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It’s snowing.
Alina tips her head to the sky, eyes closed, letting the flakes land gently on her cheeks – soft whispers of cold that melt against her skin. The frigid night air is perfectly still, everything deadened with the kind of silence that comes with heavy snowfall. Only the sound of her slow breathing is clear. For a few blissful moments, she might be the only person in the world.
The illusion is broken abruptly by a familiar shivery prickling of her skin. She opens her eyes, reluctantly, unsurprised by the figure who has appeared in front of her.
“Alina.”
His presence is overwhelming – the way it always is, swallowing up all her awareness, the rest of the world slipping into insignificance. In the darkness of the winter night, he looks to have been hewn from the same material that makes up the landscape around them. Icy and remote and so beautiful that he makes her throat ache.
When she doesn’t reply, he tilts his head a fraction.
“We need to get moving,” he says coolly. His voice doesn’t betray his impatience, but she can feel it, a dull twinge in the tether. The connection between them has grown so strong, since he killed the firebird and gifted her its bones – strong enough that the smooth, unscarred skin of his face is the only giveaway that he isn’t really here.
He always chooses this face, when he comes to her in the tether, as if reminding her that he, too, has suffered as a result of their conflict. That they have both been changed. Permanently.
Without a word, Alina turns away, trudging back through the snow-laden trees in the direction she came from. She can sense his attention the whole way. Another consequence of the tether – she’s always under surveillance, in one form or another. It’s the only reason he allowed her to go wandering away from their camp all on her own in the first place. Probably the only reason she is graced with even an iota of freedom, or the appearance of it, at least.
She emerges from the treeline, stepping out into the small clearing they had made camp in, the previous evening. Everything has been packed away, by now, the horses saddled and ready, not a trace remaining to indicate that they were here beyond the churned-up mass of footprints in the snow. His Grisha are nothing if not efficient. A few of them are still darting around, seeing to the last few tasks before they move out, but most of them seem to be waiting for her.
The Darkling stands at the head of the convoy, in discussion with Fedyor. His gaze follows her as she comes towards him. The snow is falling heavier, now, whirling from the dark, cloud-choked sky in thick flurries, littering his hair and the shoulders of his black cloak with delicate white flecks.
Fedyor glances at her, then back at the Darkling, who dismisses him with a silent nod.
“Are you ready?” he asks, when she has come to a halt just in front of him, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.
“Where are we going?” Alina demands, for what must be the hundredth time since they left Os Alta.
And, for the hundredth time, he declines to answer – merely motions towards her horse with one hand, the other resting firmly at the small of her back. She sighs quietly, though not quietly enough that he doesn’t mark it with an unimpressed arch of one eyebrow, but otherwise does not protest against this, meekly allowing him to steer her towards her horse and lift her up into the saddle.
It’s not unusual for the Darkling to bring her with him, when he has to leave Os Alta; in fact, this is the norm, likely because he doesn’t want to leave her and Nikolai in the capital together, unchaperoned, should they attempt to do something foolish like oust him from power. Nor is it especially unusual for him to be so unforthcoming about his plans. He only ever gives her mere breadcrumbs of information, far from enough to satisfy her ravenous, desperate curiosity, but, knowing there is nothing she can do, she’s simply learned to live with it.
But it feels different, this time. It’s more than sheer pragmatism, not telling her anything that he wouldn’t want her to pass along to Nikolai – more, too, than spite, another part of her extended punishment for having betrayed him. Alina knows he doesn’t trust her. He will never let her forget it.
Whatever the reason he has brought her here, to the frozen forests at the Fjerdan border in the depths of winter, it is clear that he’s not going to share any details with her.
It won’t stop her from trying, though – more out of stubbornness than any real belief that one day it might work.
He reaches up, tapping her chin in a wordless demand that she look down at him. Grudgingly, Alina obliges, and he holds her gaze for some time, eyes narrowing slightly. Whatever display of obedience he sees there must be satisfactory, because he draws away without saying anything more and mounts his own horse.
They’d left their carriage in Ulensk, a few days previously, along with the Darkling’s team of magnificent black stallions – exchanged for the shaggy-maned Fjerdan horses they ride now, short, sturdy beasts more accustomed to the harsh conditions of winter on the far side of the border.
She can’t be entirely sure, but Alina thinks they must have crossed over into Fjerda by now. It makes her feel even more uneasy about what they might be doing up here.
Her breath billows out in the air in front of her. The Darkling raises one hand, signalling to the rest of the convoy that it’s time to move out, and urges his horse forward. Alina has no choice but to follow.
This far north, the sun barely rises for much of the winter; in the near-endless expanse of night-time, it’s difficult to tell exactly what time it is, but Alina can sense that daybreak is still hours away. The absence of sunlight leaves her feeling fragile, hollowed-out. If the Darkling – or, indeed, anybody else – notices her listlessness, they do not comment on it. She knows better than to complain.
Even wrapped up in her cloak, Alina shivers. She can feel the cold gnawing its way down to her bones, turning her insides brittle with frost, ice creeping slowly through her veins. The Darkling shoots her a sideways glance.
“Do you want another cloak?” he asks. Deceptively gentle.
She tucks her chin into her fur collar and shakes her head. His lips twitch downwards, a brief expression of discontentment that is gone as soon as she registers it.
“Fine,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless. “Suit yourself. We’ve a long ride ahead, today.”
They press onwards, into the dark, silent forest.
The snow stops after a few hours, and the sun starts to rise not long after – a blush of dusty lilac seeping into the sky to the east. It brings colour to the forest around them, washing away the numerous shades of grey and replacing them with deep blues and greens, soft gold, warm reddish-bronze, and glimmering silver. Their shadows are long, spindly things, moving in jagged lines across the freshly-lain snow. When she pays enough attention, Alina can see signs of life, even in this harsh, inhospitable place – neat tracks in the snow, a clump of fur snagged on a low-lying branch, a scattering of feathers.
It makes her think of Mal. The bones encircling her right wrist ache heavily. The Darkling, riding a little way ahead of her, looks back, a dark gleam of interest in his eyes. Alina’s fingers curl into a fist.
Of all the unfairness that she has endured, this is by far the most heinous. Eyes smarting, breath painfully sharp in her lungs, she concedes first, dropping her gaze and staring resolutely at the ground.
He doesn’t need to say anything. His satisfaction is evident. Alina might even go as far as to call it gloating, if he were the sort of man prone to such outward displays of emotion.
The respite offered by daylight is brief; the sun swings across the sky with dismaying speed, skimming over the snow-tipped points of the treetops and sinking out of sight. Darkness bleeds into the sky like wine spilled across a white tablecloth. The shadows lengthen, and what little warmth had been offered by the weak winter sunlight vanishes, the air becoming so cold that even the trees shiver. A nearly-full moon hangs overhead, ringed with a faint skirt of luminescence through the hazy edges of the gathering clouds.
Alina’s limbs are stiff, her head heavy with exhaustion, but she knows they will continue riding for some time, yet. As always, the Darkling seems perfectly unaffected – by the cold, the dark, tiredness, discomfort. It only serves to make Alina all the more grumpy about having been forced into this journey.
The night deepens, wrapping them in its thick velvet embrace. Dense, woolly clouds roll out overhead, obscuring the moon’s pearlescent glow entirely, and the air is weighed down with the warning of an approaching snowstorm.
As if sensing her unease, the Darkling slows his horse a little, coming alongside her.
“We’re nearly there,” he says. “We should arrive in plenty of time before the blizzard hits.”
“Nearly where?” Alina asks. His lips twitch upwards, amused by her persistence.
“You’ll see, Alina.”
And he’s right – she knows immediately when they have reached their destination.
The forest thins out, the lofty pine and spruce trees becoming sparser, their forms stunted and twisted. Through the scant woodland, Alina catches a glimpse of light – drawing closer, she can make out the dark cluster of tents, silhouetted figures moving around in the inviting glow of the campfire. She flicks a glance at the Darkling, incredulous.
“You sent people ahead?”
“We may be here for some time,” he says calmly. “I thought it important that we be comfortable.”
Irritation prickles hotly beneath her skin.
“But why are we here?” she bursts out. “Why won’t you tell me what we’re doing in this saintsforsaken place?”
“Do you think you have earned my trust yet, little Saint?” he muses in response. Alina huffs.
“I’ve abided by the treaty, haven’t I?” she mutters sullenly. “I’ve done everything you’ve expected of me.”
“That doesn’t mean I can trust you, Alina,” the Darkling says pointedly. “That means you understand what the consequences will be if you do otherwise.”
There is another pang at her wrist, where the circle of bones merge with her skin. Alina rubs at it absently and remains silent. The Darkling tilts his head, observing her dispassionately, and carries on.
“I will be able to trust you when you prove that you do not need such incentive to stay at my side.”
“That will never happen,” she snaps. He only smiles placidly in the face of her ire.
“Well, then. You will simply have to endure being left in the dark.”
He smiles again, as if pleased with his own joke, and spurs his horse on, leaving Alina staring after him, mute with fury.
It’s only a small unit waiting for them at the camp, Grisha and a handful of oprichniki. An unfamiliar Heartrender steps forward to greet them as they ride into the circle of tents, bowing respectfully to the Darkling, then to Alina.
“Moi soverenyi,” he says, as the Darkling swings neatly down from his saddle, brushing off his cloak with one hand. “Welcome.”
“Thank you, Tomas. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
With that, he turns away from the Heartrender, reaching up to help Alina from her horse. Her legs nearly buckle as he sets her on her feet, weak and unsteady from so many hours of riding, and she yelps in a highly undignified manner as she stumbles, clutching reflexively at his chest. He chuckles, his arms closing firmly around her to keep her upright. Alina’s cheeks burn. There is motion all around her, now, a bustle of activity as the Grisha spring into action, seeing to the horses, the gear – very purposefully not looking at her and the Darkling. The lack of attention is almost worse than open scrutiny.
“Tired?” he asks, a scrape of amusement in his voice.
Alina rights herself, still a little ungainly, and attempts to step away from him, but his grip only tightens.
“Yes,” she admits, giving up and leaning into his side. He hums, turning them around and steering her towards the massive tent in the very centre of the camp – their tent, as evidenced not only by the sheer size of it, but the golden symbol of a sun in eclipse embroidered into the black fabric over the doorway. Two oprichniki already stand guard, dipping their heads as they approach. The Darkling pulls back the canvas hanging over the entryway and gestures for Alina to enter.
It’s dark inside, but warm – a fire burning in the brazier by the table, gas lamps turned down low. The layout is identical to his tent in the Grisha pavilion in Kribirsk. Alina unfastens her cloak, letting it slip from her shoulders, and heads straight for the section she knows has been designated as her own.
“I’ll take dinner in my quarters,” she informs the Darkling, without looking at him.
“As you wish,” he replies mildly.
Alina sweeps through the black curtains that partition her set of rooms from the main chamber of the tent, dropping her cloak on the floor and shrugging off her kefta, which promptly joins it.
She plans to spend the rest of the night sulking in private – and, for a while, that is exactly what she does. An oprichnik brings through her clothes trunk, and she changes into fresh, comfortable clothes, collapsing onto her narrow cot with a book. Some time later, an Inferni appears with a plate of food for her. Despite having barely eaten anything all day, Alina’s appetite has fled – apprehension and anger making her stomach twist in on itself – and she only picks at her dinner half-heartedly. She can hear the Darkling moving around in the next room, the rustle of papers, low conversation.
When she can’t bear it any longer, curiosity itching at her skin, even though she knows confronting him will get her nowhere, Alina draws back the partition and peers out into the main chamber. It’s empty – just the soft crackling of the fire, a few maps left unrolled on the hexagonal table.
She bolsters her courage and hurries to the far side of the room, steps light on the simple woven rug that covers most of the tent floor. Her fingers curl in the heavy swathe of black fabric which serves as a doorway to his personal quarters – the larger of the two, of course, because even when they’re camping in the middle of the Fjerdan wilderness he can’t stand to have them on equal footing – and she hesitates momentarily. The last time she set foot in his chambers of her own volition might have been the night of the winter fête, two years ago. She has been sure to keep distance between them, never seeking him out, forcing him to always be the one who comes to her – and, even then, never really letting him get close to her. Making it very, very clear that, though he may have his Sun Summoner, he will never get Alina.
If she steps through this door, those boundaries she has been so determined to uphold might begin to blur. She knows that is a dangerous thing – knows that nothing good can ever come from it. But the shadows are soft on her skin, and in the still, lonely silence of the snowstorm outside, she feels the yearning pull on her insides, so strong that it is almost painful. Like a fish caught on a hook.
The impulse overtakes her before she has a chance to talk herself out of it. She doesn’t even announce her presence or ask permission – just twitches the curtains open enough for her to slip through, letting the fabric fall back in place behind her with a near-soundless swish.
Her surety of purpose falters as soon as she is over the threshold. She’d expected to find him at his little writing desk, working – he never seems to stop – or eating, at least. Caught off guard, his train of thought rudely interrupted by her sudden arrival.
She hadn’t been expecting the mess – a haphazard scatter of opened envelopes over his desk, a half-drunk glass of wine abandoned beside an untouched plate of food, his cloak hanging askew off the back of the chair, the rest of his clothes thrown in a pile on the low bed. He always carries himself so carefully, the image of perfection, inscrutable and unmovable; it’s somewhat jarring to be confronted with his humanity.
It reminds her of the little glimpses she’d gotten, when they’d been at war. The cracks in his veneer that she is half sure only she ever got to see. Something they’d shared through the tether, a strange kind of intimacy – the truth that they would not admit to anybody else, fraying and fracturing, just how fucking close they had both been to falling apart entirely.
But Alina had been the first one to collapse under the strain, and he has hidden all his broken edges faultlessly while hers are still on display, jagged and bleeding.
She always seems to be on the back foot, around him. Unable to catch her breath.
On the far side of the room, red flames burn brightly in a wide, open brazier. It throws liquid shadows rippling up the tent walls, pooling in the domed ceiling. Steam rises in gentle furls from the water which laps tinnily at the sides of the bathtub, its coppery surface gleaming with a dark lustre in the light from the nearby fire, large and deep enough that the Darkling can lounge in it quite comfortably, his head tipped back against the rounded lip, his hair wet and his eyes closed.
He must be able to sense her presence, because, though Alina doesn’t make a noise, he cracks open one eye and smiles lazily.
“Alina,” he says. “Come in.”
“Oh – no –” she says uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. “It’s okay. I can – uh. I can come back.”
He merely shrugs.
“It makes no difference to me,” he tells her. One of his arms dangles loosely over the edge of the tub, water dripping from his fingertips onto the sheepskin rug below.
“I’m intruding,” she says in weak protest.
“You are not,” he counters. “You are my wife, Alina. There is really no need to cling to your modesty.”
Her face burns – embarrassment and anger running hot beneath her skin. He takes such pleasure in reminding her of this. As if she is likely to ever forget exactly what she agreed to, when they brokered peace.
“I’m not clinging to anything,” she snaps back. “I only came here to talk to you. But if you’re going to be like this –”
She breaks off with an inarticulate noise of frustration, already turning on her heel to go.
“Stay,” he commands. “Say what you came to say.”
Alina looks around hesitantly. He quirks an eyebrow at her in challenge – deliberately provocative. She scowls, enraged, but makes no further attempt to flee.
“While you’re in the bath?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest with a scornful huff.
He sits up a little straighter, rolling his head back with a short sigh, and drags one hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face.
“As you wish, Alina.”
She isn’t quick enough avert her gaze as he stands up and steps out of the tub, making absolutely no effort to cover himself. Warmth rushes all the way through her – a reaction that she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge. She’s never seen so much of his body before. By the time she remembers herself, she simply can’t tear her focus from the water running in rivulets over the panes of his chest, the angular jut of his hipbones, the smooth muscles of his thighs.
Her husband is a beautiful man. This is not exactly news to her. But it does seem mildly unfair that he is so perfectly sculpted, in every respect.
Even the merzost damage that once ravaged him seems to have mostly healed. He’s thinner than he used to be, even now, but he doesn’t look so gaunt, so visibly unwell. The scars that criss-cross his torso and upper back, though still visible, are thin and silvery. Like cobwebs. They have a kind of beauty of their own, she thinks.
He catches her staring and smirks – unbearably smug. Entirely aware of how he looks. Not only beautiful, but vain, too.
At a beckoning flick of his wrist, a twisted, shadowy figure coalesces just behind him – a nichevo’ya. They no longer intimidate Alina in the way they once did, but she is still unsettled by the constant threat of their presence; unable to shake the memory of the chapel, collapsing in the Darkling’s arms, letting the monstrous creatures drain away her life, and his, along with it. The nichevo’ya hands him a towel, which he wraps loosely around his waist, never once taking his gaze from Alina.
“I was reliably informed that you’re not a virgin,” he comments mildly.
Alina flushes in furious indignation – at the casual way in which he references this, as if it is any of his business, really, and the reminder that every good thing she thought she had, at the Little Palace, was a lie. A carefully crafted illusion, designed to lure her into his arms. His seduction had been all-encompassing.
She’s long since forgiven Genya. Having been forced to betray the people she loves at the hands of this man, she understands better, now, than before, why her friend had acted in the way she had.
But she hasn’t forgiven him.
“I’m not,” she says acidly, seeing no reason not to confirm what he already knows.
He doesn’t reply immediately. Another wave of his hand dismisses his nichevo’ya servant, and he comes towards her, his steps slow and even, studying her with narrowed eyes. Alina lifts her chin, holding his gaze stubbornly as he approaches.
“And yet you blush as though you have never seen a man’s body before,” he murmurs, raising his hand to touch her cheek, the backs of his knuckles skimming across her flaming skin.
Alina feels near torn in two by her conflicting instincts – to pull away from him, to lean in closer. She clenches her hands into fists and remains perfectly still. Waiting to see what he will do.
His lips twitch upwards and he steps away again, turning his back on her. He unwinds his towel as he walks to his bed, using it to roughly dry his hair before tossing it aside and plucking a plain black robe from among the pile of clothes, which he slips on, one arm at a time. Every movement is languid, catlike in grace. She knows he is inviting her to watch – and, as infuriating as it is, every time she glances away, her gaze is drawn back to him almost immediately.
“Tell me, then,” he says, tying the sash of his robe loosely and turning back to face her. There is a brief flash of triumph in his eyes when he finds her still looking at him. “What did you want to talk about?”
Alina takes a steadying breath and focuses her resolve.
“I want you to tell me why we have come here.”
“And why,” he begins, a slow drawl, as he kicks back his chair and sits down, long fingers tapping a steady beat on the smooth wooden desktop. “Would I tell you that, wife?”
“Because –” she begins, exasperated, as she gestures around vaguely. “Because what reason do you have not to?”
In an instant, the amusement vanishes from his expression.
“I have several,” he says coldly. “Would you like me to list them alphabetically, or by order of gravity?”
“No, thank you,” Alina retorts, her temper flaring. “I remember perfectly well. In fact, I spend a lot of my free time thinking about all the ways I might have done a more thorough job.”
“You should be glad for your sake that you didn’t,” he replies. “Otherwise I might have been inclined to be more thorough in your punishment.”
Alina’s fingers twitch, white-hot sparks of light weaving their way around her knuckles, burning through her skin. He watches her tamp down on her anger with apparent apathy, but she can sense his satisfaction.
“Regardless of what I have done in the past,” she says through gritted teeth. “Whatever you tell me, now, I can hardly use it against you, can I?”
He leans back in his seat – still not a flicker of emotion crossing his perfect face.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Alina.”
“What could I possibly be able to do?” she exclaims, throwing her arms in the air. “Who could I tell – where could I go – we are in the middle of nowhere, for Saints’ sake!”
“You consistently show little to no consideration for your own welfare,” he says tersely. “You have run off impulsively into the Fjerdan wilderness before. You have abandoned everything and fled across the True Sea before.”
“And you always found me,” she whispers. Without thinking about it, she touches the antlers encircling her throat, feeling the power that hums within – the same power that has bound them together, for all eternity. “I cannot run from you. We both know it. There is nowhere I can go that you would not find me.”
“This is true,” he accedes. “But you are such a stubborn, willful little thing, Alina. I’m not sure that would necessarily stop you from trying – even if only to vex me.”
She blushes again – this time in recognition of the truth in his words. Since becoming his wife, his pet Sun Summoner, paraded around at his side, she has very little left in the way of defiance. He still has ways of controlling her, of keeping her from pushing against him too hard, but even he cannot take away her insolence.
“I won’t,” she says quietly. “I promise. This time, I won’t.”
He considers her a few moments longer, then tips his head in summons.
“Come here.”
Alina’s limbs twitch, reflexively obeying his order, but she forces herself to a faltering standstill after only one step. Her breath saws out of her lungs painfully. He observes her hesitation, one eyebrow ticking upwards, unimpressed.
“I thought you were meant to be proving to me that you can do as you are told?” he says, glacially smooth.
The silence that follows is heavy. Expectant.
Swallowing her fear, Alina gives in, walking towards him on stiff, unfeeling limbs. She comes to a halt on the other side of his desk, her hands clasped behind her back so that he won’t see the way her nails press into her palm.
“General,” she says, muted, giving him the deference he desires.
But he only shakes his head, slowly. A few strands of dark hair fall over his forehead.
“My name,” he murmurs. “When we are alone, you can use my name.”
She doesn’t want to – doesn’t want to acknowledge the vulnerability he’d bequeathed to her, in between all the conflict and dishonesty. A single, significant truth. Even now, she’s not sure what drove him to it, whether it was a calculated confession or, perhaps, simply a moment of weakness. The overriding desire to be known.
“Aleksander,” she whispers.
The restless drumming of his fingers on the desk stops abruptly. Something stirs in the black depths of his gaze, an emotion that Alina can’t define.
“Come here, Alina,” he says again – soft and dangerous, velvet concealing a well-honed blade.
The hairs on the back of Alina’s neck stand up, the urge to flee swooping through her limbs, but she obeys, nonetheless. He looks at her in such a way that has her heart crawling up into her throat. It takes all her effort not to fidget under his intense scrutiny. In such close proximity to him – and while he is dressed like that, or, rather, barely dressed at all, the dark silk of his robe, open in a loose vee down to the base of his sternum, such an alluring stark contrast to his pale skin, the candlelight playing over the fine lines of his scars, the sharp ridge of his clavicle – her thoughts are muddled, the wild, howling storm of the tether lashing at her awareness.
Between one blink and the next, he has shifted in his chair, those elegant hands closing around her waist like steel and lifting her neatly into his lap, as if she is nothing more than a doll. Alina makes a noise of protest, but he shushes her, thumbs sweeping over her hipbones in soothing semi-circles.
“Aleksander,” she says breathlessly, pushing back against his shoulders. Desperately trying to put space between them.
“Be still,” he admonishes.
They are close enough that she can feel his breath fan out across her cheek, the warmth of his body beneath her. Alina tries not to flinch. He hasn’t touched her like this since the war room, the night of the winter fête, two years ago. The memories are still so vivid – lifted onto the map table, her legs winding around his waist, his hands tangling in her hair, giddy and drunk on their shared victory, on the taste of his mouth, the feeling of opening up and giving him everything – battering at her with enough force that she sways like a tree in a gale.
“Aleksander,” she tries again, panic lancing through her bloodstream, but it is feeble. “Let me go.”
He tilts his head to one side, regarding her coolly.
“I believe we have already established that I don’t plan on doing that,” he says. To drive his point home, he grasps her forearm and holds her hand up in between them – brandishing the firebird bones. Flaunting his control over her.
The grief she has carried around within her, tended to like a slowly decaying flower, sheds a few more rotten petals.
“Don’t,” she whispers brokenly, tugging uselessly against his grip.
He lets her struggle for a few more seconds, then lets go of her wrist. His gaze – sharp, too perceptive – keeps her pinned in place, immobile.
They haven’t ever talked about it.
All she knows is what she was told: a few months into their tenuous peace, Nikolai crowned tsar, Alina wed to the Darkling, both of them merely instruments of his will while the rest of their friends languished in the cells below the Little Palace for their part in their rebellion, her husband had informed her that he was going after the firebird. For her, he said – but she knew what he meant.
He took Mal with him. When the tracking party returned, a few months later, her friend was nowhere to be seen.
A raid in the Sikurzoi, Ivan informed her flatly, when she ran to meet them in the courtyard. Shu soldiers. Several lives lost.
She might have believed him – if she hadn’t caught the sceptical glance Fedyor sent his way, arms going around her reflexively as her knees gave out, the ground tilting beneath her feet. If she hadn’t already known, deep down, from the moment she agreed to all his terms, that her husband would not allow Mal to live for longer than was necessary to secure her compliance.
Alina gasps in a stuttering breath, clutching at her wrist where his fingers had been, as if branded by his touch. The firebird bones are warm.
“Do you truly believe that your promises mean anything to me?” Aleksander asks her calmly.
“They should,” she replies in a wobbly voice. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. “I don’t lie to you.”
He hums, leaning back a little – so at ease, while Alina feels veritably flayed. His hand drops down to settle on her thigh, just above her knee. Even through the material of her skirt, the thick wool of her stockings, it is enough to make her shiver.
“Only to yourself, then,” he muses.
That sparks her indignation.
“I do not,” she snaps, fixing him with a fierce glower.
“No?” he inquires drily. “You continue to paint yourself the victim in all of this, as if you have never wronged me in turn. As if you did not make your own choices, Alina – choices that led us to this. And then you have the audacity to come barging in here, demanding that I share potentially sensitive intelligence with you. You ask for my trust and confidence while giving me nothing of the same in return.”
Alina gapes at him.
“You – you think I vilify you unjustly?” she exclaims. “You lied to me, manipulated me, collared me, threatened my friends. I was forced into a role I never wanted. I made those choices because there was nothing else I could do!”
Aleksander tuts, as if disappointed in her.
“You refuse to take responsibility for your actions, Alina.”
“And when have you ever done that?” she scoffs. “Have you claimed responsibility for the Fold? For the war? For killing Mal?”
She winces the moment the words drop from her tongue – too blunt, too unwieldy. The silence ripples and then settles again. Aleksander drags the tip of his index finger over the fetter’s smooth, curved edge.
“Would it make any difference to you?” he asks. There is genuine curiosity in his voice, an openness in his gaze that Alina hasn’t seen before, or hasn’t wanted to see, maybe.
His question does make her wonder. There is a reason they don’t discuss it – the shreds of her pride that still remain, a stubborn desperation to never let him take any satisfaction from the pain he inflicts. But, aside from that, she’s not entirely sure that there is anything to say.
What good would words do?
The instant that the circlet of bone had fused around her wrist, the power of the amplifier flowing through her, becoming one with her, the last few moments of the firebird’s life played through her mind’s eye.
Alina had tried to brace herself for it – except – except nothing that she saw made any sense at all. There was the firebird, soaring above her head, its flaming red plumage resplendent against the pale, frosty blue sky beyond. Shrieking in pain as it was cut down with a bolt of shadow, plummeting to the earth in a crumpled heap. She was running towards it, down a rocky slope, then – arms around her – Ivan? – forcing her to her knees, and when she looked up it was into the Darkling’s face, cold and aloof. Shadows gathering between his hands. The familiar curving blade of the Cut forming in midair – and, at last, a glimmer of some kind of emotion in his eyes.
Contempt, maybe. Triumph.
When the images came to an abrupt halt, she blinked a few times to clear her vision, still reeling, her blood buzzing with the combined force of all three of Morozova’s amplifiers. Aleksander’s head was bowed towards her, his gaze steady and solemn. She stared up at him, trembling, as horrified understanding of what had really happened in the Sikurzoi began to dawn.
He must have seen it in her eyes, because his lips quirked into a very faint, very fleeting smile. She knew, and he knew that she knew. And that was enough.
Alina’s courage fails her, and she looks away, gently disentangling her right hand from his grip and pulling it to her chest protectively. Aleksander just nods, as if this has confirmed what he already believed. Maybe it does.
“After I made the Fold, I allowed the Lantsov tsar to change the story,” he says. “To paint me as a traitor, a heretic. I allowed Ravka to make me into its monster. And, yet, you try to tell me that I have not taken responsibility for it. I am not the one who is shirking the blame, Alina – it is the Lantsovs whose treachery has been forgotten by history.”
She sits there sullenly, still refusing to look at him. He squeezes her hip slightly.
“And you sided with them,” he says, a soft accusation.
“I had to,” she mutters petulantly.
“No,” he shakes his head. “No, Alina. This is exactly what I am talking about. Regardless of what you believe, I am under no illusions that my actions resulted in strife all through Ravka. I made those decisions, and I would do so again, if necessary. But you refuse to accept that you had a part in it, too – that your actions had consequences, just the same as mine. You chose to stand by the Lantsovs. You chose to believe that my crimes outweighed theirs.”
Alina scowls at him, swallowing down the uncomfortable lump of guilt in her throat. His hands flex around her waist, tilting her towards him – giving her no escape.
“Do you still believe that, my Alina?” he asks in a low, velvety whisper.
She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Astounded, again, by just how well he seems to be able to read her, to see the doubts that have wormed their way through her psyche, in the year or so since their agreement.
The Lantsovs had called him a tyrant, and Alina – hurt, betrayed, and alone – had nodded along.
But now – now, the unrest in the wake of the civil war has settled. Life is beginning to return to normal, or some approximation of it; more than that, it seems that Ravka’s age-old wounds, division and injustice, may at last have a chance to heal. Alina has sat at his side and watched as he achieves everything she had striven for, during her short tenure as a leader. It is utterly infuriating. The spiteful, petty part of her wishes that he was as awful as she had so adamantly proclaimed him to be, if only so that she wouldn’t have to admit she was wrong. So that she might have a reason to carry on hating him, instead of this… emptiness.
“Alina.”
His voice is stony, his fingers digging into the soft flesh below her ribs. She knows he will not let up until he gets his answer.
“No,” she whispers.
The look of satisfaction in his eyes is nauseating.
“Very good,” he praises, sickly-sweet, a drip of dark treacle down her spine that makes her shudder.
“Please let me go,” she begs, wriggling from side to side.
Aleksander lifts his chin, drawing the tip of his nose up the side of her cheek. Alina’s eyelids flutter heavily.
“Why?” he queries. “What are you so afraid of, little Saint?”
You. It sticks in her throat, clogging up her airways. Myself. She shakes her head mutely.
“How long do you plan to keep this up?” he presses. “This pretence?”
“I’m not pretending,” Alina says. Her voice is little more than a weak rasp.
He cocks his head to one side, eyebrows raising towards his hairline, disbelieving.
“I thought you said you don’t lie to me, Alina.”
“I –” she begins, but her voice breaks immediately and she falls silent, cheeks blooming pink with clear evidence of her guilt. Aleksander smirks. She wishes she could slap it from his face.
“So, you see,” he murmurs, bringing his hand up to cradle her face. The show of false tenderness turns her stomach. “This is why I cannot trust you. For all you love to hold my deceptions against me, I am not the one being untruthful, now.”
With great effort, Alina scrapes back some of her bravado, jerking her head out of his cupped palm and glaring at him.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “Don’t act like you would treat me any differently, if I were meek and obedient and let you do whatever you wanted with me. Don’t try to pin this on me – to make it my fault for still not trusting you, after everything you’ve done. We both know you would never have given me any freedom, any involvement, regardless. You only intend to punish me for having fought back against you.”
His gaze sharpens to ice.
“You’re wrong,” he says flatly. “All I have ever wanted is for you to be powerful, to stand at my side as my equal. Why do you suppose I married you, Alina?”
“You married me because you want me to belong to you,” Alina replies mulishly.
Aleksander quirks an eyebrow.
“Little Saint,” he purrs, a low rumble in his chest. “I didn’t need to make you my wife for that.”
To emphasise his words, he sends a little pulse through the tether, making the stag antlers and the firebird bones hum pleasantly, stirring the power that lies within. Her insides quiver, hands flitting involuntarily to the collar.
He’s had a hold on her since the moment he forced it around her throat.
Alina looks at him warily. He smiles.
“You may wish to believe that I only married you to make a point, but that is not actually the case,” he says lightly.
The darkness seems to draw closer, then – curling around them protectively. She remains perfectly still, save for the harsh rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Aleksander lifts his hand to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear, keeping his movements slow, gentle, as if worried she may startle, like a frightened animal.
“Why, then?” she asks.
He sighs – a long rush of breath, weary and aching with loneliness.
“Do you really need me to answer that question?” he murmurs. His hand curves around the back of her neck, fingers winding through her hair.
Alina cants towards him, yielding to the magnetic pull of the tether, the unshakeable urge to be as close to him as possible that she spends so much of her time resisting. For a single, devastating moment, she allows herself to entertain all her most dangerous, forbidden thoughts – to imagine what it would be like, if she were his wife in more than name.
“Yes,” she demands, gathering the material of his robe in her fists.
He tips his head back ever so slightly, holding her away from him, his eyes gleaming darkly as they skip over her face, reading her intentions. The tether turns sharp, ripping her open and laying her soul bare for him. She knows she cannot conceal anything from him, so she doesn’t bother to try – but she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, unable to watch as he inspects the gutted carnage of her emotions. Aleksander has always been able to see right into her, as if she is made entirely of glass. Meanwhile, he wears his armour so well, an impenetrable mask – detached, impassive, perfectly composed.
It wasn’t always that way. She remembers very clearly all the times she came to him through the tether, in the latter stages of their conflict, to find him in a state of uncharacteristic disarray. Raw at the edges; bleeding desperation, unbridled rage. Exhausted and in pain. He had kept up his performative façade for centuries, but as soon as the cracks began to show, it all fell apart so very quickly.
She hasn’t seen him like that in a long, long time. But, now, she thinks she can feel it – barely concealed, just below the surface. The version of him she had known while they were at war is still there, pushing against his skin.
What would it take, she wonders, to coax it out of him again?
“One day, Alina,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You will come around. Time will change you in ways you had not even known possible, and you will realise that I am the only person who will ever truly understand you.”
She is already shaking her head, immediately rejecting this possibility. Aleksander seems neither surprised nor troubled by her reaction.
“Oh, I’m quite sure you will rail against it,” he smiles wryly. “I’ve never known you to give in to anything with much grace.”
“You know nothing,” Alina snarls at him. His smile widens, taking on a cruel edge.
“I know,” he responds, drawing the words out slowly. “That I will take great pleasure in watching you struggle, day in, day out, even as you come to understand that it is hopeless, and that I was right. I know that it will be worth the wait, my Alina, when you finally surrender to inevitability. Because you will. And then, maybe, if I am feeling very, very generous, I might forgive you.”
Alina stares at him, aghast. He runs his thumb lightly over her lower lip.
“This is your punishment, milaya,” he murmurs, and it is – it is awful, the way he makes it sound so gentle, so affectionate.
“Don’t you think I have suffered enough at your hands?” she asks bitterly.
Aleksander tsks and shakes his head.
“Little Saint,” he sighs. “Still so unrepentant.”
He wraps his fingers around her jaw, pressing in hard, until Alina gasps in pain.
“I could have had your traitorous friends killed,” he says, very quietly. “Have you ever considered that, Alina? I did. I thought about how it would feel, to make you watch, to make you realise what it is to be truly alone. Your tracker – I could have made it last days. You would have begged me to end his life.”
She trembles in his lap, limbs weak, heart stuttering. The urge to tear herself from his grip, to flee, has been swallowed by the paralysing horror that floods her body, numbing all her muscles, until she cannot feel anything beyond the heady, cloying mix of desire and shame.
“I thought about it,” Aleksander continues. “And I was tempted. But I think that this will be far more satisfying, in the long term.”
He releases her with a little shove. Alina sways backwards, unbalanced, clutching at him for support.
“You’re a sadistic bastard,” she breathes.
Aleksander only laughs.
“I’ve been called worse.”
She glares at him, at a loss for any other form of retaliation. Rarely has she felt more powerless than in the face of their shared eternity.
“You’ll be waiting a long time,” she tells him snidely.
“Mm, perhaps,” he smiles, smoothing his palm along her shoulder. “But you should know that, in drawing it out, in continuing to resist me, you will only prolong your suffering. And my patience, I think, will far outlast yours.”
As if to prove his point, he sits up straighter, pulling Alina against his chest. Panicked, she ducks her head, avoiding his gaze, but her evasion does nothing to protect her – not when his lips skate up the side of her neck, feather-light. Not when the tether sings, a high, wavering note, betraying everything she wants to keep hidden.
“If this was all I wanted,” he murmurs, so close to her mouth that she can taste the words. “I’d have it. You know that, don’t you?”
She does.
After everything he has taken from her, all the ways he has her under his control, it would have been so very, very easy for him. But the truth is that he has barely even touched her, save the occasional lingering hand on her elbow or her waist, in over a year since they were wed. Nothing close to the night of the winter fête, the fervent, gasping kisses, the way he had held her as if he were starving – nor the chapel, clinging to one another on the cold stone floor – nor the many times he came to her through the tether, the casual possessiveness with which he always reached for her, instinctively, as if she already belonged to him, even then.
Maybe she had.
A jagged breath punches out of her, hollow lungs collapsing inwards. It would be so easy to give in to it, she knows – can already feel the riptide taking hold of her, ready to pull her under. She could drown in him so easily, and it might even feel like a relief.
“Aleksander,” she says, barely even audible, turning her face towards him.
His jaw tightens, the muscles in his throat flexing.
“Again,” he growls.
And then – she can see it again. The hunger within him, the yawning jaws of his loneliness cracking open, teeth bared, howling. Just visible through the hairline fractures in that perfect armour of his.
She wonders how long he can hold it together – how long he will be able to keep the wild, ravenous creature within at bay. How long before his faultless, unfeeling self-control simply snaps.
“Aleksander,” she says again, rocking forward in his lap, tugging sharply at his robe.
A quiet groan slips out of him, against his will, she thinks, and Alina feels an exhilarating thrill race all the way up her spine. He tilts his head slightly, nosing at the underside of her jaw. Alina leans in, his arms curling around her, hands splayed over her back, pulse thundering in her veins, and lets her lips brush lightly over his.
He sighs, his chest shuddering violently. Before he can claim her mouth for himself, Alina pushes him away – the movement sudden enough that he doesn’t have time to resist – and slams him against the back of his chair.
The satisfaction that she gleans from the flash of surprise and irritation in his eyes is nothing short of obscene.
Already, the cracks are widening – the truth of him rising into the light. He immediately pushes back against her, yanking away her hands and lunging forward, before he manages to catch himself, freezing in place with both her wrists caught tight in his grip. Alina grins at him, triumphant.
The mask slips back into place, all emotion wiped from his face in an instant, but it’s too late.
She has laid out the pieces, made the first move in this delicate, dancing game. One of them will break first. Perhaps he is not quite as certain that it will be her as he would like her to believe.
Aleksander lets go of her wrists and sits back in his chair. His hands rest on her thighs, slack – no intent in his touch. Alina smiles demurely, barely able to conceal the glee that sparkles and fizzes in her bloodstream.
“So,” she says, trailing her fingertips in slow, looping spirals over his chest. “Tell me what we’re doing here.”
Her husband appraises her silently. There is something new in the way he looks at her, something that – she thinks – might be close to pride.
Once, he’d told her that she was an apt pupil. Alina wonders if he ever regrets just how much he has taught her.
“Why do you want to know?” he asks. “The truth, this time. Please.”
She hesitates a few moments before answering, weighing up each word carefully. Her palm flattens over his heart.
“I want to be part of – of everything,” she admits quietly.
He almost smiles. She thinks that he must have known this, already, and was only waiting for her to admit it.
“You enjoyed your taste of leadership, did you?”
“Not especially,” Alina mutters, wrinkling her nose.
“You took to it well,” he says, delivering this praise calmly, as if he does so all the time. “For one with so little experience, in what were… trying circumstances.”
She can’t help but laugh bleakly, at that.
“That feels like an understatement.”
Aleksander hums in vague agreement. He still hasn’t moved, but the shadows coating the floor of the tent shift over one another, stretching out like a lazy cat.
“You don’t want to lead?” he inquires.
“I didn’t say that,” Alina retorts. “I just… I want to make a difference. To help people.”
He gives her another long, searching look.
“You want to do whatever you can to see that nobody will suffer what you suffered,” he decides, after some time.
Alina sighs and shrugs. The reason she doesn’t lie to him very often is because, most of the time, there’s no point.
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“I want the same thing, Alina,” he says. “That’s why we’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
He adjusts his position slightly, jostling her seat on his thighs as he stretches out his legs. Alina wonders if she should find somewhere else to sit – somewhere that isn’t right in his lap, her skirt rucked up above her knees, while he’s wearing so very little – and then, immediately, wonders why the thought hadn’t occurred to her sooner.
Before she can make any move to clamber down, he deigns to answer her question.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with Jarl Brum.”
“Brum?” she frowns. “The drüskelle commander?”
Aleksander’s lip curls derisively.
“The very same.”
“Aleksander…” Alina says hesitantly. “You can’t want to meet with him. It’s too dangerous.”
“While I am touched by your concern for my well-being, Alinochka,” he says, lips pulling into a teasing smirk. “I can assure you that it is misplaced.”
She flushes hotly, looking down at her hands while she turns his words over in her head.
“You’re going to kill him, then?”
“Of course.”
It’s not exactly a surprise, but she remains sceptical, anyway.
“You made a deal with Fjerda, Aleksander,” she says, squinting up at him suspiciously. “They gave you access to the logging paths, so that you could pass over the border to Ravka.”
So that you could attack us, she doesn’t say, but she knows they are both remembering it. The massacre in the Grand Palace, the carnage in the Little Palace. Their confrontation in the chapel, where she had tried to kill them both, but had only succeeded in binding them even closer together.
“Please, Alina,” he scoffs, treating her to a scornful look. “As if I ever intended to honour that.”
“And you wonder why I don’t trust you,” she mutters. Aleksander ignores her.
“Besides, I’d be extremely surprised if Jarl Brum didn’t agree to this with the intention of double-crossing me,” he continues. “Fjerda do not make deals with Grisha, Alina. They only let me pass to sow further strife and disorder in Ravka. I’m not a fool.”
“So, you know that he’s going to try to kill you, and you’re going anyway?” she says incredulously.
“He’s going to try,” Aleksander confirms with a short nod. “But he’s not going to succeed.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am,” he smiles. “I have a secret weapon.”
“He’s an experienced Grisha hunter,” Alina argues. “He’s not going to give you a chance to summon the nichevo’ya. I bet he won’t even get close to you while you have your hands free.”
“I know that, Alina,” he says calmly. “Which is why it’s just as well I have brought along somebody else who can summon the nichevo’ya. Somebody who can also choose to remain unseen, should she wish.”
He raises his eyebrows significantly. Alina feels her cheeks grow warm again.
“Oh,” she says dumbly.
“Yes, oh.”
She worries at her lower lip, unsure what to say. Of everything they’ve discussed, this evening, this is the most unexpected, and she doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
“The last time I did that,” she begins haltingly. “The nichevo’ya – I nearly killed you.”
“I remember.”
“You trust me not to do the same again?”
He draws in a breath, lifting one hand, tentatively, to her face again. Alina bites her tongue and allows it.
“To my surprise,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking down the line of her jaw. “Yes. In this instance, I do trust you.”
For a long moment, there is nothing but the soft crackle of the fire in the brazier, the muffled, cottony quiet of the snow falling heavily outside. Alina stares at him, wide-eyed. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of his confession.
He tips his head to the side, a dry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Shouldn’t I?” he asks. “Will you abandon me to my painful fate, once again, little Saint?”
The darkness recedes a little, casting him in the dim, wavering orange glow of the flames. His scars suddenly seem all the more prominent. There is no resentment in the way he looks at her – no judgement or blame, only careful, detached neutrality. She has no way of knowing how true it is. The black of his pupils bleeds into his irises with barely a noticeable change in shade. Alina’s gaze flits away, unsettled.
“No,” she says reluctantly.
Once again, she gets the sense that she isn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He places two cool fingers under her chin and lifts her head until she has no choice but to look him in the eyes. Inescapable, in every way.
She feels something shift, subtly – the solid ground beneath her turning to thousands of grains of sand. Truths she had taken for granted crumble in her palms.
“I still hate you,” she blurts out.
Aleksander just smiles; far too kind, far too understanding. It makes her want to scream.
“I know, Alina,” he says. “But it won’t change anything.”
Yes, she thinks, hopelessly. I know.