Chapter Text
You start your day thinking the Darkling is making a joke, and that is how you know your life is over.
Nothing about today was a laughing matter, you should have sensed it from the start. You’ve been sleeping off your last mission for the last week, alternating between stopping by the Healers to fix up your wounds and helping to train some of the new Etherealki as Baghra loses her patience, but you’ve managed to piece together plenty of time to rest. The Second Army is always low on soldiers, whether from enemy attacks, or, shamefully enough, friendly fire from the First, so there’s never as much time to recover as you’d like.
The Darkling had called you into his War Room to receive your latest assignment. As one of his best spies, you’ve gained enough of his begrudging respect to be allowed into this hallowed hall of secrets, but you know better than to peer too closely at anything. Grisha have disappeared for less.
You swear it’s always colder in here, far from the never-silent throngs of Grisha outside, coaxed away from the slightest hints of sunlight. Maybe it’s just him. Regardless, you pull the sapphire fabric of your kefta closer to you, fingers running nervously over the fine blue stitching. You knew you were a Tidemaker ever since you were a child, and you could hardly be anything else now. The Darkling keeps you too busy to forget a thing like that.
He’s waiting for you when you arrive, dark eyes as shrewd as always, and he doesn’t say a word until the heavy door closes behind you. “Good morning, Y/N. I trust you’ve had enough time to recover since your last assignment?”
You nod on instinct. “Yes, thank you.”
It’s a lie. Your bones still ache from where you’d been thrown, the fractures so fresh from healing that you can feel the joins from standing alone. The Darkling isn’t interested in excuses, though. All he wants is a soldier, and you are that.
He inclines his head in acceptance. “I’m glad to hear it. I have use of your talents as a Tidemaker, although this time not on the warfront.”
You lean forward curiously, unable to stop yourself. “Sir?”
The Darkling gestures for you to come closer, indicating a map of Ravka and its harbors on the table in front of him. Several areas along the coastline have been marked with red, even stretching so far as to touch the borders of Fjerda up north and Shu Han down below you.
“These markings indicate targets of recent attacks by the pirate, Sturmhond, and his armies. He’s been intercepting merchant or military ships, often ones carrying Grisha, and taking their vessels and crews under his command. He’s grown more bold during recent months, enough to garner my attention and that of the king.”
The Darkling’s tone sours when he mentions the king, and you can’t help but share his sympathies. It is well known that the king of Ravka is nothing more than a greasy tyrant, but he’s a greasy tyrant that controls the fate of the Little Palace and all the Grisha within, so the Darkling must tolerate his whims, even when it obviously causes him great pain.
The Darkling clears his throat once and continues. “I’m interested in the great number of Grisha he’s managed to amass, which is why you’re going to be the one to get me information on them. You’ll head to the harbors and find a reason to convince Sturmhond to let you join his crew. Once he sees your abilities as a Tidemaker, he should be more than eager to let you aboard. After that, you’ll send me regular updates on the number of Grisha under his rule, as well as their designations and levels of expertise.”
It’s so absurd you almost laugh, and you’re glad you don’t, because the look in the Darkling’s eyes is nothing less than serious. “You want me to lie to one of the greatest liars on the True Sea?”
The Darkling stares at you coldly. “Are you questioning my assignment, Y/N?”
Your breath freezes in your chest. “Of course not,” you say hastily, “I just want– I want to be sure I understand the full expectations, that’s all. Won’t he be suspicious that someone from Ravka suddenly wants to join his ship?”
The Darkling waves this away. “Sell him a sob story about inhumane treatment from your homeland, I’m sure that damned pirate will eat it up. Criminals like him are more interested in a show than clear reason.”
You find this difficult to believe given that Sturmhond has been nothing if not faithful in his blockades and captures, but you know better than to argue with the Darkling. “Of course. And when do I leave?”
“Tomorrow at dawn,” the Darkling answers calmly. “There’s an early morning passage through the Shadow Fold, and from there you’ll make your way to the harbor. I’ll have other spies ready to guide you on your way, and they’ll be the ones to receive your reports whenever Sturmhond’s ship docks.”
Tomorrow at dawn. It’s so soon for your life to descend into chaos. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
“I know you won’t,” the Darkling says, eyeing you as you leave the room.
You retire back to your chambers and start to freak out. Sturmhond is infamous even without the Darkling’s description of his exploits. He’s legendary for backstabbings and betrayals, raids and attacks and mutines. This is no easy job. You’ve killed before, being an active spy in the midst of a war does that to you, but engaging with Sturmhond will require cruelty of a level you’re not sure you possess. And the Darkling expects you to lie to a man like that? You’re sure you’d have better luck trying to drown yourself in the Unsea.
Still, it’s not as if you have a choice. When the Darkling speaks, Grisha answer. You pack your bags mechanically, say goodbye to your friends, and take your last look at the Little Palace as you leave at dawn the next day. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ll never see it again. You’ve had dangerous missions before, yes, but this– this feels like suicide.
Even the journey to Sturmhond comes with its perils. You have to cross the Shadow Fold to even make it to the ocean. The moment the Fold swallows you whole, the darkness presses upon you, every shadow like a tangible weight on your back. You swear you hold your breath the whole trip, especially when the cries of volcra echo around you, but you’re lucky and no one gets hurt.
From there, the only thing to do is establish your cover, and try to find the most famous privateer across the whole of the True Sea. You sadly left your kefta behind in West Ravka, and miss its comforting weight already, the feel of the embroidery against your fingertips. You’re dressed instead in the typical garb of the locals, albeit with several knives hidden on your person. You may be quite powerful as a Tidemaker, but it’s not always best to make that obvious.
The Darkling had sent you to this specific town because he’d heard rumors that Sturmhond would be docking nearby, and as per usual, his information was good. Although it costs you a few drinks to win over enough informants, you find out where you could find his crew, and hopefully even the captain himself. You thank your sources kindly, and head out.
By now, it’s well into the evening, the moon casting milky ripples onto the dark water of the harbor. You can’t help yourself and take a few moments to breathe in the smell of the sea, content with the familiar feeling of so much water around you, all tugging gently at your mind with the promise of being yours to command. It is in this moment of stillness that you hear something off behind you. It sounds like a scuffle.
Your soldier’s training makes you search for the source of the disturbance in the dark. You promise yourself that you’ll let it go if it’s just a few drunken louts looking for a quick bit of trouble, but you’re glad you looked when you draw closer and realize it’s a few locals harassing a Grisha. By the looks of it, a traveling Inferni had tried to use his gifts to warm his hands, and had attracted the notice of a few less than welcoming otkazat’sya.
You’re on them in a moment, you can’t help it. You have to help other Grisha, solidarity among practitioners of the Small Science is all any of you have. You call up a thick curl of water from the bay, and thrust it between the unfriendly parties, slamming the otkazat’sya attackers to the ground in a rush of dark sea. They’re out cold in a second’s flash.
The Inferni blinks up at you, startled. “Thanks for the rescue,” they mumble at last, eyes wide in the dark night.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, extending a hand to help them up.
They take it gladly enough, and it gives you enough time to take in their clothing. It’s mussed, rumpled, like it’s spent the better part of a few months wadded up in a trunk, and the cloth itself is bleached from excess time in the sun. It could just be your own fortuitous good luck, but you might have stumbled upon a member of the very crew you’ve been hoping to find.
You decide to take a risk. “You wouldn’t happen to sail on one of these ships, would you?”
The Inferni regards you warily. “So what if I do?”
You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “I’m not like those idiots, I’m not looking for a fight. Actually, I’m trying to find a way out of Ravka. You might not have noticed it, but it’s not always nice to be Grisha in these parts.”
A ghost of a smile flickers over the Inferni’s face. “Alright, I might know something. My ship is good for Grisha, too. You’re in luck, we’re looking for a few new sailors. I’m headed back there right now if you want to talk to the captain.”
You’d love to talk to the captain. “I’d be quite grateful if you could make that happen. What ship do you sail on?”
The words out of the Inferni’s lips are music to your ears. “The Volkvolny. I sail for Sturmhond. That won’t be a problem, will it?”
You have to be careful not to let your grin stretch too broadly. “Not in the slightest.”
The Inferni– Dobrin, you find out his name along the way– has served with Sturmhond for about a year now. He’s fleeing similar circumstances as you supposedly are. Whenever money runs low in a small town, Grisha are the first ones blamed. Sturmhond is apparently quite welcoming of Grisha. Dobrin claims the Volkvolny is the first place he’s actually felt at home with so many other Grisha. It makes you feel a pang of nostalgia for the Little Palace.
The Little Palace– you’d been there since you were a child, so you can hardly remember life without it. The few memories you do have of the time before Os Alta are often terrifying, full of disapproving town elders and an absolute horror over the power you couldn’t yet control. Your family sent you to the Darkling when you were very small, and haven’t yet tried to find you again. It’s about as silent and obvious as any door slammed in your face could be.
Once your powers as a Tidemaker became apparent, you were quickly sent on missions. There’s no age limit for soldiers, not in a war, and certainly not for the Second Army. You were needed. That’s what mattered. It’s impossible to imagine the Little Palace without coupling it with the battlefield. It was home but not, more of a stylized version of military barracks than anything else. Recently, you’ve been there less and less, typically only staying around for a week or so before receiving a new assignment. This latest trip was your shortest yet.
Hearing Dobrin talk about how he gets to practice his powers with the other Grisha on the safety of their ship, though, you start thinking about what it was like in your classes as a child, how for those first few sacred years all you knew were your limits and what it felt like to break them. You weren’t a soldier yet, just a Grisha, and it was wonderful. You’d never felt more free.
You assumed Sturmhond’s Grisha would be no better than glorified Grisha soldiers, albeit working against the law instead of for it, and you’re certain Dobrin isn’t telling you anything important or risky yet, but you can’t stop a pang in your heart imagining what it could be like to grow up free on the seas instead of as a young member of the Second Army.
There’s no use in imagining what-ifs, however, and soon enough you’re forcing yourself to focus again as Dobrin leads you onto the Volkvolny. It’s hidden cleverly in a far annex of the harbor, disguised by what you’re certain is a combination of Fabrikator skill and Squaller fog. You can just make out the shapes of several figures through the shifting gloom of night and small science as you make your way aboard. You wonder how many of them are Grisha, and how many of them suspect you already.
Dobrin guides you further into the depths of the ship, stopping at last before a door and knocking smartly on it. “I’ve gone recruiting again,” he says, mirth bubbling over in his voice, and you get the sense this has happened more than a few times.
He’s answered readily enough by someone inside calling you both to enter. Dobrin pushes open the door to the captain’s quarters and nods at you to follow him. You do so warily, looking around you for other seamen in case of an attack.
All that’s waiting inside for you is a single man. His hair is dark like rust, rough from sea-breeze yet somehow tousled in a way that feels intentionally charming. The lamplight casts harsh shadows on his face, but the effect is cut by the roguish grin on his face, as well as the lurid teal coat he somehow pulls off. This can only be Sturmhond.
Sturmhond stares at you intently, and although the Darkling’s spies were certain he was otkazat’sya, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s regarding you with a Corporalki’s sense for blood. You’re certain he can see right through your alibi to the truth of your situation, to the truth of you. Only one kind of man can make an empire on the cold and bloody seas, and it’s not the type to take betrayal lightly. You have sealed your fate. All that’s left to do is see how long Sturmhond gives you before he slits your throat.
“Who have you brought me this time, Dobrin?” Sturmhond asks, not taking his eyes off you.
Dobrin answers immediately. “A Tidemaker, and a powerful one at that. She got me out of a tricky situation with some thugs down by the docks, and mentioned she needed a new place to stay. One a bit friendlier to Grisha, to say the least.”
“Well, I’m nothing if not approachable,” the True Sea’s most dangerous privateer hums. “That’s awfully good timing on your part, Tidemaker, to stumble across my hapless friend here just when he needed help. The Saints must be on your side.”
His words are deliberate and slow, the silent accusation obvious.
“If there are any Saints out there, they left me for dead a long time ago,” you answer steadily. “Maybe your crewmate was just lucky enough to time his catastrophe when a Tidemaker happened to be walking by.”
Sturmhond’s face splits in a laugh, although his eyes remain icy. “She’s got you there, Dobrin.”
Dobrin rolls his eyes, although he doesn’t seem annoyed. “Apologies, sir. I’ll try to burn otkazat’sya soldiers to ash next time. That’ll go over well.”
Sturmhond gestures between the two of you, the picture of innocence. “We find ourselves with a conundrum, Tidemaker. I cannot insist he commit such an obvious act of violence when we’re trying not to make enemies with the beautiful people of this town, but I do insist that my crew be safe. How do you suggest we handle this?”
“Let me stick around,” you counter. “It’s a lot easier to blame dead drunks on a misstep into the harbor than full-body immolation.”
Sturmhond claps once, twice, and you have to fight not to flinch. The sound is sudden and jarring in his quiet office, and rings around you like a parade drum. “There you have it, Dobrin. Negotiation. The last trick of the witty. I’m convinced, are you?”
“Quite,” Dobrin answers, winking at you when you manage to wrest your glance from Sturmhond long enough to glance his way.
“Wonderful,” Sturmhond says, drawing out the first syllable as long as possible before continuing, “We’ll start you on a probationary period, my dear Tidemaker, and re-evaluate after a few weeks. We’ll set sail in the morning, so you’d best stay the night here lest you miss our departure. There’s a few open hammocks, Dobrin will show you the way. Oh– one last thing.”
Sturmhond stands up slowly, deliberately, and walks around the table until he’s hardly a breath away. He regards you coolly, and just when you’re certain you’re about to die, he holds out his hand. “We’ve forgotten a proper introduction. They call me Sturmhond.”
You stare at his hand; tanned and wiry, strengthened by callouses from guns or knives or swords or all of the above, and certainly capable of killing you within moments, powers or lack thereof be damned.
“Y/N,” you say at last.
“A lovely name,” he says. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Y/N.”
You reach out and shake his hand. “Likewise.”
His grip is strong but not overly so, just enough to remind you who he is before he lets go again, allowing Dobrin to lead you from his office once more. You glance over your shoulder one last time before disappearing down the hold and see that he’s still watching you, eyes searching yet– amused, somehow. Like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s already heard this story before, but is still quite delighted by the ending.
Then the door shuts behind you and he’s cut off at once. You do your best to focus on Dobrin giving you a hasty tour and congratulating you on joining the crew. You’re introduced to a few other crewmates you pass as well, although on a ship with Squallers aboard, you’re certain whispers of your arrival have already flown from one end to the next. You’re shown to a hammock alongside the rest of the crew, and prepare to settle in for the night.
By all accounts, your mission is a success so far. However, the ease in which you were able to join Sturmhond’s crew makes you hesitate. If you wanted, you could have killed the dread privateer in a heartbeat, and if it weren’t for the fact that you want him alive for now, you would have. He has to know that, has to expect danger from all sides. Why would he possibly allow a stranger into the very heart of his ship with so little questioning? It’s as if he already knew what to expect, as if he already knew you, but that’s impossible. You’re certain you’d remember a face like that.
Yet when you think back to your last glimpse of him, you can’t help but remember his expression– entertained, somehow, but prepared. One doesn’t become the unlawful king of the seas without extensive ability to handle threats. Somehow, you get the sense that Sturmhond has the advantage over you, even though you’re the one sent to spy on him. You’ll have to turn the tables on him soon enough, but how do you trick a liar and a crook?
You’ve done all you can for the night. What matters is that you’re on board and ready to set sail. All that’s left to do is attempt to get some sleep and prepare yourself for the morning. Whatever dawn brings you, you’ll have to be up for anything, even the devious machinations of Sturmhond himself.