Chapter Text
They discuss the details for some time. The Darkling helps her chart her route, marking key junctions on the map, the places his scouts have identified as favorable for supply storage and staging. They debate the ideal number of soldiers and how to coordinate her forces with his own. It’s startlingly easy and without any friction.
“Ivan will travel with you, but otherwise you have leave to pick out whoever you like,” he tells her. “It’s important to develop any eye for what sort of people will serve you best in any circumstance.”
Never one to pass up an opportunity, she puts on her most innocent face. “What about Zoya?”
“Your squabbles will have to wait. Zoya has her own responsibilities.”
Alina expected as much, but she presses on. “But are they very important?”
“Are you taking this seriously?”
She’s excited enough that she nearly forgets that she is angry with him. “I am! But must I take Ivan? Out of all the Heartrenders here? Let me have Nina. I like Nina.”
“Nina is inexperienced— and Zoya’s project. I trust Ivan.”
“Then you take him.”
“I thought you were eager for the opportunity to lord over your rivals?”
“Well, yes,” she admits. “But he’s so sour it’s hardly worth it.” He gives her a long look and she sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
“You will also be taking Genya with you. She’s only here because you wanted her. Make certain no harm comes to her.”
She nods quickly, sobering. “Of course.”
They talk late into the evening. She remains in the command tent and watches him go about his own business. Sometimes he will explain to her what he’s doing: sorting through reports, the reasoning behind his orders. She tries not to think about how easy it is just now. And how nice it would be if it was always like this.
She especially tries not to think about how she has fallen into the same pattern again. He’s given her something— scraps of attention, and a command— and she’s forgotten his mercurial moods, and his cruelty, and come back to learn at his knee like an obedient pupil. She stands up, suddenly feeling that she needs to pace, to take a breath. She disguises it by striding towards the samovar. She pours herself a glass of tea, and drinks it all at once despite how it burns her tongue.
He still sits at the large table at the center of the space, engrossed in his work, unnoticing. A stray officer scurries past her, and out through the tent flap. It’s more quiet now that it’s getting late. By happenstance, it is only the two of them here. She sets her glass down, tries to clear her thoughts. It isn’t working.
“Are you tired?” he asks without turning back to her. He is penning a letter, doesn’t even pause the scratching of his pen.
She shakes her head. It would be outside his line of sight, but she suspects he’ll know. And even if he doesn’t, he does not ask again.
In the ensuing silence, Alina goes up to his chair. Recklessly, miserably, she leans down, pressing her face into his shoulder, clinging to him.
He stills. “Alina?”
She doesn’t reply, unsure what she might even say, if she were to explain. She can hear his steady breath, the beating of his heart. She can practically feel his bemusement and calculation as well. How he must be weighing his options, thinking of what reaction might be the most advantageous.
He hasn’t pulled away, but he doesn’t draw her closer, either. Anyone could walk in at any moment. In the past he would’ve likely chided her for this. She wonders distantly why he doesn’t now.
Eventually, he lifts a hand to thread his fingers through her hair. “What is it, now?”
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
“It will likely be some time before I see you again,” she says finally.
“Will you miss me?”
“Maybe not.”
He laughs softly.
She straightens, composing herself. Or trying to. Already she regrets the embrace, but she also wants to go back to him.
“Has Nikolai Lantsov shared anything else that may point to his true whereabouts?”
She clears her throat. “Not really. He still writes of Ketterdam, he’s readying to leave soon apparently.”
“This is a riddle I mean to have solved.”
“I could ask,” she says slowly. “But would the information be of much use anyway?
He shrugs. “He’s an unaccounted for variable. That’s unnecessary risk.”
“But what would you plan to do if I found something out? If you act on a secret the minute it’s shared with me, he’ll know never to tell me anything again.”
“Do you think I’d show my hand so easily?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve assembled several tracking parties, they are also preparing to leave at dawn,” he tells her suddenly. And it takes her a moment to process the shift in topic.
“To track… the herd?” This isn’t new, they have been hunting Morozova’s herd for as long as she’s been at the capital. It wouldn’t be worth mentioning unless it seemed more likely that these parties might find something.
He nods, he seems as calm as ever, but she can pick out the real anticipation hidden just beneath. “There have been enough credible sightings to narrow down a general location.”
“It’ll be soon then.”
“Yes.”
A beat passes. Then another. The Darkling turns back to her, studying her face with that unnerving gaze of his. “Are you pleased, Alina?” he asks at last.
“Of course.”
“You seemed more eager for the amplifier in the past.”
She chews her lip, considering. “It just feels… surreal. We’ve been chasing it for so long. I don’t think I’ll believe it until I see it.” It isn’t a lie, exactly.
He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing her words. “You will see it,” he says finally.
The promise sends a shiver through her, and she’s not sure whether it’s fear or anticipation. If they succeed, everything will change. His plans will actually be carried out. And the thought of committing herself to them so irrevocably, with so much conflict still simmering between them, terrifies her.
She says nothing, only nods as if she believes him.
Eventually, Ivan escorts her back to her quarters. As always, he is positively livid to have to lower himself to such menial tasks.
“Did you hear the news?” Alina asks him, in her sweetest voice.
“I’m not in the mood, Starkov.”
“I’m sure you’re jumping for joy.”
As they walk, her eyes catch on a group of First Army soldiers gathered near the barracks, their laughter carrying faintly on the night air. One of them turns, and her heart skips a beat. She locks eyes with him.
Mal.
But Ivan keeps guiding her forward, his grip firm, and she’s too stunned even to react.
For a moment, she entertains the thought that she’s mistaken someone else for him. It could be any First Army soldier, curious to see the Sun Summoner. What are the odds that Mal would be here now?
But then, she had finally written to him. Had he come to see her? But why hadn’t he approached her? If he had come because of the letter, surely he would have sought her out by now. Unless… unless he hadn’t wanted to. Perhaps he had been ordered here (To hunt the stag perhaps? Was he still a tracker at all?) and now he was awkwardly trying to avoid her.
By the time they reach her quarters, her pulse is pounding in her ears. The door swings shut behind her, and she’s left in the stifling warmth of her room. The fires all built to roaring. Genya must already be asleep. Alina stands frozen, staring at nothing.
She finds there is another letter waiting for her from Nikolai. She skims over it, and finds she cannot bear to read it. I find that I miss you wretchedly, he writes. It is an unspeakable thing to have you with me, and then to be faced with this absence.
She clutches the sheets of paper to her chest and wonders at the odds that he would say such sweet things if he knew their plans. That the best scenario is one where he might choose to kill his own father and brother for the throne. And if he doesn’t? Well, what then?
✵✵✵
Alina prepares to depart Ulensk in the morning. Her breath fogs in the air as she moves through the bustling courtyard. She is too shaken to ask anyone about Mal. She’s half convinced herself she imagined it.
Still, she cannot help casting a glance toward the barracks. She tells herself she isn’t looking for him, but her eyes sweep the crowd all the same. Thankfully, all of the faces are unfamiliar.
The Darkling is there to see them off, standing apart from the rest of his commanders. As she approaches, he steps forward, his pale gray eyes catching the morning light, and she feels the weight of his gaze settle on her. She could ask him now. But he would think she was weak. He might even lie— no, it’s practically certain that he would, knowing what she does about the letters now.
When she reaches her horse, he waves off the grooms without a word. “I’ll see to it,” he says brusquely, and he takes her hand to help her into the saddle himself. The touch lingers, just long enough for her to notice.
The question is on the tip of her tongue, as are all the accusations. But then he says, “Be safe.” His expression is composed as ever, but there is something in the way he says it.
“I will,” she replies.
As she turns away, she catches sight of Zoya standing near the edge of the crowd. And by her decidedly wounded expression, Alina wonders if they’ve betrayed too much in their closeness.
✵✵✵
The convoy trudges forward, a serpentine line of wagons creaking under their loads of grain, rations, and ammunition. All supplies meant to be run further north, and more specifically to lure the displaced Fjerdan raiders. It’s a strange thing to be bait, but she intends to excel at it. All this time he’s refused to allow her to do anything of substance, and she is determined not regret this change of strategy, even if her mind may be clouded by her own worries.
The village she is meant to defend, so cheerfully called Gravstad, is past the previous formal border, well into contested territory. In the cold weather, the frozen water ways themselves serve as roads, and the most strategic way to Gravstad is over the river Vitaälven.
Alina has traveled without the Darkling’s oversight often enough. Though they would travel together when convenient, it’s been ages since he has personally had to watch over her typical circuit along the Shadow Fold.
But this feels different. The entire column of soldiers answer to her. If something terrible happens, it will also fall at her feet.
The forest thins ahead, revealing the river. It is a bleak stretch of white and gray beneath a harsh winter sky.
A familiar Tidemaker hurries to her side as they approach.
"Moi soverenyi,” Nadia inclines her head, her pale hair tucked under a woolen hat. It’s the first time Alina has seen her since the Little Palace. It’s odd to hear the Darkling’s title addressed to her. It isn’t the first time, but that makes it no less jarring.
“Nadia,” Alina says evenly, not bothering to correct her. She doesn’t look particularly changed from their school days. They were never close. Alina remembers how she never quite trusted Nadia and Marie, with the way they used to talk behind Zoya’s back while smiling to her face. But that’s all so far away, and well, Alina smiles to Zoya’s face too now.
“I’m here to oversee the river crossing,” Nadia says. “The ice is thick enough to hold us, but I’ll reinforce it as we go.”
Alina nods. “Good. We’ll need it melted behind us once we’re through.”
Nadia nods, turning to join the other Tidemakers ahead.
The convoy reaches the riverbank, the wagons groaning as they hit uneven ground. First and Second Army soldiers move in practiced rhythm, organizing teams to push the heaviest loads. Alina forces herself to keep moving, stopping to check the cargo every so often.
Genya rides beside her. She looks positively miserable, her cheeks flushed and hair escaping from her fur-lined hood.
“Regretting the trip?” Alina asks.
“Most certainly not!”
Ivan lumbers into view, his expression as grim as ever. “The rear guard reports no movement so far,” he says. “But we should hurry. If Fjerdans are tracking us, they’ll know this is the easiest choke point.”
“We’re moving as fast as we can,” Alina replies. But he’s right.
As the wagons begin inching onto the ice, Alina’s gaze falls on the river itself. The frozen surface gleams like a mirror, reflecting the pale gray sky. Her mind drifts to the figure she thought she saw earlier. Mal. It couldn’t have been him, she tells herself for the hundredth time. But the image lingers, stirring up memories and insecurities she’d much rather keep buried.
“Watch your step, Starkov,” Ivan says, his voice cutting through her thoughts. He doesn’t even look at her, his focus still on the treeline. “Lose focus now, and you’ll end up in the river.”
She glares at him but doesn’t respond. Genya steers her horse closer, giving Ivan a pointed look.
“He’s doing wonders for morale,” Genya mutters.
“A positive ray of sunshine.” Alina replies, her voice low. “And I thought that was my job.”
When the last wagon reaches the far bank, the Tidemakers release their hold on the ice with a shuddering exhale. The river shifts, cracks spidering across the surface as the Tidemakers melt the ice behind them entirely. Alina watches the water churn, dark and unwelcoming.
Ivan approaches again, his tone impatient. “We need to move.”
Alina bristles but nods and waves the convoy forward. She takes one last look at the river, then turns her focus ahead.
They make camp just as the sun dips below the treetops, the shadows stretching long across the frozen ground.
Genya perches beside Alina, poking at the flames with a stick. The firelight catches the auburn sheen of her hair. They huddle close to the flames, sharing a flask of vodka, but Ivan stands apart, leaning against a birch tree with his arms crossed, his outline dim in the growing dark.
There are too many thoughts circling around in her head, vying for attention. Not for the first time, she misses Nikolai. She wishes she could actually talk to him. She wonders what he would say about any of her dilemmas, and she realizes she has no way of knowing. It’s a thrilling sort of uncertainty. She hasn’t learned him the way she’s learned the Darkling. Hasn’t had reason to attune herself to his moods. Everything with him has been so easy.
But if they do find the stag soon… all of that will change. And that is certainly not a line of thought she can afford to go down right now.
"Ivan," Alina calls, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the camp. “Won’t you grace us with your presence?
His scowl only deepens but he says nothing.
“Are you afraid I’ll kiss you again?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Genya snorts, quickly covering her mouth with one hand to stifle her laughter.
This seems to do it. He marches over to them with heavy steps. “Do you think I don’t have better things to do than play nursemaid to you?”
“Well, apparently not. I asked for another Heartrender, any other one, but apparently everyone else was too busy.”
“I’m here because I’m the best. And someone needs to make sure Drüskelle don’t run off with your pretty head while you’re playing at toy soldiers.”
Alina laughs. “So, my head is pretty?”
“Leave him alone before he turns the color of his kefta,” Genya tells her.
Ivan, if possible, only turns redder. “Do you think this is a game? You’ve been safe inside the palace all this time, under the Darkling’s wing, do you know what there’s to be afraid of?”
“I’m not some coddled princess. I was in the army.”
“As otkazat’sya.”
“Yes, and you know what? We didn’t have the nice tents or core cloth, the weapons, or the rations the Second Army does.”
“What a shame, the Darkling cares about his soldiers. If only the Tsar could say the same— perhaps you should go crying to him. Bat your eyes at him next, see how that goes.”
Genya stiffens.
“Poorly I would assume,” Alina says, refusing to take that bait.
“You’ve never left Ravka. You haven’t seen real combat.”
“Saints, you’re so dull!” Genya says to him, a forced edge to her blithe tone. “Grow a personality.”
“I think Ivan has plenty,” Alina offers. “It’s just not very pleasant.” She eyes him. “Have you encountered Drüskelle yourself before?”
“Of course,” he says, with a measure of obvious pride.
“Go on, impress me. Regale us with how big and strong you are and how well you fought them.”
“I’ve killed my fair share of Drüskelle. But not enough.”
“You’ve been to the Ice Court, haven’t you?” Alina asks suddenly, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“What do you even know about the Ice Court?” he sneers.
“Aside from the fact that the Tsaritsa and her friends seem to think it’s a prime honeymooning spot for me?”
Ivan barks out a not ungenuine laugh.
“You must have traveled there with the Darkling,” she continues, more serious now. She remembers when she’d asked the Darkling about it, and he’d told her, “It is beautiful. The hypocrisy of it all is that it was built by Grisha power.”
“They showed us the prisons,” he says abruptly.
“Why?”
“I’m not a diplomat or a strategist,” he mutters. “How should I know? But if we see any Drüskelle on our way, I’ll be glad of it. I’ll take pleasure in turning their guts to pulp.”
Genya shivers, pulling her kefta closer around her shoulders. “Do you always have to be so grim?”
Ivan doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the treeline again, as though he expects the shadows to come alive at any moment. Alina follows his gaze, her fingers tightening around the flask. There have been reports of Drüskelle in the area. Not too credible, but Ivan seems to like having a threat to mutter about.
“They won’t follow us across the river,” Alina says. Apparently, she doesn’t need to specify who.
“That doesn’t mean we’re safe,” Ivan snaps, his tone clipped. “If they’re regrouping, it’ll be behind the border.” He pauses, looking meaningfully at Alina. “And if they’re here, they’ll come for you. I won’t have losing the Sun Summoner on my head.”
“Imagine explaining that to the Darkling,” Genya muses.
“Maybe I should go find a Drüskelle camp just for you, Ivan. I’m sure you’d love the opportunity to rescue me.”
“If you’re going to be that reckless, then I’d leave you to them,” he says, stalking off in disgust.
“He’s never once met a joke he didn’t want to take offense to.” Genya yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “And with that, I think I’ll turn in.”
Alina nods, watching as Genya retreats to her tent. The fire crackles softly, the sound almost too loud in the stillness.
The Darkling’s parting words still echo in her mind: “You will see it.”
She wonders if she believes him. If she believes in any of this.
As the night stretches on, when she should be sleeping, she instead thinks back to the first time she had seen the him again after the night of that first winter fete. He had ignored her for three days. By the fourth evening, she had been leaving the bonfire where she had been practicing with the other Etherealki.
The Darkling had stepped beside her in the darkness though she hadn’t even noticed him at first. “You’ve improved,” he’d told her. His voice floating out of the gloom.
She’d startled.
“Baghra has been speaking favorably of your lessons as well,” he said.
“She has?” Alina shook her head. “I didn’t know she could do that.”
He laughed low under his breath.
The air between them had felt charged. She hadn’t known how to act around him after that other night. The cold and the dark at least shielded her somewhat, masking her glances at him from the corner of her eye because she couldn’t bear to look at him directly.
“Have I offended you somehow?” she asked finally.
He stopped and studied her. “Have you done something that would warrant offense?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
It was difficult to tell, but she thought he smiled as he cupped her cheek, leaning in to kiss her, his lips trailing along her jaw. He lingered at her ear, his voice low. “I’m afraid I’m very busy, Alina.”
She felt her face grow hot. “Of course.” Three days is nothing. “Of course, I know that.”
She had clung to the front of his kefta for balance, chagrined later by the instant quickening of her breath. How lightheaded he made her. But in the moment, there had been only the heady rush, so like the bliss of summoning, but it had left her trembling and giddy, nearly frightened by how enthralled she was.
“And would it offend you if I were to come to your room tonight?”
She hadn’t had a chance to answer that first time at the fete, but he had come to see her anyway.
This time, she swallowed, trying to clear her head. He had ignored her for three days, and it seemed so silly in retrospect, but she had cried over it that very evening. She’d cried until she couldn’t stand it anymore and had trudged to the lake.
“No,” she’d said, and before she could finish that sentence— it wouldn’t, she had meant to say— he was kissing her again.