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Long months have passed since she and Mal pulled off their daring escape. Since they fled the encampment to which they were transported after a certain stag met its untimely demise. Several hours after the antlers of that fallen stag were embedded in her body at the site of her clavicle, she and Mal had achieved the impossible. Together, cloaked by the veil of night, they absconded with nothing save for the dirty clothes on their back and a lone steed. It was a miracle that they were not caught while trying to leave, but she did not dare to question serendipity’s decision to smile upon her. She did not dare sneak a glance over her shoulder as they rode away from their living hell and toward a more favorable future.
Ever since then, they have been on the run. Acting upon Mal’s wish of leaving behind the tumultuous war that neither of them ever should have ever become embroiled in. Leaving behind the alluring illusion of Aleksander and the acquisitive monster lying beneath the guise.
Together, they have tried to the very best of their ability to establish a simple life for themselves. Despite being on the run, they have tried to focus on building a future together. Often enough, too frequently, unbidden guilt haunts her late at night because of that. It preys upon her, beseeching her to question if running is truly the wisest path. If she’s being terribly selfish by looking out only for the two of them. Ordinarily, Mal is there to partake in discussions that lead to that guilt being shelved. Conversations that lead to it being forced back into the iron chest to which she customarily keeps it confined.
Her faithful companion isn’t here tonight, though. Here being an abandoned cottage that they stumbled upon in a lush forest. At the moment, she’s here alone. It isn’t all that late at present, which is why it doesn’t concern her that Mal has yet to return. He’s still out, gathering invaluable intel that they can use to continue staying ahead of the Darkling and those doing his bidding.
Guilt isn’t haunting her right now, but that does not mean that she is not haunted.
“A curious development, wouldn’t you say?”
An all too familiar voice that has her turning around inside of the cottage’s makeshift kitchen. She would have been fortunate to have never heard that silken voice again. Skipping a beat, her now hummingbird heart thumps rapidly from within the confines of her chest as she lays eyes upon none other than the Darkling himself.
This is neither a passing nightmare nor a horrible trick being played upon her by her overworked mind. This is something else. Something that couldn’t possibly be more abnormal.
Garbed in attire finer than anything that she’s previously seen him wear, he looks every bit the feared tsar who now presides over all of Ravka. The loathsome thief who bound her to him the last time that she actually saw him, nearly half a year ago. He looks sorely out of place here, in the quaint cottage that she and Mal have claimed for themselves as their latest place of refuge. Which means that he’s not truly here with her. He’s elsewhere, likely at one of the palaces that now belong to him.
Swallowing down the apprehension threatening to rise up within her, she stiffly responds.
“Curious is one word. Unfortunate is a better one.”
Her correction doesn’t faze him. Instead, squandering no time, he poses another question. Whereas the first was designed purely to evoke a reaction, this one is meant to procure consequential information.
“Where are you?”
Straight as an arrow, right to the point. Unsurprising, really. Thus far, despite implementing a myriad of strategies, he’s failed to find her. She may not be conscious of every single tactic to which he’s resorted, but she is well aware of his nature. Not to mention, she and Mal have had several close calls that have shed light on his ideas surrounding his aim of ascertaining her whereabouts.
What’s laughable is his willingness to attempt to solicit that priceless information from her. He must know not to expect a legitimate answer. Why, in the world, would she foil her own plan of eluding him indefinitely? Perhaps hope, a pointless thing for him to carry when it comes to this, has gotten the better of him.
“The fact that you don’t know should tell you something.”
Coolly, he quirks one of those obsidian brows of his.
“And what, according to you, should it tell me?”
Whilst giving a perfunctory roll of her eyes, she answers in a fashion that couldn’t be blunter.
“I don't want to be found.”
Not now. Not ever.
Never.
Turning his head from side to side, he shakes his head for the briefest of moments. Seemingly, to express disapproval of something. Likely her categorical disinterest in having anything to do with him. Possibly something else, though. She doesn’t really care.
“You continue to prove your singularity.”
Feeling emboldened by the success that she’s been experiencing thus far in hiding herself, she decides that a small helping of recklessness won’t hurt her. She decides to mock him, to relish his failure.
“Let me guess. I’m the only person you lack the power to find.”
Outwardly, he doesn’t seem to be incensed. The soft chuckle elicited by her brazenness would suggest that no amount of ire has risen within him. Yet, to trained ears, that laugh registers as inauthentic. It’s wholly devoid of uncontrived amusement. And, when he responds, there is an unyielding firmness in his voice. He speaks with conviction, revealing a mind that cannot be swayed.
“I found you once before. You will be found again, no matter how long it takes. Do you truly believe that I’ll grow tired of searching? That time can deter me from succeeding?”
His glare, given so abruptly that she’s nearly taken aback, possesses the gelidity of wintertide. It pierces her with its relentless intensity as he voices four distinct words that, together, sink like stones within her.
“Five months is nothing.”
Perhaps not to him, someone accustomed to spending long years concentrating on time-consuming pursuits. To her, well, she’s come to understand quite well just how much one can achieve within almost half a year. She also knows how that amount of time can feel like an eternity when each day counts in the fight for the preservation of her freedom. Practicing restraint, she refrains from imparting either lesson. Not that she’s granted much of an opportunity to respond before he resumes communicating with her.
“Do you know how many people crave power? How many would leap at the opportunity to lead an entire nation?”
Such people do, undoubtedly, exist. Those who not only thirst insatiably for power, but would indeed be ecstatic to reign. She, of course, is not among them. The unparalleled power afforded to her by being the fabled Sun Summoner is more than enough for her. She did not seek it out, but it is hers and she has come to genuinely appreciate it. She has no need for a glittering crown and an ornate throne. Especially not if the absolute hell of uniting with him must come with ruling.
“I want you to be recognized as my only equal. As Ravka’s rightful tsaritsa. I would put a crown upon your head.”
Bothering not to think beforehand, she derisively quips.
“And keep a collar around my neck.”
No matter how committed he is to the pursuit of beguiling her, she will always see right through his gilded lies. She will always look past their deceptive allure and discern the darker truths lurking right beneath them. She will not be fooled.
“You speak so easily of us being equals, but where is your collar?”
Her point is undeniably valid. While he technically doesn’t try to suggest otherwise, he doesn’t exactly concede. In his own way, he tries to sidestep her question.
“I suspect you know by now that I’m incapable of using an amplifier as other Grisha can. As you can.”
Pointed out so candidly, it’s a detail that he likely thinks should absolve him. He’s wrong. Oh, how wrong he is! And he’s a fool if he’s deluded himself into thinking that such a detail will mitigate her resentment. Such a fool.
Tongue thickly coated in contempt, she just barely manages to keep from yelling at him. At her sides, she balls her hands into rigid fists. The tips of her fingernails apply enough pressure in meeting her palms that she knows not to be surprised if she discovers crescent imprints upon her skin later on.
“So, you’ll force one upon someone else. You’ll claim their power, and use them as a…a conduit. Where, in that equation, is the equality that you supposedly believe in?”
After silently assessing her for what feels like several minutes, he replies. He doesn’t bother trying to deny the accusations that she’s furiously hurled his way. His overall demeanor does undergo change, however. Indignation simmers within the fathomless darkness of his eyes. As if he has any right to feel slighted!
“We all have roles to play when it comes to guiding Ravka toward a better future. You rejected yours the night of the Winter Fete. You valued treason above our own kind.”
His lips curl around the words that depart from his tongue upon what could pass for a hiss. As though the words themselves are not only irritating but unpalatable as well to him.
“You abandoned all of Ravka for one selfish boy.”
Resilient and wholly unfeigned, his detestation of Mal is no hidden truth. Has he ever actually tried to make secret to her his loathing of her childhood friend? Or did it simply never become as plain as day until the night of the stag’s demise? Was there never a need for it to present itself to her until the Darkling threatened Mal’s life that freezing night?
It hardly matters now. She knows of that blazing hatred, and she will never forget it. Never underestimate it. She demonstrates her awareness of it in her endeavor to shield Mal as they do their very best to evade this callous menace. As they venture from destination to destination to make certain that they never overstay their welcome anywhere. To never linger in one place long enough for word of their prolonged presence to reach the famished ears of Ravka’s latest tsar.
The raw fury heating the Darkling’s eyes vanishes as he continues to speak. Complemented by the ice that replaces that merciless fire of hate within his eyes, an aloofness coils around the sentences that descend from his mouth.
“Mistakes must be corrected. There was only one way to ensure that you returned to the path that you’re meant to walk.”
No amount of contrition, not even the barest trace, exists behind those claims. He does not regret having the accursed tether connecting them forged. He sees its existence as necessary. He’s even intrigued by it, which is further made clear to her when his gaze falls to the antlers still protruding from her. He takes several steps forward, with his gaze never wandering from the unnatural scene that has captured it. Tempted as she is to do the opposite, to maximize the distance separating them, she bravely denies that impulse.
Dark brown eyes narrowing into the most forbidding glare that she can give, she issues a warning that is most certainly not bereft of meaning. Malice, having waited patiently for her to call upon it, is all too eager to color her speech.
“Touch me, and you’ll live to regret it.”
She’s not forgotten what it feels like to have her access to the radiant light inhabiting her revoked. What it feels like to have her birthright hijacked by the greediest man she’s ever had the displeasure of encountering.
Her threat does effectively halt him, but it doesn’t summon trepidation within him. No, he stopped only because he felt like doing so. He finds her warning amusing to some degree, evidenced by the toothless smile that appears upon his countenance.
“I very much doubt that.”
After a fleeting pause, he presents to her an explanation.
“Among the reasons, the fact that I’m not truly here. Nor are you truly here.”
It’s an unnecessary reminder, given that the true distance separating her from him is among the leading reasons why it is that she feels so comfortable confronting him without holding back. Even so, she does find some measure of relief in being reminded of the fact that she is far from the palaces and him. Of course, what little solace she gleans from the reminder proves ephemeral. He snuffs it out with his next words, sent to her with faultless surety.
“But, you will be. Eventually. Sooner, should you come to me yourself. I’ll even spare the life of the otkazat'sya you care for most.”
More than the complacent smirk now adorning his lips, the offer itself peeves her. Does he truly expect her to see it as being rooted in sincerity? When she knows quite well that it’s nothing more than a false promise?
Stepping forward, she courageously reduces the distance separating them to nothingness. With her right forefinger, she angrily points at him.
“You think I don’t see you. You think I don’t see your wrath.”
His inexhaustible rage forbids him from allowing Mal to live to succumb to a natural death. His rage demands bloodshed, and the blood that it requires is Mal’s. He cannot use empty offers to distract her from the fervor with which his fury burns.
“You’ll kill him, regardless of whether I come to you or not.”
Without warning, he uses his left hand to seize her right forefinger. The unanticipated act tears a gasp from her. It’s now crystal clear that although they aren’t physically sharing the same space, they are somehow capable of touching one another. Though impulse compels her to attempt to liberate her grasped appendage, tugging gets her nowhere fast. He won’t release it, and he will not allow her to make a hasty retreat.
“Perhaps having you beside me will persuade me to do so mercifully. Or would you prefer cruelty? Would you prefer a slow agonizing death for the boy you thew everything away for?”
Left fist suddenly flying in his direction, she tries to throw a punch. Only for him to successfully catch that extremity with his unoccupied hand. Through gritted teeth, she grants her defiance a voice while trying to fight against the taut hold that he maintains on her left hand.
“I won’t let you.”
He will not put an end to Mal. She will not allow him to permanently take her childhood friend away from her. She’ll be Mal’s protector as well as her own.
Of course, he's thoroughly convinced that she’ll fail to fulfill that mission. So swiftly that she’s left without a sufficient amount of time to properly react, he claims both of her wrists with his right hand. Thrown off by the abrupt change, she almost goes stumbling. Taking advantage of her moment of near imbalance, he reaches out with his left hand…
Though she instinctively flinches, presuming that he intends to touch the infernal collar, he merely takes hold of her chin to tilt her head up. Speechlessness curses her when their eyes meet once again. For within his, an insatiable ravenousness dwells. He needn’t clarify that it isn’t sustenance for which he hungers. It’s not such a fundamental desire experiencing restlessness within him. He is tirelessly desirous of her and all that he’s planned for her.
“You will, considering your continued refusal to do what you must.”
Leaning forward, he whispers a single warning into her left ear. The natural warmth of his breath caresses the shell of her ear. It’s a strange contradiction. That is, the almost soothing feel of his breath stroking her skin combined with the unease begotten within her by his warning.
“Time is running out, my Alina.”
The final words spoken by either of them before the moment of connection concludes. Deep down, she is petrified. She worries that she cannot evade him unceasingly. The world isn’t quite as large as it seemed to her back when she was a growing girl. Countless individuals are all too enthusiastic about serving him. There are only so many places left to hide.
What if time really is running out? Hers, and Mal’s.