table. “The advantage of letting Grisha work unhindered is that, shockingly, they are a great deal more creative. This isn’t the first time we’ve faced down impossible odds with the right attitude.”
They aren’t convinced. He isn’t, either, which is why he keeps talking. He forces himself to keep his gaze on the combat arm of the triumvirate. She deserves to have his eye contact when he speaks again.
“I have also learned,” he continues, swallowing the bitterness, “that Grisha, like anyone, will fight harder for what they love than what they fear. Which is why I will be asking for volunteers.”
The table tenses. All eyes turn to Zoya, as though waiting for her to explode. They really have learnt nothing.
She closes her eyes, the dark sweep of lashes over her cheeks somehow more dignified than all the generals’ medals in the room. She folds her hands neatly in front of her, pale against the dark grain of the wood. Her shoulders, Nikolai notes, are stiff again.
“All right,” she says. They at least have the courtesy to pretend they can’t hear the self-loathing in her voice. “But on one condition. If Grisha are to be harnessed, it will be Grisha who hold the reins. I won’t have otkazat’sya with that kind of power over us.”
The word us sends a tremor of unease through Nikolai, as the rest of the table erupts into protest. Grisha handlers will be susceptible. Grisha handlers will be too sympathetic. He forces himself to look away from Zoya as he deals with this new issue, not wanting to give the impression of favouritism.
But he can’t shake the look of awful determination on her face, long after he retires for the evening.