Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sprawling gardens of the manor. The scent of blooming roses and wild jasmine drifted through the warm air, mingling with the soft laughter of three young women lounging in the grass. Books lay open beside them, pages fluttering in the breeze, though none were truly reading. The afternoon was far too pleasant for lessons.

“I’m going to set fire to that damned embroidery hoop if I have to sit in that room for another hour,” Merana declared dramatically, tossing a loose curl over her shoulder. “What use do I have for needlework? If I ever have to sew something myself, I’ll know I’ve made a terrible mistake in life.”

Desa laughed, leaning back on her elbows. “You say that now, but mark my words—one day, you’ll fall hopelessly in love, and you’ll find yourself stitching little love notes into the hems of your husband’s shirts.”
Merana snorted. “Please. If I marry, it will be to someone rich, charming, and preferably not an old man. But love?” She wrinkled her nose. “I want passion, not poetry.”
Lidiya smiled faintly as she absently ran her fingers over the silk threads of her embroidery. Unlike the soft pastels of Desa’s or the bolder reds Merana favoured, hers was a swirl of gold and black. Light and shadow woven together randomly. She wasn’t sure why she had chosen those colours, only that they felt right.

“What about you, Lena?” Desa prompted, turning onto her side to face her. “You’re the quietest when it comes to love.”
Lidiya hesitated, fingers pausing in their delicate work. “Love is…” she exhaled, searching for the right words. “A vulnerability. It’s something people use against you. It makes you blind.”
Desa frowned. “It can be beautiful too.”

“Perhaps,” Lidiya allowed, “but I would want something different. Not chains disguised as devotion. I want someone who sees me, truly sees me. Not just as a prize or a pawn.”
Merana arched a brow. “So you want mystery, danger—someone who challenges you?”

Lidiya’s lips parted slightly, an odd warmth unfurling in her chest. A dark figure flickered in her mind, a presence she couldn’t name. “Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I just don’t want to be caged.”

The conversation drifted into laughter and teasing once more, but later that night, when the manor had grown silent and the candle by her bedside had burned low, Lidiya dreamed.

She stood in a forest unlike any she had ever known—black bark, golden leaves, a sky split between night and dawn. Shadows curled around her ankles, not menacing, but warm. And in the distance, someone watched. He did not step forward, but she felt him. The weight of his presence, the gravity pulling her toward him. And somehow, she knew he dreamed of her too.

Miles away, in a tent bathed in darkness, General Kirigan woke with a start.
His breath was steady, but his pulse was not. He had lived centuries and suffered countless restless nights, yet this dream… it was different.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. Just another illusion. Another lie. And yet, for a fleeting moment, he swore he could still feel warmth lingering against his skin.
Outside, the Fold stretched in the distance, as unmoving and eternal as ever. But as he stared into the black horizon, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that something—someone—was coming.

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the stone walls. The air smelled of wax and old ink, of something ancient and waiting.
Baghra ran her fingers over the brittle parchment, the words inked in a hand long dead. She had read them before. A hundred times, perhaps.
But tonight, they felt heavier.

Her jaw tightened. Foolish old crone. As if feeling could change what had already been set in motion.
Her gaze flicked to the passage again. The same lines. The same inevitable truth.

When light and shadow cease to war,
A bond unbroken shall be forged in fire.
Two as one, eternal as dusk and dawn,
Neither shall fade, nor time undo.
Darkness will rise, but never fall alone—
For the sun shall burn but never wane.

Baghra exhaled sharply.
Her hand pressed flat against the page as if she could smother the words beneath her palm. As if she could force them to silence, to stillness.
But the words had been waiting. They had always been waiting.
Fate was a bitter thing. And fate was stirring once more.
The candle guttered, the shadows twisting against the walls.
Baghra lifted her head.

A gust of wind, a whisper of something just beyond the fire’s reach. A presence she had long since learned to recognize.
She did not turn. Did not need to.
“Spare me your riddles, old friend,” she muttered, voice rough as the crumbling parchment beneath her fingers.
The presence did not answer. It never did.
Baghra closed her eyes. The past was bleeding into the present. The past was trying to be rewritten.
But no ink could blot out what had already been carved into fate. And fate was watching.

Chapter Text

The sun streamed through the tall windows, warming the silk draped over Lidiya’s lap as she worked the needle through the fabric. Gold and black thread twisted together beneath her fingers—delicate embroidery on the edge of a handkerchief. A sunburst, perhaps. Or something else.
She didn’t remember choosing these colours.

Her stitches were precise, but her thoughts drifted, tangled in half-remembered dreams. Darkness curling at the edges of her vision. A voice she could never quite reach. A presence she couldn’t name.
Across the room, Merana let out a long, suffering sigh and dropped her book onto the floor with a theatrical thud.
“I’d rather set this entire manor on fire than sit here another hour.”
Desa didn’t even look up. “Please don’t.”
“I didn’t say I would.” Mera propped her chin in her palm. “I said I’d rather. But I make no promises if we don’t find something else to do.”
Lidiya glanced down at the embroidery in her hands, tracing the dark threads against gold. The pattern had started as something delicate—something light—but somewhere along the way, the colours had shifted. The shape was no longer quite a sun, nor entirely a shadow.
She frowned. Why had she chosen black?
Desa sighed, finally setting her book aside. “If you want an escape so badly, Mera, then find us one.”
Mera perked up immediately. “Now that—I can do.”

The three of them slipped through the manor doors wrapped in silk and mischief, cloaks billowing as they ran across the field. They laughed as they went, carefree in a way they rarely allowed themselves to be.
The forest was waiting.
The scent of pine needles and damp earth clung to the air, fresh and sharp as the three girls ran through the high grass, their silk skirts whispering around their ankles. Somewhere behind them, the manor loomed, its white stone walls now hidden beyond the towering trees, forgotten for the moment.
The forest swallowed them in gold and green.
Mera was the first to shed propriety, her ruby cloak slipping from her shoulders and pooling in the grass like spilled wine. “Finally.” She stretched her arms above her head, relishing the freedom. “I swear, if I had to sit in that damned library for another second, I’d have thrown myself out the window.”
Desa rolled her eyes as she stooped to pick up the discarded cloak. “Would’ve been a waste of a perfectly good window.”
Lidiya trailed behind them, her thoughts half-caught between the present and the dreams that had followed her for weeks. She could still feel them clinging to her like cobwebs, lingering at the edges of her mind—whispers slipping through shadows, a voice she couldn’t quite hear, a presence she couldn’t quite touch.
Every morning, she woke with the same strange ache in her chest, as if she had lost something in her sleep.
But she hadn’t told them. She hadn’t told anyone.

She forced herself to focus on the world around her—the warmth of the afternoon sun, the sound of Mera laughing as she twirled through a patch of wildflowers, the scent of lavender and damp moss filling the air.
“Come on, Lena,” Mera called over her shoulder, holding up a fistful of blossoms. “You can daydream later. Help me make something pretty.”
Lidiya huffed a soft laugh but obliged, stepping into the patch of flowers. She crouched to pluck a few violet petals, brushing them against her fingertips before weaving them into a crown.
Mera plopped down beside her, utterly unbothered by the grass staining the hem of her dress. “So.” She waggled her brows. “Tell me everything you two have learned from eavesdropping lately.”
Desa scoffed. “You’re the one who listens at doors, Mera.”
“Exactly, and I’m bored of my own information. I want your information.”
Lidiya smirked but humoured her, recounting a scandalous bit of gossip about the head cook and a certain captain of the guard. Desa added an amusing tidbit about a noblewoman who had mistakenly worn two different shoes to tea, and soon, the three of them were tangled in laughter, exchanging secrets and teasing jabs.
It felt easy. It felt safe. But something shifted. The air grew still.
A hush fell over the forest, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Lidiya stilled, fingers tightening around the flower stem in her hands. “Did you hear that?”
Mera made a face. “What?”

Lidiya turned her head slightly, listening. But the birds had gone quiet, the rustling of leaves eerily absent.
The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. A chill crawled down her spine.
Then, a crack of movement—a branch snapping somewhere in the distance.
All three of them froze. “Probably just a deer,” Desa whispered, though her voice held a note of uncertainty.
But Lidiya wasn’t sure. And then she saw it.
At the edge of the clearing, partially hidden between the trees, a stag stood watching.
Not just any stag.
Its coat was black as ink, its great antlers twisting toward the sky like something carved from shadow. Its dark eyes held something more than animal awareness. Something ancient. Something knowing.
The world seemed to slow.

Lidiya’s pulse beat hard against her ribs. There was something about this creature—something familiar, as if she had seen it before, though she knew she hadn’t.
Mera let out a breath, shifting beside her. “That’s… odd.”
Desa’s fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. “It’s not running.”
No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t afraid of them.
Lidiya opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure. But then—
A rustle. Not the wind. Not an animal. Something wrong.
The stillness broke.
The glint of steel flashed through the trees. A voice—low, sharp—cut through the hush.
Soldiers.

Lidiya barely had time to turn before a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
A sudden burst of pain exploded at the base of her skull, and the world lurched sideways. Desa yelped—a sound that barely made it past her lips before it was smothered into silence. Mera’s shout turned into a muffled gasp.
Figures moved between the trees—dark shapes, moving fast.
Through the dizziness, Lidiya caught a glimpse of them—uniforms marked with the King’s golden sunburst, eyes cold and calculating.
Grisha. Heartenders. Lidiya’s knees buckled. Her vision swam.
As the darkness rushed in, her gaze flickered toward the edge of the clearing—to the stag, still standing there, still watching, utterly still.
The last thing she thought before unconsciousness took her was a quiet, unshakable certainty.
Nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

The jostling of the wagon was what woke her. Wheels groaned over dirt and stone. The air was thick with damp pine and trampled earth. Beyond the wooden slats, soldiers murmured—low, unreadable. Lidiya blinked against the grainy blur of waking, her body aching from the rough handling that had brought them here.

Her wrists were bound before her, the ropes digging into her skin. Across from her, Mera sat rigid, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. Desa, ever the peacemaker, exhaled slowly as if trying to keep her heart from hammering its way through her ribs.
“Tell me this is a nightmare,” Mera muttered, voice low, venomous. “Because if it’s not, I swear I will set this whole damn camp on fire.”
“Please, with what? Your glare?” Lidiya rasped, tilting her head toward the faint glow of sunrise bleeding through the slats. “Because that’s all we have left.”
Mera huffed, but the sharp retort she had brewing died in her throat when the wagon lurched to a stop. The sound of heavy boots against packed earth sent a chill crawling up Lidiya’s spine. A breath later, the latch was undone, and the canvas was thrown back, exposing them to the muted, dawn-lit chaos of the Second Army’s encampment.
The scene beyond was alive with motion—rows of tents stretching into the tree-lined horizon, smoke curling from cooking fires, Grisha in dark kefta weaving between soldiers clad in drab, practical gear. The scent of damp wool, leather, and steel filled the air. And looming just beyond the shifting figures was the largest tent of all, its fabric a deep, inky black that seemed to drink in the light.

A shadowed commander’s tent.
Lidiya swallowed against the sudden weight in her chest. She had read enough to know who would be inside.
The Darkling.
They were led past rows of hardened warriors and wary glances. Whispers followed them. Not loud enough to catch full words, but enough for Lidiya to know what they must be saying.
What noble ladies were foolish enough to be captured here?
She walked with her chin tilted slightly upward, Mera by her side, stiff with barely contained outrage, and Desa—sweet, steady Desa—keeping her steps small, as if willing herself to disappear. All three still in their silk dresses from the day before, their hems muddied, their hair a mess of loose strands and remnants of their former crowns. A ridiculous sight, really. But Lidiya refused to feel ridiculous.
They were led into the tent without ceremony, its interior dim, lit only by an oil lamp casting flickering gold against stretched canvas. The air was cool, almost unnaturally so. And at the desk in the center of the space, writing with smooth, deliberate strokes, was him.
The General.

He didn’t look up immediately, forcing them to wait. A calculated move.
Lidiya exhaled slowly. Fine. Two could play at this game.
Finally, he lifted his gaze. And saints, it was like staring into the night itself. Dark eyes, fathomless and unreadable, took them in. He was younger than she expected, though she knew better than to believe the surface of things.
She had expected him to be imposing. A man who led an army of Grisha, who held power that even kings deferred to, could be nothing else.
But she had not expected this.
He did not raise his voice, yet the entire tent bent around his presence. The air held still—not like silence, but like something waiting.
His face was all sharp angles, his uniform pristine, his posture effortlessly controlled. Too controlled. Like he had mastered the art of stillness so completely that it had become something unnatural.
But it wasn’t just the way he held himself.
It was the way he looked at her.
The weight of his gaze was precise, assessing. But not like the nobles who had dismissed her at court or the guards who had underestimated her.
He was not searching for weakness.
He was searching for something else.
And Lidiya didn’t know if she wanted him to find it.
He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
“Your names.”
She could not be a Lantsov here. Not where it would make her valuable. Vulnerable. So she chose another. “Miss Lidiya Erben.”
Mera’s sharp inhale was almost imperceptible, but Desa’s brows lifted, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Erben. Her mother’s name. A bastard’s name. She was hiding herself in plain sight, and they knew it.
The General did not blink. He tilted his head slightly, waiting, but Lidiya only stared back, unmoved.
“And them?” he asked, shifting his gaze to the other two.
“Merana Pollak,” Mera answered before anyone could stop her, her tone clipped, defiant.
“Desa Ravinow,” Desa murmured.

His eyes flickered with something—mild amusement, perhaps. “Three noble daughters taken in the woods. Are you lost, or should I be searching for an elaborate escape plan?”
Lidiya arched a brow. “Oh, absolutely. We were using these silk dresses and flower crowns as a distraction for our grand scheme.” She sighed dramatically. “Pity you caught us before we could infiltrate your army.”
For a moment, the tent was dead silent.
Then, a scoff. One of the guards.
And then—a smirk.

The General’s lips curved, the barest, most fleeting sign of amusement before it vanished behind a mask of perfect, infuriating calm.
“Ah,” he mused, voice smooth as glass, “because spies are known for their delicate embroidery and excellent floral arrangements.”
“Precisely,” Lidiya replied, eyes glinting. “No one expects the lady with violets in her hair to be dangerous.”
He considered her, long and steady, and something strange and unspoken passed between them.
Recognition.

It made no sense. They had never met. But there was something in the way their gazes locked, in the way neither looked away. Like two players sitting across a chessboard, both realizing they’d been playing the same game all along.
The shadows in the tent stirred, deepened. A flicker of something. But as soon as she caught it, it was gone.
He exhaled, shifting his focus. “You will be questioned. Until then, you’ll be housed under guard.”
He stepped around the desk. Tall, composed. When he stopped in front of her, the air between them turned sharp.
“Lidiya Erben,” he murmured. “I wonder how many lies you just told me.”
Her pulse stuttered. But her lips curved.
“Oh, General,” she mused, voice honey-sweet. “That depends entirely on how well you listen.”

As they were led away, Mera let out a breath that could’ve been a curse. Desa stared at Lidiya like she’d grown two heads.
“Lena,” Desa whispered, as soon as they were clear of the tent. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Mera, ever the dramatic one, threw up her hands. “Seriously! You have a death wish!”
Lidiya just smiled.
Behind them, the tent remained still. But inside, the General stood by the desk, fingers lightly tapping against the wood.
He had never met her before. And yet, something in his bones whispered otherwise.

The tent they were being held in was stifling. The heavy fabric walls trapped the scent of damp earth, smoke, and bodies, thickening the air until it felt like breathing in something tangible.
Lidiya sat rigid between Mera and Desa, their fine silk dresses now wrinkled and dirt-streaked from hours of confinement. The flickering torchlight outside cast distorted shadows along the canvas walls, making everything feel smaller, more suffocating. Mera tapped her fingers soundlessly against her knee, a steady rhythm betraying her agitation. Desa smoothed invisible creases in her skirt, her face carefully blank except for the tight set of her mouth.
Lidiya had done what she could. Their hair was no longer a tangled mess, their bodices straightened, their sleeves adjusted. It was an illusion of composure, one she hoped would serve them when they were dragged back before the man in black. She knew what he was now—General Kirigan, the Darkling. The most powerful man in Ravka after the King. And the one holding their fates in his hands.
Boots scuffed against the dirt outside. The flap of the tent was thrown back, and soldiers stepped inside. No words were needed. They were to follow.
Lidiya lifted her chin, stepping forward before a guard could so much as touch her. She led the way out, shoulders squared, as if she were the one granting an audience, not the other way around. Mera and Desa flanked her, their unease masked beneath years of noble training.

The Second Army’s encampment sprawled before them, torches burning like scattered stars in the thick of the night. The smell of firewood mixed with damp pine, and distant murmurs of soldiers wrapped around the camp like a living thing. But they weren’t led through the rows of tents this time. Only a few feet away stood the general’s tent, larger, marked by banners, its entrance flanked by two Grisha guards.
They stepped inside. The shift in warmth was immediate. The space was far more ordered than the tent they had been thrown into, the flickering glow of a single oil lamp illuminating maps strewn across a desk, a rack of neatly arranged weapons, and heavy furs draped over a cot in the corner. The man himself sat behind his desk, ink-stained fingers resting lightly against a piece of parchment, his dark eyes cast downward as if they were an interruption, not his prisoners.
The audacity of it almost made Lidiya smile.
“You certainly took your time,” he remarked, still not looking up.
Lidiya arched a delicate brow, hands clasped lightly before her. “Ah, apologies, General. We were simply luxuriating in the accommodations.”
Mera made a barely concealed sound of disbelief. Desa’s eyes flicked between them as if bracing for what was to come.
Kirigan exhaled a quiet laugh, the barest tilt of his lips betraying amusement before he pushed back his chair and stood. The moment he did, the air shifted. He wasn’t just a man—he was a force, his presence filling the space in a way that made the tent seem smaller. And yet, Lidiya did not step back.
He studied her. She held his gaze.

Something unspoken crackled between them, something old despite their first meeting. A game they both knew the rules to before the board had even been set.
Kirigan’s gaze flicked over them, unreadable, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with quiet certainty, he murmured, “You are not spies. That much is clear.”
Lidiya’s breath caught—just for a second. She masked it quickly, smoothing her expression into careful neutrality, but the damage was done.
He had known. Without interrogation, without threats, without so much as lifting a finger—he had known.
It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t an assumption. It was fact, spoken with the ease of a man who had already unravelled them before they even had a chance to lie.
Her pulse drummed in her ears, but she forced herself to keep her posture relaxed, to school her face into something unreadable. But as her gaze met his, she felt the weight of it—that dark, assessing stare pinning her in place.
This wasn’t a brute who relied on fear alone. He was something worse.
He was clever.
And that was far more dangerous.

Nevertheless, keeping up her act of a perfect courtier, Lidiya gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Not spies? Well, there goes all our hard work, girls.” She turned to Mera. “It must have been the flowers. Too obvious.”
Kirigan’s gaze flickered with amusement. “Yes, that must be it.”
“Daisies mean ‘send reinforcements,’ you know,” she continued. “And silk dresses are standard issue for espionage missions.”
“Of course.” A quick look to the silent guards and a moment later, their bonds were cut. Lidiya flexed her wrists, watching him through her lashes. He was playing with her, testing her. She could play too.
His voice dropped to something smoother, silk over steel. “And your complete lack of training?”
Mera inhaled sharply. Desa subtly shifted closer to her.
Lidiya hummed. “Ah. That.” She leaned slightly toward him, as if in confidence. “You see, our handlers told us our beauty would be enough to bring you to your knees. Clearly, we were misled.”
Kirigan smirked, slow and dark. “Clearly.”
Kirigan gestured lazily to a waiting Grisha, an amplifier, who looked like she would rather be any place but here. “Check them.”
Desa stiffened. Mera’s breath hitched.
The woman stepped toward them, eyes unreadable. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
The tent was silent as she grabbed Mera’s wrist, then Desa’s. The air in the tent remained still.
Nothing.

Kirigan didn’t look surprised. His eyes, dark as night, slid back to Lidiya. He was silent for a beat too long. Then he lifted a hand, dismissing the healer without a word.
Instead, he moved himself.
Measured steps, slow and unhurried, as if he had already decided the outcome of this encounter and was simply waiting for her to realize it. He stopped before her, gaze sweeping her face, something unreadable in his expression. Then, with the grace of a courtier, he extended a hand, palm up.
Lidiya hesitated, searching his face, trying to decipher what part of the game this was. His touch was light as he took her hand, fingertips gliding along her wrist, the motion disarmingly elegant. A gesture of civility. Of control.
And then, she saw it—the ring, obsidian black, claw-shaped, gleaming in the low light. The tension in the tent grew, something taut and waiting.
There was no warning before he moved. A sharp sting. The tip of his ring sliced across her palm, shallow but precise.
The pain was brief. Almost an afterthought.
Because light—pure, blinding, and gold—exploded from her skin.
The tent was bathed in brilliance, casting out every shadow, even his. The flickering lamplight paled in comparison, swallowed whole by the radiance spilling from her, illuminating the stunned expressions on Mera’s and Desa’s faces, the faint intake of Kirigan’s breath.
His grip tightened.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air was thick, thrumming with something unseen. Then, slowly, deliberately, Kirigan lifted his free hand and ran a thumb across her palm, smearing the blood there, feeling the warmth of it.
The tent was utterly silent.
Mera and Desa looked frozen in time, their faces pale with shock. The guards stiffened. Kirigan… didn’t move.
“Fascinating,” he murmured.
For the barest instant, something flickered behind his eyes, something vast and unshakable. Confusion. Reverence. Not the quiet kind, but the kind reserved for things whispered about in the dark, for legends made flesh. Then, in the next breath, it was gone. A blank mask settled into place, but Lidiya had already seen it. And that was enough.

Lidiya forced herself to breathe. The light faded. The shadows crept back in.
She turned to her friends, searching for something—comfort, familiarity. But what she found was worse.
Mera’s face was blank. Too blank. A mask hastily thrown into place. But not fast enough. For the briefest moment, her lips had parted, her breath catching as if she were about to speak—before she stopped herself. A heartbeat passed. Then, too slowly, she smoothed her expression into something neutral. But Lidiya knew the signs. The way Mera held her breath when she was swallowing something sharp. The flicker of tension at the corner of her mouth before it vanished.
Disgust.
She had tried to hide it. But not in time.
Desa, though—Desa’s horror was different. Terror, raw and unguarded. Not just for Lidiya, but for her. Her hazel eyes shone with something close to grief, fingers clenching the fabric of her skirt as if she could hold herself together through sheer force. It was as if, in that instant, she saw the path ahead, saw what this meant—what it would cost—and knew there was no turning back.
Her hand lifted the smallest movement, a desperate reach. Then she hesitated. Stilled. Let it drop.
The unspoken question hung in the air.
Lidiya swallowed hard and turned away before it could shatter her.
She forced herself to meet Kirigan’s gaze instead.
He was calm. Steady. As if he had expected this all along. The weight of his presence, cold and unshakable, should have unsettled her. Instead, it grounded her. And when she took her next breath, it came easier.
Kirigan turned to his guards. “Take them back,” he said. His gaze flicked to her hand, where the last traces of light shimmered against her skin. Then, slowly, he turned his own palm, studying the thin smear of blood on his ring.
“Take them back,” he corrected, voice smooth as silk. “All but her.”
The words landed like a death knell.
For the first time, she was something neither the court nor the army could claim. No longer just a bastard. No longer just a player.
Something other.
And in their eyes, something dangerous.
For the first time, she was something neither the courts nor The Second Army could claim. Not just a bastard. Not just a player. Something other. And in their eyes, something dangerous.

Chapter Text

The tent flap stirred as Mera and Desa were led away, their figures swallowed by the night beyond. Neither of them looked back. Not once.

A sharp, small thing lodged itself in Lidiya's ribs at the sight of their retreating backs, heavier than she expected. It shouldn't have mattered. She had already known—had seen it in Mera's too-careful mask, in Desa's trembling hands. But the finality of it, the way they left without hesitation, without even a glance—

It cracked something inside her.

Her breath hitched, just barely. A step—she had taken a step forward before she even realized it, before she caught herself before Kirigan's grip on her hand tightened just enough to still her.

She felt it then. His gaze. The weight of it pressing in on her, watching, waiting.

Lidiya forced herself to breathe. To stay still.

Kirigan hadn't moved. And neither, she realized, had his hand.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, the warmth of his skin still tinged with the slickness of drying blood. The only evidence of what had happened. But it was the weight of his stillness that made something uneasy stir inside her—like he was recalibrating, shifting into something waiting, something dangerous.

She tightened her fingers, about to pull away, when his thumb brushed against her palm.

Not enough to stop her. Not enough to be anything at all.

But she stilled.

Something had shifted between them—something neither of them had the words for yet.

"Well," she drawled, voice careful. "That's new."

A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his face, but it was gone too quickly to be sure.

"You are more powerful than you know, Lidiya Erben," he murmured, his voice laced with something dark. Something almost... hungry.

He took a single step forward, and she felt it. The weight of his presence. The cold press of his power curling at the edges of hers, circling like a predator testing the edges of new territory.

Lidiya swallowed against the rising instinct to step back. She would not cower. Not before him.

Kirigan's voice dipped lower, barely more than a whisper. "And you—" His head tilted, shadow pooling at his feet, like even the darkness itself was listening. "—are mine."

Her breath left her in a sharp exhale, but not from fear.

Possession. The claim wrapped around her like the edges of a net, one she refused to be caught in.

Lidiya forced a smile, sharp as the edge of a blade. "Is this how you court people, General? Holding hands and making them glow?" Her gaze flicked to their still-joined hands before she arched a brow. "You must be very popular."

Something flickered in his expression—surprise?—before it settled into something far more dangerous.

"You think this is a game?" he asked, tilting his head as if studying her from a new angle.

Her pulse skipped.

She wanted to say yes. To brush it off, to play pretend, to act as though this moment wasn't shifting the axis of her entire life.

But she couldn't.

Kirigan exhaled through his nose, something like amusement and irritation threading together. "I see," he said smoothly, releasing her hand at last.

The absence was immediate.

"You will be taken to the Little Palace," he continued, pacing slowly to the edge of his desk. "You will train, learn to control your power and take your place among the Grisha. You will be protected."

Lidiya felt her stomach turn before he had even finished speaking.

The Little Palace. Os Alta. The royal court.

Panic bloomed like frost across her ribs.

She let him talk, let him lay out his plans as though her life was a chessboard and he had already decided which role she would play.

And then, when he finished, she simply said—

"No."

The word landed between them like a struck bell.

Kirigan stilled.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her, one brow arched in something that was not quite amusement, not quite disbelief.

"No?"

"That's right." Lidiya clasped here in front of her, an expression composed despite the storm beneath her ribs. "I have no interest in being a Grisha."

Kirigan huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real humour in it. "And what exactly do you think you are, solnishka?"

Lidiya felt her jaw tighten at the name. "It doesn't matter."

His gaze flicked to her hands as if to remind her of the light that had just burned through the darkness, and back to her face. "It matters more than you know."

She could feel it now—that slow circling of his power around hers, seeking, questioning.

And waiting.

"Let me make this simple," he said, voice gentling, but there was steel beneath it. "You are the first Sun Summoner in history. That means you do not have the luxury of choice."

Lidiya's nails pressed into her palms. "There is always a choice."

"Not for people like us."

Something flickered in his voice, something tired, something old.

And she hated that she understood it.

She exhaled sharply, shifting tactics. "Fine. Then if I must go, I'm bringing my attendants."

Kirigan didn't react at first. Then— "No."

"Then I don't go."

"You are in no position to negotiate."

She smiled. "You just said I was the first of my kind. That seems like a fairly strong bargaining position to me, don't you think?"

His lips pressed into a thin line.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then—

"You are attached to them."

It wasn't a question.

Lidiya swallowed against the sharp, instinctive response that rose at his words. She had already lost so much tonight. She would not lose them, too.

"They are mine."

Kirigan's expression remained unreadable. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"You would ask this of them?" His voice was quieter now, edged with something unreadable. "Do you even understand what you're asking? What it will cost them?"

Lidiya's nails pressed into her palms, but she held firm. "I know."

"They will leave behind everything they've ever known."

"So will I."

His gaze flickered—calculating, searching. "And if they don't want to go?"

Lidiya hesitated, just for a breath. But she already knew the answer.

"Then I'll go alone."

Silence. A long, weighted pause in which she could feel the pull of his power curling at the edges of hers, pressing, waiting.

"You're willing to pay that price?" His voice was softer now, almost curious.

Lidiya lifted her chin, unwavering. "I already have."

Something shifted in his expression, something deep and unreadable. A moment passed—one where he could have denied her, could have reminded her who truly held power here.

But then, at last, he inclined his head.

"Very well," he murmured, watching her like she was something new. Uncharted. A puzzle half-solved. "They may accompany you."

Lidiya didn't relax. Not yet.

"But you will begin training on the road."

Of course.

She nodded once, a silent acceptance.

Kirigan studied her for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose, something that might have been amusement threading through his voice as he added, almost idly,

"Oh, I think we were always going to have a deal, Lidiya."

And Saints help her—

She thought he might be right.

Chapter Text

Day 1

The world was still cloaked in the soft grey of dawn when the camp stirred to life.

Lidiya had not slept.

The tent had grown cold in the night, the damp air settling into her bones, but she had remained awake, listening—to the distant murmurs of the soldiers, the shifting footsteps of the guards stationed outside, the rhythmic flapping of canvas in the wind. Mera and Desa had managed a few restless hours, their exhausted forms curled beneath the coarse blankets provided, but Lidiya had only closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitability of morning.

It came swiftly, slipping in like a thief, turning the murky dark to pale grey.

And with it came the movement.

The clank of saddles being fastened, the dull thud of boots against damp earth, the low murmurs of orders exchanged. A fire sputtered its last breath somewhere nearby, its embers swallowed by the mud. The scent of wet earth, woodsmoke, and burnt meat clung to the air, thick and heavy.

At some point in the night, food had been brought again—hot this time. Oat porridge with honey, bread still warm, weak tea. A clear message. Prisoners did not receive such considerations. They had also been given fresh clothes—plain uniforms, thick enough to guard against the cold, practical enough for the long road ahead. Another message.

They were no longer prisoners. But they were not free.

Mera stirred beside her, blinking sleep from her eyes before groaning into her hands. Desa stretched her arms, muffling a yawn, before her gaze flicked to Lidiya's untouched meal.

"You didn't eat."

Lidiya exhaled through her nose. "I wasn't hungry."

Mera shot her a dry look, but before she could press further, a shadow fell across the entrance.

The flap of the tent was drawn back. A soldier stood at attention.

"It's time."

Lidiya inhaled, smoothing her sleeves as she rose.

⁂

Outside, the camp moved like a living thing—soldiers preparing for departure, securing supplies, tightening saddle straps. A detail of mounted guards waited nearby, their formation tight, deliberate.

Their escort.

A mix of both armies. A careful balance. Soldiers and Grisha both.

The road to Os Alta awaited.

Kirigan stood near his horse, his presence an anchor amidst the shifting tide of movement. He watched as Lidiya approached, his gaze sweeping over her, then flicking to the two figures at her back.

Mera and Desa lingered a step behind, their expressions drawn, wary.

Kirigan's lips curled slightly, though there was no real humour in it.

"I offered your attendants a choice," he said, voice smooth. "Told them they were welcome to remain here, to return to whatever life they had before." A pause, deliberate. "But they seemed to think you wouldn't have wanted that."

Lidiya's stomach twisted.

Of course. He hadn't given them a real choice. Not one they could take.

Not when the alternative was abandoning her.

And she had let them. That was the worst part, wasn't it? She had known. Not in words, not in full realization, but deep down, she had understood that there had been no real choice at all.

And she had still hesitated. Still let the moment slip through her fingers without fighting harder.

She clenched her teeth, her nails pressing into her palms. He was twisting the knife, and Saints help her, she had handed it to him.

Mera's shoulders were tight, her jaw locked. Desa's hands were clenched at her sides.

They had made their choice. But not for her. Not really.

Lidiya swallowed against the ache in her throat, keeping her voice even. "Then it's settled."

Kirigan tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Is it?"

Lidiya met his gaze, unflinching. "Yes."

Something flickered in his expression, something unreadable before he exhaled through his nose. "Then we ride for Os Alta."

He turned sharply, issuing orders to his men. The soldiers snapped to attention, adjusting their formations. The group organised itself with practised efficiency, tents collapsing into neat bundles, supplies strapped to horses.

It was a stark contrast to the mornings of her old life—where the first sounds were the soft pad of servants' feet, the quiet splash of water being poured into a porcelain basin, the faint rustle of silk gowns being laid out for her choosing. Not this. Not the chill biting through thin wool, not the sting of cold air in her lungs, not the roughness of worn leather gloves stiff against her fingers.

She tugged at the sleeves, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose. The fabric smelled like someone else—not perfume, not jasmine oil, but something harsh and practical. Like dust, iron, and the sweat of the last unfortunate soul to wear it.

Lidiya glanced at Mera and Desa, but neither of them met her eyes.

They had given her their answer.

Now, she had to live with it.

A hollow ache settled beneath her ribs.

They weren't ignoring her. No, this was something worse. They were choosing not to acknowledge her.

Lidiya clenched her jaw and turned away, catching sight of a tattered banner flapping weakly from a nearby wagon. It was barely more than a strip of cloth now, its colours faded, edges frayed. A relic of what once was.

The parallel was not lost on her.

A horse was led toward her, and she took the reins with a smoothness she didn't feel.

Her fingers tightened against the leather, the familiar weight grounding her for a moment. She had learned to ride young, out of duty, not passion. It had been another thing drilled into her, another lesson to make her presentable.

It had never mattered before. It did now.

As she swung herself onto the saddle, the stiff fabric of her coat pulled awkwardly at her shoulders. A voice hummed with amusement behind her.

"You ride?"

Lidiya didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Of course, he'd wait until the last moment to make his presence known.

She exhaled slowly before answering, not looking at him.

"Only sidesaddle, with a parasol and a picnic basket."

Kirigan chuckled, the sound low and indulgent.

She finally turned to look at him, and it was just as she expected—not a hair out of place, not a single trace of discomfort.

His uniform black, pristine, unyielding was as immaculate as if he had just stepped out of the Little Palace itself. Even the gloves he wore seemed untouched by dirt.

The black stallion beneath him shifted, muscles rippling under sleek fur, a beast as composed and controlled as its master.

Kirigan tilted his head, studying her. His gaze flicked down once—her uniform, her posture, her hands on the reins—before returning to her face.

"You wear it well."

Lidiya arched a brow. "Is that an observation or an insult?"

"An observation," he said, his eyes unreadable. Then, after a pause, "Though I imagine you resent it."

She exhaled sharply through her nose.

"You assume a great deal."

"I assume correctly."

Lidiya turned her attention forward, ignoring him. Kirigan smirked but said nothing more. With a single sharp command, he signalled the march forward.

The journey to Os Alta had begun.

And Lidiya had never felt farther from home.

Night 1

The first evening fell cold and restless.

The fire burned low, its golden light stretching across the muddied ground, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. Smoke curled into the air in thin, wavering tendrils, carrying the sharp scent of charred wood and damp earth.

Lidiya sat close to the flames, but the warmth barely touched her.

The soldiers moved in the background, their voices hushed, their laughter edged with exhaustion. Weapons were set aside, boots scraped against the uneven ground, and someone let out a quiet sigh of relief as they finally sat.

This was the rhythm of a camp settling for the night—a world away from the polished hush of noble halls, where voices never rose above a murmur and the only clinking was the delicate ring of silverware against porcelain.

Here, the air was thick with the scent of horses, damp wool and sweat. The fire snapped as a log split, sending a brief scatter of embers into the night.

Lidiya barely blinked.

Mera and Desa sat close—but not close enough.

She made an effort, cracking a joke about the morning's miserable ride, exaggerating the jostling of the saddle, the absurdity of wearing trousers, of all things. Desa smiled, but it was fleeting. Mera only hummed a noncommittal sound.

Lidiya tried again. Something about the Little Palace—she had only been once, of course, but the stories were ridiculous enough to mock. She made a comment about Grisha being treated like overfed peacocks, preening in their keftas.

This time, Desa only nodded, eyes lowered to the fire. Mera didn't react at all.

Then, a whisper.

Low, just between the two of them. Mera murmured something, so quiet Lidiya almost didn't catch it. Desa shifted, glancing at her, then quickly away.

The space between them grew wider.

Lidiya's fingers curled into the coarse wool of her borrowed coat.

Once, Mera would have rolled her eyes, nudged her knee beneath the table, and whispered something biting but affectionate. Desa would have laughed, linked their arms, and stolen a piece of bread from her plate just because she could.

Now, they only looked at her like a stranger.

The silence stretched.

Eventually, Mera excused herself first. Desa hesitated—just for a moment—before following.

The warmth of their presence lingered for a heartbeat. Then, it vanished, leaving nothing but the empty space they had occupied.

Lidiya stayed where she was, staring at the fire. Its flickering light painted her hands in gold and shadow, but she felt only the cold.

She exhaled slowly, watching the way the firelight twisted around her fingers, gold and white and burning.

Like her own power. Like something she was supposed to be.

Her hand curled into a fist.

The sound of pages turning caught her attention.

She turned her head, gaze landing on the worn book beside her. Someone had left it there, tucked between the uneven ground and the edge of a saddlebag.

She reached for it without thinking, fingers trailing over the frayed spine. Leather, soft from years of use. The pages slightly yellowed.

She knew this book.

She had a copy of it in the manor library, hidden among the heavier tomes on politics and war. It was poetry, simple and unassuming.

Something like that had once belonged to her mother.

Her throat tightened.

A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision.

She didn't need to look to know who it was.

Still, she did.

Kirigan stood just beyond the glow of the fire, watching her.

Not in command. Not in judgment. Just watching.

The firelight barely reached him, leaving his face half-lit, half-hidden. It caught on the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. His eyes—dark, endless—held something she couldn't quite name.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her like that.

She wondered if he even knew himself.

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the book in her hands.

"Poetry?" His voice was quiet, nearly lost beneath the shifting wind.

Lidiya's fingers tightened around the leather. The spine dug into her palm, grounding her. "You sound surprised."

His lips twitched—something that wasn't quite a smirk. "Not surprised. Curious."

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine.

She didn't reply.

She wasn't sure she could.

For once, he didn't press.

And for a fleeting moment, they simply existed—just a girl and a shadow, caught between fire and darkness.

Then, a cold gust swept through the camp, snapping the flames low and stealing the warmth from the air.

And the moment was gone.

Day 2

The morning air is damp and thick with the scent of wet leaves and churned-up earth. The road beneath their horses is uneven, and Lidiya feels every jarring step through the saddle, muscles already aching from the relentless pace of the day before.

The previous night had been cold. The kind of cold that lingers. Even now, a thin layer of mist clings to the forest, curling low around their horses' legs, winding through the underbrush like grasping fingers.

She keeps her gaze forward, focused on the winding road ahead.

She is aware—too aware—of the steady presence beside her.

General Kirigan.

He has made a habit of riding alongside her. Not always. Just enough that it feels deliberate. Just enough that she knows he's waiting.

His voice breaks through the quiet, smooth as still water, never forceful, never demanding. His words are deliberate, carefully placed traps disguised as guidance.

"You'll train at the Little Palace," he says, almost conversationally, as if it is already decided. "You will learn to control your power properly."

Lidiya doesn't respond at first. She flexes her fingers against the reins instead, feeling the damp leather bite into her skin. The silence stretches between them, drawn tight like a wire.

"And if I don't?" she asks finally, flicking a glance toward him.

Kirigan doesn't so much as look at her. "Then you'll be weak. And the world is not kind to weak things."

A chill slithers through her bones. Not from the cold.

She masks it with a scoff. "You assume I want your guidance."

This time, he does turn to her. His eyes—dark, unreadable—settle on her like a weight. She should look away. She doesn't.

"I assume you want to survive," he murmurs.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

She knows what he's doing. Making it seem like a choice. Offering something before she even realizes she might need it. A trick used in court just as much as in war.

Her fingers tighten slightly on the reins. The mist feels heavier, the damp clinging to her skin.

Lidiya forces a smirk, tilting her head. "You sound like a man trying to sell me a poisoned cup and convince me it's wine."

Kirigan's lips curve—a ghost of a smirk. Not unkind. Not kind, either.

"It isn't poison," he says softly. His voice threads through the mist, curling at the edges of her senses. "It's power."

The words settle between them like an unspoken challenge.

Lidiya only shrugs, shifting in the saddle. "I was born as a noble. Bastard born, but noble upbringing nevertheless. I already know what power tastes like."

For the first time, something flickers in his expression. A spark of approval. Interest. Something sharper, something dangerous.

Then, just as quickly, it's gone.

He reins his horse forward, moving ahead of her, his figure swallowed by the mist.

And Lidiya—despite herself, despite knowing better—finds herself listening.

She hates that she's listening.

Night 2

The fire crackles, embers glowing orange against the dark sprawl of the forest. The scent of burning wood mingles with damp earth, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of freshly cleaned weapons.

Soldiers huddle in small groups, their voices hushed. Some sharpen blades, others pass a flask between them, laughter subdued beneath exhaustion. The air hums with a quiet sort of ease—a stark contrast to the tension lodged beneath Lidiya's ribs.

A few paces away, Mera and Desa sit close, their heads bent together, murmuring. Not quite whispering, but low enough that she knows she is not meant to hear.

She could go to them. She could force her way into the conversation. But she doesn't.

Because she already knows what she'll find there.

They have barely spoken to her since the journey began. And this silence is not the one of childhood, the kind filled with knowing glances and shared secrets. This silence is deliberate. A wall built between them.

She should say something.

It sat there, pressing at the back of her throat—the words she had nearly spoken the night before, the ones she hadn't let herself say. An explanation. A defense. A demand.

But what would she even be defending? That she hadn't fought harder for them? That she had known Kirigan was manipulating them and still stood there and let it happen?

Instead, she said nothing.

And maybe that was worse.

Lidiya clenches her jaw, turning her gaze toward the fire. She refuses to acknowledge the weight in her chest, the ache that has nothing to do with the endless hours on horseback.

She had made the decision to leave.

But they hadn't.

A shadow flickers at the edge of her vision.

She doesn't need to look to know who it is.

Still, she does.

Kirigan is there, just beyond the fire's glow, his presence a quiet inevitability. He has not spoken to her since their exchange that morning. She doesn't know why that unsettles her more than if he had.

Lidiya shifts, reaching for the book beside her—a small thing, tucked half beneath her cloak.

The same book she had found last night.

It had been wedged between the uneven ground and the edge of a saddlebag, half-forgotten, half-hidden. She had reached for it without thinking, fingers brushing over its frayed spine, the leather soft from years of use. The pages had been slightly yellowed, worn with age. Familiar.

Too familiar.

She had hesitated. Then she had returned it to the ground. Walked away.

And then—hours later, when no one was looking—she had gone back.

A stolen thing. A useless, meaningless thing.

But it was hers now.

She flips it open, running her fingers over the faded ink, though her eyes do not focus on the words.

A voice, low and smooth, cuts through the quiet.

"Stealing from your own escort?"

Lidiya stills.

Kirigan watches her, expression unreadable. Not scolding. Not accusing. Just... waiting.

Her fingers tighten around the pages before she schools herself, looking up with a smirk. "I prefer to think of it as reclaiming lost property."

Kirigan hums, stepping closer, his coat shifting with the movement. "A habit of yours?"

Lidiya exhales through her nose, turning a page. "Only when the world takes things from me first."

For a moment, Kirigan says nothing.

Then, softly—almost as if the words are meant only for her—he murmurs, "You shouldn't let them see your loneliness."

Her grip on the book falters.

Slowly, deliberately, she tilts her head, gaze flickering up through her lashes. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet but sure, the words slipping from her lips like something long-remembered.

"Is it loneliness," she muses, "or merely the space between two shadows?"

Kirigan stills.

The fire pops, sending a scatter of embers into the night, and after a beat, his mouth curves.

"Razin," he murmurs, naming the poet. His tone is unreadable—perhaps amused, perhaps impressed.

Lidiya doesn't react. She only turns a page, as if the words had meant nothing at all.

Kirigan watches her a moment longer.

Then, as if testing her, he adds, "A fine selection in there." A beat. "I used to own a copy just like it."

Lidiya's fingers still for half a second before she forces herself to keep turning the page, casual and unbothered.

"How fortunate, then," she says lightly, "that books are so easily misplaced."

Kirigan hums.

But he does not correct her.

And as she pretends to read, the words blurring on the page, she wonders—does he see the lie for what it is?

Or worse—does he see something else entirely?

Day 3

The road is rougher today, the forest thinning into rolling hills. The sky looms dull and grey, thick with the promise of rain.

Lidiya tries again.

She urges her horse closer to Mera and Desa, matching their pace. The words are already forming on her tongue—something light, something easy, something that might pull them back to her. But before she can speak, Mera exhales, a quiet, weary sound.

"We just need time, Lidiya."

The finality in it knocks the breath from her lungs.

They don't send her away, not outright. But the space between them sharpens, deliberately, an invisible wall drawn in the dust of the road. They lean toward each other, their voices slipping into something softer, something meant for two, not three.

Lidiya reins her horse back, letting the distance grow.

For the first time since they left, she feels truly alone.

And then—

"You look uncharacteristically quiet."

Kirigan's voice slides into the hush, smooth as river-worn stone.

Lidiya doesn't look at him. "A rare gift. I wouldn't waste it."

A chuckle, dark and knowing. "So you do know when to hold your tongue."

She rolls a kink from her shoulder, shifting in the saddle. "Only when I'm bored."

Kirigan nudges his horse slightly closer, the movement unhurried, controlled. "I imagine you're not used to being ignored."

Lidiya finally turns to him, her smile slow, almost lazy. "I imagine you're not either."

Something flickers in his expression—gone before she can name it.

Then—

The wind shifts, sudden and sharp, curling through the trees. It cuts through her coat, whips at her hair, sends leaves spinning into the air like scattered embers.

Ahead, a Squaller riding near Mera and Desa watches with a smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief.

The next gust strikes hard.

It shoves against her, knocking her sideways in the saddle. The reins slip from her fingers, the world tilting—

A hand clamps around her wrist, firm, grounding.

Kirigan.

For a second—just a second—their eyes meet. His grip is unyielding, his expression unreadable, but there's something in his gaze. Something sharp. Something claiming.

But also—

Something understanding.

It's gone before she can name it.

Her pulse kicks hard against her ribs. She yanks her wrist free. "You could just let me fall, you know."

Kirigan only smirks, dark and quiet. "I could."

She exhales sharply, shaking the lingering sensation of his touch from her skin. But as she steadies her horse, something tugs at her attention—

Kirigan isn't looking at her anymore.

He's looking past her.

His expression doesn't change, not really, but the air seems to still around him, the easy weight of his presence sharpening into something else.

Lidiya follows his gaze—

The Squaller.

The amusement on their face falters.

Kirigan doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. The silence drags, stretching thin. The Squaller swallows, straightens in their saddle, and faces forward, suddenly very interested in the road ahead.

The wind stills. The moment lingers, sharp and thin like the edge of a blade.

Lidiya exhales, steadying herself, but the phantom weight of Kirigan's grip lingers at her wrist. She flicks a glance toward the Squaller, who rides ahead with Mera and Desa, their laughter carried by the shifting air.

Kirigan follows her gaze. "They seem in good spirits."

His tone is idle, but when she looks at him again, she knows better.

Instead of answering, she shifts, reaching for the book tucked beneath her cloak. The leather is warm from the press of her palm, familiar now.

"You stole from me," Kirigan murmurs.

Lidiya freezes.

Slowly, she turns her head. He isn't smirking. He isn't teasing. He only watches her, gaze dark and unreadable.

Her fingers tighten on the spine. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kirigan hums, his horse stepping just slightly closer. The movement is effortless and controlled—just like him. "A small thing. Forgotten by the wrong hands. Taken by the right ones."

Her throat feels tight.

"Poetry, no less," he continues, tilting his head. "I wonder—did you pick it for the words? Or simply because it was mine?"

Lidiya lets out a breathless scoff, shaking her head. "You must think yourself terribly important."

Kirigan doesn't answer. Instead, his voice lowers, dipping into something softer—something that curls at the edges like smoke.

"'Some thieves steal gold. Others steal time.'"

The words strike her dead centre.

Her grip falters, just slightly, before she tightens her hold.

He watches her reaction, a slow satisfaction creeping into his features.

"Veretskaya," she says lightly, as if unaffected. But she knows that line.

She read it just last night, curled near the fire, her fingers ghosting over the ink.

"A fitting choice, don't you think?" His lips curve, though it isn't quite a smile. "You do seem to have a habit of taking things you won't return."

Lidiya forces herself to meet his gaze. Forces herself to smirk. "Funny. I was about to say the same to you."

Kirigan chuckles, deep and knowing.

But he doesn't ask for the book back.

And Lidiya isn't sure why that unsettles her more.

Night 3

That night, when she settles by the fire, she finds a folded scrap of parchment resting beside her book.

She stills.

The fire crackles, sending shadows flickering across the worn edges of the note. For a moment, she only looks at it. Then, slowly, she picks it up and unfolds the crease with careful fingers.

You underestimate yourself. I find that disappointing. -K

Her lips press together, irritation prickling beneath her skin.

Typical.

She pulls out her own scrap of parchment, her strokes quick, deliberate.

You overestimate your charm. I find that hilarious. -A

She folds it neatly, pressing the crease tight before handing it off to a passing soldier without a second thought.

Alone in his tent, Kirigan reads it by candlelight.

And he smiles.

Day 4

Morning comes with a damp chill, the kind that seeps through layers of fabric and lingers in the bones. The sky is a heavy stretch of grey, and the road ahead narrows, winding toward the river. The land is changing—fewer trees now, replaced by vast stretches of wind-swept fields, the occasional jagged rock jutting out like old battle scars.

Lidiya rides ahead, her hands loose on the reins, posture casual despite the tension threading through her spine. Behind her, she can hear them.

Mera's low voice. Desa's laughter.

She doesn't look, but she knows what she'd see—Mera shaking her head at something fondly, Desa grinning as she leans in closer. Their own little world, one she no longer belongs to.

Once, they would have been beside her, looping arms, whispering about something ridiculous, planning their next adventure. Now, they barely glance her way.

So, she does what she does best. She plays along.

"The Grisha tents will be in ruins without me," she sighs dramatically, tossing a glance at the nearest soldier. "No one will know what to do without my unwavering charm and wisdom."

One of them snorts. "Somehow, I think they'll survive."

"They'll be heartbroken," she insists, placing a hand over her chest in mock devastation. "I should write poetry to ease their suffering."

A voice, smooth as silk, slips into the conversation like a blade between ribs.

"A terrifying thought."

She doesn't need to turn to know who it is.

"I'm sure you'd love it," she replies without hesitation. "A sonnet in your honour, perhaps? Something about your excellent taste in coats?"

Kirigan hums as he falls into step beside her, his horse keeping pace effortlessly. "Oh, I'm sure it would be tragic. Do try to capture my best qualities—mercilessness, eternal darkness, my talent for ruining moods with a single look."

She flashes him a mocking grin, but it falters when his gaze flickers past her, toward Mera and Desa.

They're laughing at something—nothing important, something small—but it twists something sharp inside her all the same.

Kirigan watches. And then, as if reading her thoughts, his sharp eyes cut back to her.

"Strange," he murmurs. "How quickly people learn to carry on without us."

Lidiya scowls, heat rising in her chest. The frustration sits heavy in her throat, unspoken—but the sky hears it anyway.

A beam of sunlight breaks through the tree line, sharp and deliberate, cutting through shadow like a blade. It lingers, a moment too long, spilling gold across the damp earth.

Kirigan's gaze flickers upward. Not startled. Not impressed. Just assessing.

But—

Something flickers beneath the careful calculation. A spark of something else, something more. Not interest. Not intrigue.

Expectation.

It's gone in a breath, smoothed into something unreadable. But she sees it.

And she hates that she sees it.

Lidiya's fingers tighten around the reins. She hadn't meant to call the light, but now that it's there, she doesn't know how to take it back.

"I'd rather discuss your tragic love for monochrome," she mutters.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "And yet, you see everything but yourself."

Her pulse kicks against her ribs.

She urges her horse forward, leaving him behind without another word.

But just as the space grows between them, his voice drifts after her—low, almost thoughtful.

"Even the sun does not know when it is burning."

"Veretskaya again," she mutters.

She doesn't turn.

She doesn't have to.

She already knows he's smiling.

Night 4

The nights were bitter, the kind that clawed through wool and settled in bone. The kind that made even Heartrenders pull their coats tighter.

Lidiya didn't shiver.

Kirigan tested it.

Standing beside her one evening, just close enough that his fingers brushed near the edge of her cloak—barely a touch, nothing she would notice.

Warm.

Too warm.

A beat. Then his gaze flicked to her face.

She doesn't even realize, he thought.

⁂

The fire crackles, low embers glowing orange against the dark. The scent of damp earth and woodsmoke clings to the air, thick and familiar.

Lidiya sits apart.

Across the flames, Mera and Desa are close. Their laughter is quiet and shared. The way it always was. The way it still is.

Just... without her.

She shifts, just slightly, as if about to speak. But then—nothing. She flicks a piece of dried fruit into the fire instead, watching it blacken instantly.

A folded note rests in her lap, its corners slightly bent from where she's been turning it between her fingers.

Kirigan's handwriting is sharp, slanted.

I don't believe you've ever told the truth once in your life.

You must be insufferable at court. -K

She huffs a quiet breath through her nose, picks up the pencil beside her, and scrawls a reply on the back.

I'm a delight to anyone in my presence.

You should feel honoured. -A

A flicker of hesitation. Barely a breath. Then, without looking up, she flicks the note toward him as he walks past.

A pause. A beat.

Then, a low chuckle. Slow, indulgent.

She doesn't look.

But she knows he's smiling.

Day 5

The morning is cold, damp with the memory of last night's rain. The road is little more than damp earth and scattered stones, the river to their left a steady rush of movement, carving its own path forward.

Lidiya tries one last time.

She slows her horse until it falls into rhythm beside Desa's, nudging her knee against hers like they used to. A small thing. An old thing. Something that once meant we're still here.

She doesn't let herself hesitate before speaking. "We should braid your hair," she says, light and easy. "Make you look charmingly dishevelled."

Desa smiles, but it's small. Polite. "Maybe later."

Then, just like that, she urges her horse forward, toward Mera. Away from Lidiya.

She keeps her expression neutral. Keeps her body loose, and relaxed. She waits for Mera to glance back, to say something, to tease her like she always does.

She doesn't.

Something in Lidiya quiets.

And Kirigan notices.

His voice slides in beside her, smooth as silk, edged with something too sharp to be amusement. "It appears your kingdom is crumbling, princess."

Her grip on the reins tightens. Princess.

For just a second, something flickers across her face—too fast to be caught, too small to be anything but a trick of the morning light. But it's there, sharp and reflexive.

Kirigan doesn't notice.

She exhales, tilting her chin just slightly. "I don't recall asking for commentary."

"And yet, I find myself so eager to provide it."

She exhales, sharp and frustrated. "You must be a delight at parties."

He smirks. "On the contrary, I receive far too many invitations. People find power... compelling."

Normally, she might have laughed.

And for a moment, she nearly does. Nearly.

The words are smooth, teasing, and she's about to throw something just as sharp back—before she remembers. Before the morning catches up to her Desa's cold distance drags her back down.

The moment slips through her fingers, bitter as ash.

Today, she doesn't laugh.

Then his tone shifts, quieter. Not quite gentle. "You can't force them to forgive you."

The words land like a stone in her stomach.

She keeps her eyes ahead. Her voice doesn't waver. "How thoughtful. I didn't know you were such an expert in friendships. Perhaps you should write a guide."

Kirigan hums. "Oh, I would, but I imagine you'd be my only reader."

She doesn't answer.

She doesn't need to.

She already knows he's won this round.

Night 5

The fire had burned low, its embers pulsing like the last breath of something dying. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the cold night air, tangled with damp earth. Most of the soldiers had already turned in, their murmurs lost beneath the restless wind.

Lidiya sat alone, arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the embers. She wasn't sure why she lingered—perhaps because her tent felt colder than the night air, or perhaps because the fire was the only warmth she had left.

A shift in the air. A presence at her side.

She didn't turn when Kirigan settled beside her, close enough for her to sense the faint chill of him, a contrast to the fire's dwindling heat.

They sat in silence.

Not tense. Not charged. Just... there.

The stillness should have been suffocating. But instead, it stretched, unspoken things curling at the edges like the smoke twisting into the night sky.

A branch snapped in the distance. A deep breath stirred the quiet. Then—

The fire went out.

Not a flicker, not a slow fade—just gone.

Lidiya blinked, her world suddenly swallowed by shadow. The silver thread of moonlight stretched thinner. The stars dimmed.

Kirigan didn't move.

His heart gave a single, sharp beat against his ribs.

She's not just light. She's balance.

The realization settled in his chest, heavier than it should have been.

She said nothing. Didn't even react. Just let the darkness linger, vast and quiet.

Something in him twisted.

Then, as if it had never happened, the fire reignited. Low embers, flickering flames. A breath of warmth against the cold.

Kirigan stood. A shift in the dark. But as he turned, something small landed beside her—a folded scrap of parchment.

Lidiya arched a brow but waited until he was gone before picking it up.

Try not to set yourself on fire, would you?

I'd hate to have to explain it to the King.- K

A startled laugh broke from her lips before she could stop it.

She glanced toward the shadows where he had disappeared, something unfamiliar curling in her chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite irritation.

What an ass.

And yet, when she crawled into her tent that night, she realized she was still smiling.

Day 6

The morning began the same as every other—damp air, stiff muscles, and the quiet efficiency of soldiers preparing for another long day of travel. The sun had barely crested the horizon when Lidiya emerged from her tent, her uniform rumpled from sleep, hair hastily braided back.

She found Mera and Desa near the supply wagons, their heads bent close in conversation.

They didn't look up.

Her chest tightened.

No glares. No whispered words. But their silence was deliberate. Measured.

Fine. If they wanted space, she would give it to them.

She turned on her heel, walking briskly toward the horses.

"You're looking rather brooding this morning."

Kirigan's voice slid through the quiet like silk through a blade's edge.

Lidiya didn't break stride. "And you're looking as insufferable as ever."

He fell into step beside her, his cloak barely making a sound as it brushed against the damp grass. "That's twice now you've let me goad a reaction out of you. Shall I make it three?"

She exhaled through her nose. "Must be exhausting, trying so hard to be charming."

"Not at all," he said smoothly. "It comes naturally."

She threw him a look, but there was no real heat in it.

But Kirigan noticed how her gaze flickered—just once—toward Mera and Desa, still standing near the wagons, their shoulders tense, their faces drawn.

Ah.

"You know," he mused, voice light, "I expected you to put up more of a fight."

Lidiya frowned. "For what?"

"For them." He gestured vaguely toward Mera and Desa, who rode ahead—close enough to be seen, but not spoken to. "They barely look at you. I wonder—was it worth it?"

Her jaw clenched. "I don't recall asking for your insight."

"No, I imagine you rarely do."

She exhaled sharply, forcing her shoulders to stay loose. "They'll come around."

Kirigan gave a slow, almost pitying shake of his head. "People don't like being caged, solnishka. Even if the walls are made of good intentions."

Something inside her snapped.

She turned on him, voice low but furious. "Don't pretend you care about cages." Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "You didn't give them a choice."

Kirigan raised a brow, expression all lazy amusement, but there was something sharper beneath it. "Didn't I?"

"No," she hissed. "You just made sure they could never take it."

His smirk didn't falter. "I merely pointed out the options. They chose to follow you."

"Because you made it so they couldn't do anything else!" Her voice dropped further, barely more than a whisper now, but each word cut like a blade. "You made them believe they had to come."

Kirigan tsked softly. "And yet, I don't recall you fighting me on this when you figured it out."

Her breath caught.

His voice dipped lower, silk over steel. "You knew what I'd done. You knew they wouldn't leave you behind. And yet, I never heard a single protest." He tilted his head, considering her. "Tell me, solnishka—was it because you couldn't fight me on it? Or because you wouldn't?"

Lidiya's stomach twisted.

Because he was right.

She had known. She had seen what he was doing, the way he manoeuvred the pieces just so. She had been angry, furious—but she hadn't fought him on it.

Because in the end, she still had them.

Her hands trembled, but she forced them steady. And then—she smiled.

Slow, sharp, calculated.

"You're enjoying this."

Kirigan smirked. "Of course."

Lidiya tilted her head, watching him with something unreadable in her gaze. "Good. I'd hate for all that effort to feel wasted."

His expression didn't falter, but she saw the flicker of something—hesitation, curiosity—as he studied her.

"What effort?" he asked, voice smooth, but his eyes were sharp now.

She hummed, feigning thoughtfulness. "Oh, you know. The subtlety. The careful positioning. The masterful weaving of choices that weren't really choices." She glanced at him, all mock admiration. "It was well done, truly. You almost had me believing it myself."

His smirk remained, but it had shifted—less certain, more assessing.

"Almost?"

Lidiya exhaled, shaking her head as if amused. "Oh, Kirigan. Do you really think you're the only one who can play this game?"

Something in his gaze darkened, sharpened.

She leaned in, just slightly, voice dropping to something softer, more conspiratorial. "You wanted me angry. Off balance. So you twisted the knife just enough—told me I didn't fight you on this because I needed them. And you were right."

She let that sink in for half a second before smiling again, sweet and knowing. "But you didn't fight me either. Did you?"

His fingers curled slightly around the reins.

"If you truly wanted to teach me a lesson," she continued lightly, "you would have let me come alone. Let them hate me for what I did. But you didn't." Her gaze flickered toward him, knowing and triumphant. "Because you needed this to work, too."

The silence stretched between them, charged and humming.

Kirigan's smirk was still there, but it was different now. Smaller. Sharper.

He studied her for a long moment before finally speaking.

"Careful, solnishka." His voice was smooth, but something about it had cooled. "You keep looking at me like that, and people might think you're learning."

Lidiya just smiled, urging her horse forward. "Oh, General," she called over her shoulder, "I learned from the best. A long time ago"

She didn't have to look back to know he was still watching her.

And for the first time, she thought—maybe she had unsettled him.

Night 6

The camp had settled in for the night, but instead of retreating to her tent, Lidiya found herself following Kirigan through the trees.

She didn't ask where they were going—she already knew.

The path was uneven, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, yet she manoeuvred around obstacles with ease. Her footing never faltered, her steps eerily sure.

Kirigan slowed. Watching.

She hesitated, as if sensing it. "What?"

A slow smile. "Nothing."

But it wasn't nothing. She moved through the dark as if it belonged to her.

When they reached a small clearing, he turned to face her.

"Summon."

Lidiya exhaled sharply. "I can't—"

Kirigan tsked, tilting his head. "You're always pretending, aren't you? As if you don't already know exactly what you're capable of. As if you're just some lost girl with no control over what happens to her."

Her spine went rigid.

He stepped closer, voice softer now, more insidious. "You dragged your friends into this and now you act surprised when they resent you for it. You make choices, Lidiya. You just don't like living with them."

The breath left her in a sharp exhale, something hot and tangled clawing up her throat.

Her fingers twitched.

The lantern flickered.

Then—

It went out.

Not snuffed. Not shattered. Not extinguished.

The light was still there—but it was in her hand.

A small, contained sun rested against her palm, golden and impossibly bright. The clearing should have been bathed in warm light, but the space around them remained steeped in darkness. The fire existed, but it gave no illumination. No warmth.

Kirigan went very, very still.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind through the trees, the sharp rhythm of her breath.

Then, slow and measured, Kirigan spoke.

"Fascinating."

His tone was unreadable, but something about it made her breath quicken with more than just anger.

She curled her fingers into a fist. The light vanished.

Masks slipped neatly back into place.

"Your power," he murmured, "is as volatile as it is powerful. You need control."

Lidiya folded her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm managing just fine."

"You're not."

He stepped closer again, presence pressing in like the weight of a storm before the first strike of lightning. "You hold your breath when you summon, don't you? That's why it flickers. Why it drains you faster."

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Kirigan lifted a hand, fingers curling slightly. Shadows unfurled from his palm, slow and deliberate, as natural to him as breathing.

"Watch."

She did.

He inhaled—not deep, not exaggerated—just enough. The darkness pulsed with it, responding like an extension of himself.

Then he exhaled, slow and steady. The shadows curled back into his palm, obedient.

"Breath," he said softly, "is control. Focus. You don't force power. You guide it."

Lidiya hesitated. But when she lifted her own hand, light sparked at her fingertips.

She mimicked him. Inhaled. Steadied. Exhaled.

She exhaled, steady. The glow didn't flicker this time. It sharpened, clear and unwavering.

Kirigan watched her, eyes dark with something assessing. Then, smoothly, deliberately, he lifted a hand toward hers. Not touching. Just close. Close enough that the edges of her light tangled with the shadow curling from his fingertips.

The glow wavered.

Not from lack of control. But because she felt it—him—pressing in, testing the edges of what she could do.

She met his gaze. Held it.

"I don't need you to teach me how to hold on to my power," she murmured, voice quiet but unyielding. "I need you to remember that it's mine."

Kirigan's smirk was slow, sharp, satisfied. "Oh, Lidiya." He let his fingers fall away, shadows dissipating like smoke. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

For a fleeting moment, it was only them. The darkness and the light, twining together in the space between.

It didn't last.

⁂

Because when they returned to camp, they weren't the only ones watching.

Mera and Desa stood near the fire, their expressions unreadable.

Lidiya barely hesitated before walking past them. If they wanted to ask, they would. If they didn't... well, she was done chasing ghosts.

Kirigan, however, lingered.

His gaze met Mera's.

And there—just for a moment—he saw it. Not just suspicion. Not just anger.

Something deeper.

Something like fear.

Interesting.

And then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Day 7

The morning mist hadn't yet burned off when Kirigan led her away from the camp.

No soldiers. No audience. Just the two of them, standing in a quiet clearing where the damp grass muted their footsteps and the cold bit at the edges of her sleeves.

Lidiya exhaled, watching her breath curl in the air before vanishing. "If this is another attempt at pushing my limits, you should know—I'm already at my limit just dealing with you."

Kirigan smirked, unbothered. "And yet, you keep following me into the woods. People might talk."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, because nothing scandalous has ever come from a man luring a woman into isolation under the guise of training."

Kirigan merely gestured ahead. "Summon."

Lidiya flexed her fingers, willing the light to come. It flickered, hesitant, before pooling in her palm. Small. Controlled. But not quite right.

He circled her slowly, watching the way her shoulders tensed. "You're forcing it again."

"Yes, well, forgive me for not being well-versed in sun creation," she snapped, tightening her grip.

Kirigan stepped closer, just enough that she could feel the cool shift in the air around him. "A sun does not burn because it wills itself to. It burns because it must." His voice was calm, deliberate. "Let it."

Lidiya huffed. "That's terribly poetic, but it doesn't exactly help."

Kirigan tilted his head. "Would you rather I hold your hand through it?"

She shot him a look, lips twitching. "I think we both know you'd rather cut it off."

"Ah, but then I wouldn't get to see you struggle so beautifully."

She scoffed, but he saw the way her fingers twitched, the way the light brightened slightly in her palm before dimming again.

"Stop trying to contain it," he murmured, tone shifting. "You're treating it like a candle, when what you need is a sun."

Lidiya exhaled through her nose. "Fine."

She let go.

The light expanded—not in a blinding burst, but in something more deliberate, more whole. A sphere of golden warmth hovered above her palm, steady and humming with power.

Kirigan hummed. "Better."

Lidiya turned the glowing sphere in her hand, watching it pulse with her breath. It wasn't just heat. It was something deeper, something alive.

Kirigan tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Now that's interesting."

Lidiya lifted her chin. "You sound surprised."

"Oh, I am." His smirk deepened. "I had fully expected you to set something on fire by now."

She huffed a laugh. "Don't tempt me."

Kirigan reached out—slow, deliberate—and plucked a stray twig from the ground. Then, without warning, he tossed it into the air.

Lidiya reacted instinctively. The small sun flared, a ripple of heat pulsing outward—

The twig disintegrated before it even hit the ground.

Silence.

She blinked down at her hand. Then at Kirigan. Then back at her hand.

He let out a low, pleased hum. "Well. That is promising."

Lidiya exhaled, staring at the space where the twig had been. "I liked that twig."

Kirigan snorted. "I'll send my deepest condolences."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't quite bite back the small, satisfied smile curling at her lips.

For once, she didn't mind the lesson.

And for once—

Kirigan looked at her, not with calculation, but with something far more dangerous.

Approval.

Night 7

The fire crackled softly, sending lazy embers spiralling into the cold air. The scent of burning wood, damp earth, and oil from freshly sharpened blades clung to the camp, mixing with the faint trace of sweat and leather.

Lidiya stretched her legs toward the warmth, absently rubbing her sore wrists. The ache had settled deep in her bones—a reminder of just how much this day had taken from her. She could still feel the echo of light in her fingertips, still hear Kirigan's voice in her ear. A sun does not burn because it wills itself to. It burns because it must.

She scowled at the thought and turned her attention back to the book in her lap.

It wasn't hers.

The leather was smooth, and well-worn, pages softened by time and careful hands. The kind of book that had been read, reread and carried through years of quiet solitude.

Kirigan's book of poetry.

She had stolen it on the first night of the journey, tucking it into her things. At first, it had been a petty act of defiance, vengeance for being stolen herself. But she had opened it out of curiosity, meaning only to skim a page or two—only to find herself lingering.

She should give it back to him. She would. Eventually.

The log beside her dipped.

Kirigan.

Silent as a shadow, he sank down next to her, his presence cutting through the cold.

Lidiya stiffened, fingers pressing tighter against the book's spine. He didn't speak. Didn't even look at her. Just sat.

For a long moment, they were quiet.

Then, his voice—low, knowing. "So, you're still borrowing my book?"

"Yes."

"That you stole from me, Princess."

"I still prefer borrowing, General."

"Without permission."

"You were hardly using it."

"You didn't give me the chance to."

Lidiya turned a page lazily, unbothered. "Not my fault you left it unattended."

Kirigan exhaled, but there was no real annoyance in it. If anything, he sounded amused. "And? Did you find something of interest?"

She arched a brow. "Are you asking if I understand it?"

His lips twitched. "I'm asking if you liked it."

Lidiya sighed, flipping a page with exaggerated care. "Your taste is disappointingly predictable."

Kirigan raised a brow. "Oh?"

She nodded, barely suppressing a smirk. "All brooding themes, tragic fates, longing that spans lifetimes... very dramatic, General. I half-expected a sonnet about a lonely man drowning in his own darkness."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

She took it as an invitation. "'We are but embers in the hands of fate—'" she began, voice lilting with mock reverence, then let out an exaggerated sigh. "'Lost in the void, yearning for a touch that may never come.'"

A pause.

Then—flatly, unimpressed: "That is not how the poem goes."

Lidiya blinked at him, all feigned innocence. "It's not?"

His eyes narrowed. "You did that on purpose."

"Would I do that?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, snatching the book from her hands. "Give me that before you desecrate any more literature."

"Hey—"

But he didn't even look at her, flipping through the pages with unhurried ease, as if he had every right to.

(Technically, he did. But that was beside the point.)

He stopped, reaching over to grab her hand, then pressing her gloved finger to a passage before shutting the book and placing it back on her lap.

Then, just as effortlessly as he had appeared, he stood, turning away.

Lidiya frowned, flipping the book open to the marked page. Her eyes skimmed the words, breath catching slightly at the verse he had chosen.

"We are but embers in the hands of fate—
Burning, shifting, waiting to be shaped into something more."

Her fingers curled over the paper.

From across the camp, Kirigan—now by the command tent—glanced over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable, but... there was something there. A flicker of satisfaction, maybe. Or amusement.

And just before he turned away, the faintest ghost of a smile brushed across his lips.

Chapter Text

Day 8

The landscape had changed.

The thick forests had thinned, giving way to wide, open stretches of land. The distant spires of Os Alta loomed on the horizon, blurred by the golden haze of late afternoon. The road beneath them was smooth and well-travelled, and the air had lost some of its bitter chill.

Lidiya rode at the centre of the formation, surrounded by the steady clop of hooves, the creak of leather saddles, and the quiet murmur of conversation.

And she was noticing things.

Mera, riding just ahead, wasn't just chatting with the soldier anymore—she was leaning closer, smiling easier. The teasing game of days past had settled into something softer, more familiar.

Desa, meanwhile, had eased into the Grisha nobles' circle, listening intently as they discussed Os Alta, the court, and the tangled politics of the Second Army.

They hadn't turned to her once.

Lidiya let her gaze drift forward—just for a second.

She could say something. Could remind them she was still here.

She didn't.

Instead, she kept her hands light on the reins, spine straight. This is what you wanted. Mera and Desa weren't suffering. They weren't miserable.

They were—

"Ah."

A quiet sound, rich with amusement.

Lidiya felt him before she turned her head.

Kirigan rode beside her, as if he had always been there. His black stallion moved with effortless grace, his posture relaxed, hands lose on the reins.

She exhaled slowly. "Don't start."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

Kirigan hummed, gaze flicking forward. "It's remarkable, really. How quickly people adapt. How easily they find their place."

Lidiya's fingers twitched on the reins. Her tone was light, indifferent. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"And you sound surprised."

Her jaw tightened.

Kirigan turned his head slightly, studying her with unreadable interest. "You expected them to struggle more."

She did not like how easily he unravelled her.

"I expected them to remember." The words slipped out before she could stop them, quiet and sharp.

Kirigan hummed again as if filing that away for later use.

"Ah. I see."

And the worst part was—she knew he did.

Lidiya forced a breath through her nose, rolling her shoulders back. The mask slipped into place. Easy, unbothered.

"I'm touched by your concern, General." Her voice was mocking, almost sweet. "Really, I am. But I'll manage."

Kirigan watched her for a beat longer, then glanced ahead again, as if already losing interest.

But not before she caught it—the flicker of something sharp.

Satisfaction.

As if she had just confirmed something for him.

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

The silence stretched long enough that she thought he had let the conversation die.

Then—

"You don't burn."

Lidiya blinked. "What?"

Kirigan's gaze flicked toward her bare hands, where the late afternoon sun touched her skin. Her face. Not even the faintest pink.

"Strange."

She glanced at him, unimpressed. "Some people don't."

Kirigan's lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

"No," he murmured. "Some people don't."

She held his gaze, pulse steady.

Then, deliberately, she flexed her fingers—summoning the faintest flicker of light between them.

"You're right," she murmured. "Strange, indeed."

And she let it die.

For the first time, Kirigan's smirk faltered.

Just for a second.

Then it was gone.

He said nothing else.

And yet.

Night 8

Kirigan found her again that night.

Lidiya wasn't sure why she was surprised.

This time, he didn't sit. He offered his hand.

A perfect, practised gesture—palm up, fingers just curled enough to suggest, not demand.

"Come," he said, voice pitched low, a murmur meant only for her.

She didn't move. Not at first. Instead, she let her gaze drag lazily over him, a courtier's assessment, the kind meant to make men doubt themselves.

Then, she smiled. Sweet. Unreadable. Dangerous.

"How gracious, General. Are you in need of a dance partner?"

Kirigan's lips curved, his amusement dark and knowing. "Something like that."

A beat passed. Then, as if indulging him, she placed her hand in his.

His fingers curled around hers—not tight, not possessive, but deliberate.

Lidiya let him lead. For now.

He guided her just beyond the torchlight's reach, where the night stretched vast and untouched. The air was sharp with the promise of winter. Above, the stars hung brittle and cold, scattered like shards of shattered glass.

Kirigan stopped. Turned to face her.

Then, slowly, he lifted his hand again—not to touch, but to summon.

Shadows pooled like liquid ink at his fingertips, shifting, waiting.

Lidiya felt it before she saw it—that pull in her chest, deep and insistent, as if her light had recognized its opposite.

Kirigan's voice was smooth, precise. "You need control. Your breathing. Your stance. Your hands."

She tilted her head slightly, the very image of courtly boredom. "And you're offering lessons now?"

"Would you rather remain untamed?"

Her lips curved—mocking, mirroring his smirk. "How generous. I'll have to write you a thank-you note."

Kirigan only watched her. Waiting. Measuring.

Lidiya sighed, uncoiling her arms.

"Fine."

This time, when she extended her hands, she didn't let them tremble.

It started with breathing. Slow. Steady.

Kirigan circled her, voice silk-soft but firm. "You fight your power, but it isn't something to be restrained. It's part of you. Learn to shape it."

His hands hovered near her wrists, never quite touching, but his presence was there, pressing in like a shadow at her back.

Lidiya focused. She called the light—not in a burst, not in defiance, but with purpose. Heat curled in her palms, golden and alive. She let it build—controlled, steady.

"Good."

His shadows moved closer. Testing. Probing.

Lidiya stiffened. Expecting them to smother her light. But they didn't. They twined with it, curled around the edges, meshing like two forces learning how to coexist.

Her breath hitched.

Kirigan noticed.

His head tilted slightly. "Fascinating."

Lidiya scoffed, stepping back, shaking off the strange, uneasy weight of the moment. "That's enough education for one night."

Kirigan didn't argue. He only watched her.

Then, just as smoothly, he extended his hand again.

As if they had merely finished a dance.

Lidiya hesitated just for a breath before placing hers in his again, wrapping her arm around his and allowing him to escort her back toward the firelight.

When they reached camp, she let go first.

But not before she caught the flicker of something—amusement, satisfaction, something sharper.

It wasn't until she settled by the fire that she saw the note.

A small scrap of parchment left beside her pack.

She frowned. Turned it over.

Try not to set anything on fire in my absence. —K

She exhaled, somewhere between a scoff and a smirk, running her thumb over the ink. The audacity.

The flames flickered, golden light dancing over the page. And for a moment—just a moment—she sat there, turning the note over in her hands.

Across the camp, Kirigan leaned back against a tree, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Not watching her directly.

He didn't have to.

He knew the exact moment she saw his message.

Lidiya didn't laugh. Not this time.

But her lips curled—an almost smile she probably wasn't even aware of.

And for some reason, Kirigan felt absurdly satisfied.

He let the feeling linger.

Then, just as quickly, he shut it down.

⁂

When Lidiya returned, Mera and Desa were still awake, their figures limned in the firelight.

Their conversation faltered the second they saw her.

Lidiya didn't explain. Didn't pause. She only sank down near the flames, stretching her legs toward the warmth.

A glance passed between them.

Desa—quick, assessing, a flicker of something knowing in her eyes.
Mera—arched brow, unreadable.

Neither of them spoke.

Then, after a beat, Mera tossed a blanket at her.

Lidiya caught it, fingers curling into the fabric. She hadn't expected it.

Mera only smirked. "You looked cold."

She said nothing about where Lidiya had been.

Neither of them did.

But the air had changed.

Day 9

"You're sulking," Kirigan said casually.

Lidiya, who was absolutely not sulking, shot him a glare. "I don't sulk."

He hummed. "Of course not. That would be beneath someone so warm and approachable."

She tilted her head, lips curling just slightly. "And yet, here you are. Drawn to my charming disposition."

His smirk was faint, but present. "Drawn? No. Merely observing."

"Ah. My apologies." She pressed a hand to her chest in mock sincerity. "How fortunate I am to be under such careful study."

Kirigan let out a quiet chuckle. "It is fascinating. Watching people shift, adapt." His gaze flicked toward Mera and Desa, where they rode just ahead, laughing at something unseen. "How quickly loyalty fades when the world offers something better."

Lidiya's fingers flexed on the reins.

She should have seen the trap.

"You dragged them with you for your own selfish reasons," Kirigan said, voice like silk over steel. "Now you resent them for acting like they never wanted to be here?"

A colder woman might have flinched.

Lidiya only smiled. "And you think I didn't account for that?"

Kirigan's brows lifted—just slightly.

She leaned in, voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial. "You speak as though I didn't weigh the risks. As though I don't know people, their nature, their inevitable betrayals." A small pause. A blade sharpened before the kill. "I could almost mistake your concern for sympathy, General."

Kirigan held her gaze. "You mistake nothing."

The words sent something down her spine—something unreadable, unsettled.

She exhaled, slow and even. Then, just to make a point, she turned his own words against him.

"You make it sound personal," she mused, tilting her head. "Tell me, General, are you speaking from experience?"

His smirk flickered, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"We are all shaped by experience, aren't we?" he murmured.

Lidiya let the moment stretch. Longer than necessary.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk of her own, she spurred her horse forward, leaving him behind.

Kirigan watched her go.

And for the first time in a long while, he wasn't entirely sure who had won.

Night 9

The firelight flickered, but it did little to chase away the cold.

Lidiya exhaled, watching her breath mist in the night air. The journey had felt different these past few days. The closer they came to Os Alta, the heavier the weight in her chest became. At first, she had told herself it was just anticipation, nerves—she had been wrong.

Because it wasn't just her.

Kirigan stood a few paces away, half-shadowed, the flickering glow catching on the sharp lines of his face. His posture had shifted. Always composed, always in control, but now... different. The easy arrogance was still there, the infuriating charm—but something had hardened beneath it. His words, though still smooth, carried an edge. His glances were briefer, his smirks quieter.

It was like watching him put on armour.

And she realized, with a slow, creeping horror, that she had been doing the same.

"You're quiet tonight," Kirigan said, voice smooth, but distant.

Lidiya huffed a humourless breath. "Strange. I was about to say the same of you."

His eyes flickered to hers, sharp and searching. "Perhaps we're simply adapting. Isn't that what survival demands?"

"Adaptation or performance?" she mused, tilting her head. "You always did love an audience."

Kirigan chuckled, but it was a low, dark thing. "And you? Do you think you can play a role without becoming it?"

Her stomach twisted—not because of his words, but because part of her feared he was right.

Once, not long ago, he would have leaned in, dropped his voice to something silken and amused, waiting for her to counter him. Now, he only watched, gaze assessing. Calculating. And Saints, wasn't she doing the same?

Her hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms. "I suppose we'll find out, won't we?"

Kirigan studied her, his expression unreadable, though something like amusement ghosted across his lips—thin, knowing.

Then, as if coming to some quiet decision, he inclined his head. "Yes. I suppose we will."

And just like that, the distance between them had never felt wider.

Day 13

Despite the repetitive marching of the last couple of days in this area, the air of this particular morning was thick with mist and tension—the kind that slithered under the skin, curling in the lungs like a warning.

Lidiya rubbed her gloved hands together, forcing warmth into her fingers. The treeline loomed ahead, dark and waiting. A bad omen.

Kirigan rode beside her, his posture composed but his eyes sharp. He was watching her. Always watching.

"When we arrive, you'll be taken to change before you're presented," he said, voice smooth, measured. "The royal family will want a formal introduction. The court as well."

Lidiya's fingers twitched. The idea of standing before the King and Queen—her father and his wife—as well as the entire court, made her stomach twist. "What if I simply refuse?"

Kirigan hummed, amused. "You won't."

She scoffed. "Oh? And what makes you so certain?"

He turned his head slightly, considering her. "Because you know better than anyone that power is a game. And you do not intend to lose."

Lidiya opened her mouth to retort—but then she felt it.

The shift in the air.

The kind of stillness that wasn't still at all.

Kirigan felt it, too. His spine went rigid, his head snapping up just as the whistle cut through the mist.

His voice sliced through the morning air, low and lethal. "AMBUSH."

The world shattered.

Horses reared. Men shouted.

Figures burst from the trees—not just Fjerdans, but Shu, Ravkans, and more. Some bore the keftas of Grisha, others the worn jackets and cloaks of Otkazat'sya. The sight made Lidiya's stomach drop. This wasn't just any attack. This was something else. Something coordinated.

A gunshot cracked the air. Someone screamed.

"Lidiya! Stay back."

Her horse shrieked, muscles bunching as it bucked wildly beneath her. She wrenched the reins, clinging to the saddle as chaos exploded around her.

Kirigan was already on the ground, shadows unfurling at his fingertips, darkness flashing between the mist.

Lidiya twisted, searching—where were Mera and Desa?

There.

Not far, but cornered. A group of fighters had cut them off, herding them toward the trees.

Her stomach dropped.

Mera had drawn a knife, but it was laughably small against his dagger and useless against rifles. Desa stood behind her, back pressed to a fallen tree, eyes darting—calculating, but terrified.

A man lunged.

Mera barely dodged. Desa stumbled.

They were going to die.

Kirigan's words from before echoed in her mind.

"Stay back."

No.

Fuck that.

She dug her heels into her horse's sides, spurring it forward.

"Lidiya, don't—!" Someone shouted, but she wasn't listening.

A fighter stepped into her path. Too fast to stop.

Lidiya twisted, swinging a leg over the saddle, using the momentum to push herself off the horse. She crashed into the man, knocking him off balance, and sending them both to the ground.

The impact jarred her bones.

Before he could recover, she grabbed the nearest rock and slammed it against his temple.

He went limp.

She scrambled up, chest heaving.

Mera and Desa were still fighting—but losing.

A fighter swung his weapon—Mera barely dodged, stumbling back. Desa tripped over a fallen soldier, cursing as she hit the dirt. He slowly reached to his side to grab his pistol.

Lidiya didn't think.

She snatched a discarded rifle from the ground, gripping it awkwardly. It was heavier than she expected, the wood slick with sweat and blood.

"We're gonna die," Mera panted, backing up as another attacker charged.

Lidiya cocked the rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

A deafening crack.

The man reeled back, clutching his chest where the bullet tore through flesh.

Lidiya exhaled sharply, a wild grin tugging at her lips. "Now, I don't want to hear that negativity."

She pivoted, and fired again—another soldier went down.

Mera and Desa just stared at her.

"Yes, fantastic," Mera finally managed, breathless. "We're going to die."

A couple more attackers raised their rifles—too close.

Lidiya didn't have time to shoot. Barely had time to drop the weapon in her hands before raw instinct took over.

She threw out her hand.

And the world exploded in light.

Not a flicker. Not a candle flame.

A blinding, searing, golden inferno.

It tore through the mist like a sunrise. The attackers screamed, staggering back, shielding their eyes.

For a moment, the battlefield froze.

All around them—Grisha, and Otkazat'sya on both sides—everyone had turned.

Watching.

A sharp, rattling breath scraped past her lips.

Her body knew this power. It had always been there, lurking beneath her skin. But this... this was different.

She was different.

Across the battlefield, Kirigan stood at the edge of the clearing, black tendrils of shadow still curling around his hands.

His dark eyes met hers.

Not in anger.

Not in surprise.

But with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.

A slow inhale. As if steadying himself.

Then—his voice. Even from a small distance, she could hear him.

Quiet. Lethal.

"Lidiya."

Night 13

Mera and Desa found her first.

For the first time since they left the manor, they sat beside her.

Mera nudged her shoulder, a ghost of a smirk on her lips. "You were reckless."

Lidiya huffed a soft laugh. "You love that about me."

Desa scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. "We nearly died, Lidiya."

Lidiya swallowed hard. She had been too focused on them during the battle, too desperate to keep them alive, to even acknowledge her own fear. But hearing it now—seeing it written on their faces—made something in her chest tighten.

"I was scared," Mera admitted, her voice softer than usual. The firelight flickered across her face, the usual sharpness in her expression dulling into something raw. "For you. For us. I thought—"

She shook her head, looking away.

Desa reached for Lidiya's hand, squeezing it tight. "Me too."

Lidiya exhaled her voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Mera hugged her first, arms tight around her as if trying to anchor herself to something solid. Desa followed, pressing her forehead against Lidiya's shoulder. They held on like that, like a knot being tied back together, until the weight of the night settled over them.

By the time they left for their tents, exhaustion settling over them like a heavy cloak, the camp had mostly quieted. The fire had burned lower, its embers pulsing in the dark. Lidiya stayed, staring into the flames.

⁂

She should have been relieved, but the events of the day still clung to her skin like sweat. The realization hit her, sudden and jarring—she could have died.

Not in some distant, theoretical way, but truly, violently.

She had seen death before. Held it in her arms. But never hers.

The scrape of boots on dirt barely gave her warning before a hand closed around her upper arm, yanking her to her feet.

"Walk."

Lidiya huffed a laugh. "Oh, am I getting kidnapped again? How nostalgic."

Kirigan dragged her away from the fire, away from prying eyes, to the edge of camp. His grip wasn't rough, but there was an edge to it. The kind that warned he was seconds from losing his patience.

She didn't make it easy for him, digging her heels into the dirt. "If you're about to lecture me, I'd like to politely decline and go back to the fire."

Kirigan exhaled harshly, tipping his head back as if beseeching the Saints for patience. "You could have died."

Lidiya scoffed, frustration curling in her gut. "You are an insufferable man."

The torches crackled near them, but—

No, not just crackled. Dipped. Just for a second. A flicker of darkness swallowing the glow before it steadied again.

Kirigan said nothing, but his fingers curled slightly against his sleeve.

He had seen it. Her power. But she didn't.

Lidiya smirked, continuing the conversation, wiping a speck of blood off her sleeve. "Now, dear General, I don't want to hear that negativity from you."

His brows lifted. "Negativity?"

She shrugged. "Look on the bright side."

Kirigan's jaw clenched. "And what, pray tell, is the bright side?"

Lidiya's smirk widened. "I didn't die. Neither did you" She held up a finger. "I shot two men. Knocked another out with a very well-aimed rock. And then, just for fun, I blasted another two." She gave him a pointed look. "I'd say that's an excellent first battle."

Kirigan stared at her. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"You are insufferable."

Lidiya beamed. "And yet, very, very effective."

Kirigan ran a hand over his face. "You think this is a joke?"

"Well, it's certainly not the most fun I've had, but I did enjoy watching you get all dramatic about it."

His voice dropped lower. "Your power will not always be enough."

Something about the way he said it, quiet and certain, made her stomach twist.

She should have laughed, thrown another sharp remark—but the words stuck.

For the first time, she hesitated.

The battle had been a rush—flashes of light, adrenaline, instinct. But now, the weight of it settled in.

The bodies. The blood. The way their eyes had looked, just before the light took them.

Something cold settled in her ribs.

Kirigan had seen that look before.

He had worn it once.

He had seen this before—the first kills. The realization of it.

Did someone wait for him?

The thought nearly made her laugh. No. No one had.

Not as young as she was now, but young enough. Young enough to believe that power alone would be enough. That his hands would not need to be stained red.

How long had it been before he realized there was no way to wield power without blood?

He studied her.

She stood frozen, spine straight, fingers curled tight at her sides. She had seen death before, but this was different. It was hers now.

It took everything in him not to say anything.

Not to tell her that it would fade in time. That the faces would blur together, that the guilt would settle into something duller, something manageable.

That one day, she would stop feeling it altogether.

He would not take this from her.

This was the moment before the mask—before she built the walls he knew were coming. The moment before she learned to wield her power without hesitation.

Sighing, he let her have it.

Just for a few seconds longer.

The torches crackled. A soft wind stirred the trees. A distant murmur of voices carried from the fires behind them. But here, in the shadows, it was just the two of them.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now.

"You haven't really thought about it, have you?"

She forced herself to lift her chin, to meet his gaze. "It couldn't have been avoided. What should I have done? Let them die? My only friends? My sisters—who were only dragged here because of you? Because of me?"

He sighed again. A tired sound.

"No."

It was so quiet she almost didn't hear it.

When he looked at her again, the sharpness was back. The mask in place.

"Since you insist on throwing yourself into fights, you might as well learn how to actually survive them." His voice curled into something almost amused. "I assume your lessons at the manor didn't include any combat?"

Lidiya exhaled slowly, trying to shake the heaviness pressing against her ribs.

Not yet. She needed a moment longer. Needed to push past this. So she seized the easiest thing.

Banter.

She rolled her eyes. "Not unless you count fencing and cutting people down with words."

Kirigan smirked. "That does sound effective."

"I was the best in my class."

"Then I look forward to seeing if you're as talented with a weapon as you are with your mouth."

Lidiya opened her mouth, a sharp retort on her tongue, but he was already turning to leave. Then he turned back

"The men you killed won't be the last, Lidiya. But at least out here, you know who your enemies are."

She frowned, caught off guard by his tone.

He was watching her ever so closely before he muttered, mostly to himself. "Os Alta won't be so kind."

And with that, he left her standing there, staring after him, her pulse loud in her ears.

She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she made her way back to her tent.

When she pulled back the canvas flap, a folded scrap of parchment sat neatly on her cot.

Her brow furrowed as she picked it up, recognizing the sharp, deliberate strokes of his handwriting.

Try not to get shot next time. I'd hate to have wasted my time arguing with a corpse. -K

A startled laugh escaped her.

The audacity.

She grabbed a piece of parchment from her pack and scribbled a quick response before slipping out into the night, heading straight for his tent.

No one stopped her.

No one dared.

His tent was eerily neat, every item placed with precise intent. She found a stack of reports and slid her note just beneath the top page, ensuring he'd see it first thing in the morning.

If you're going to write me love letters, at least try to be romantic about it.

She smirked, stepping back into the night, the air crisp and still.

Kirigan was watching from the shadows near his tent, unseen but fully aware of where she had just been.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He should be irritated.

Instead, he found himself looking forward to whatever she did next.

⁂

The camp was utterly still when Kirigan finally stepped inside his tent, removing his kefta with a tired sigh. The weight of the day pressed against his shoulders, but his mind was already elsewhere—on her.

On the way, she had looked at him, unafraid. The way she had laughed, even after facing death.

The way she had made him feel something he had no use for.

His gaze flicked to his desk.

The stack of reports sat precisely where he had left them. Except... something was off.

He moved closer, fingers brushing over the top page until he found it—her note.

A slow exhale left him as he unfolded the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning the words.

If you're going to write me love letters, at least try to be romantic about it. Im thinking poetry. and not the depressing ones from your book. -A

For a long moment, he just stared.

Then, despite himself, his lips curved.

The smallest thing—barely a flicker of amusement—but there it was.

He should crumple the paper. He should find her insolence irritating, a nuisance to be stamped out before it became a problem.

But he didn't.

Instead, he ran his thumb over the ink as if tracing the shape of her words.

Saints help him.

She was going to be trouble.

And worse still—he wasn't sure he wanted to stop her.

⁂

It was fragmented. Flickering. Not a memory, but not quite a dream.

Lidiya stood in a sea of shadows, but this darkness was alive—breathing, shifting, watching. Her light pulsed at her fingertips, but it did not drive the shadows away. It only made them sharper. Hungrier.

Ahead, Kirigan stood at the edge of a battlefield, his black kefta billowing as if caught in a storm.

He was not older. Not different.

Just... distant.

Something in her chest clenched. She didn't know why.

A voice whispered—low, ancient, curling around her like smoke.

"Darkness seeks the Sun. The Sun seeks the Dark. The world breaks beneath them."

The battlefield twisted.

A throne split down the centre.
A crown slipping from someone's grasp.
Blood. On her hands.
Kirigan turning away. His expression unreadable. His form unravelled into shadow.

"No."

She lunged forward—

The ground cracked open beneath her feet.

Lidiya reached—desperate—

The vision shattered.

She woke gasping, the darkness of her tent pressing down like something almost sentient.

The dream clung to the edges of her mind—elusive like mist slipping through her fingers.

And in his own tent, Kirigan's eyes snapped open.

The air felt wrong.

A hollow absence. A presence. A whisper of something just beyond reach.

Neither remembered the dream. Not fully. Not yet.

Day 14

The open wild had been dangerous—but it had been free. Lidiya had breathed easier out here, despite the cold, despite the battles, despite his ever-looming presence. There was no court watching her every move, no crown hanging over her head like a blade waiting to drop.

But Os Alta loomed ahead.

The city was different from how she remembered it. Too big. Too golden. Too much. The towering palace domes burned beneath the midmorning sun, blinding, as if daring her to look too closely. The city sprawled beyond the walls, an intricate web of power and secrets she had spent her whole life avoiding.

Her stomach twisted. The closer they got, the quieter she became.

Mera and Desa noticed, sneaking glances at her between hushed whispers. Even Kirigan—who had spent most of the journey either challenging or infuriating her—studied her with that insufferably knowing expression.

Then, of course, he opened his mouth.

"Ah," he mused, voice smooth with amusement. "Is this you being afraid, or are you simply mourning the loss of an adoring audience?"

She scoffed, rolling her shoulders back. "I don't get afraid, Kirigan."

"No?" He arched a brow. "You're quiet. That's practically a crisis."

Lidiya forced a smirk. "I'm pacing myself. Don't want to overwhelm Os Alta the moment I step through the gates. They need time to prepare."

Kirigan huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But his gaze flickered—just for a moment—toward the last stretch of open land. His grip on the reins was just a little looser.

Lidiya noticed.

The Darkling was many things—a monster, a manipulator, a man she could not quite figure out—but he was not a man who enjoyed being caged. Os Alta was his domain, but out here, he had been something else. A little more at ease. A little less tightly wound. No court. No King. No suffocating expectations.

And now, with the gates ahead, that fleeting freedom was slipping away.

The army shifted around them. The wild, reckless ease of the road was gone. The men rode straighter, their faces smoothing into impassive focus. The soldiers who had once joked around fires, and indulged in flirtations and wagers, were already becoming something colder.

It was time.

Lidiya inhaled sharply, lifting her chin. No hesitation. No cracks in the mask.

She forced her shoulders to relax, her posture to lengthen. The stiffness in her grip eased as she adjusted her hands on the reins, letting them rest just lightly enough to feign control. Not rigid, not tense—composed. Every movement is measured, and effortless. A noblewoman did not let the weight of her station show. A bastard did not let the court see her bleed. A Sun Summoner did not let them doubt her strength.

She had played many roles in her life, but this one had to be her finest performance.

Beside her, Kirigan did the same.

She watched it happen—the slow, seamless shift as his expression smoothed, the weight of command settling over him like a second skin. The sharp edges of his restlessness vanished, his presence sharpening into something absolute. Unyielding. Not just a man, but a force.

For days, she had seen glimpses of something else beneath the armour—a quick wit, a grudging amusement, something nearly human. But that man was gone.

Now, the Darkling rode in his place.

The weight of their transformation rippled through the ranks.

The soldiers adjusted, their movements growing disciplined, their chatter silencing. The reckless ease of the road was gone, replaced with the unspoken awareness that they were returning not as weary travellers, but as an army. And an army did not slouch at the gates of Os Alta.

Lidiya could feel Mera and Desa watching.

They had seen her slip into masks before, but this was different. The shift was not only in her posture, in her face—it was in her very presence. It was something more than noble training, more than courtly performance.

It was power.

And yet, what unsettled them most wasn't her.

It was him.

Because Kirigan moved the same way.

He was not slipping into a role. He was the role.

Desa swallowed, straightening in her saddle. Mera adjusted her expression, letting her usual sharpness fade into something cool, effortless. If Lidiya could do it, if the Darkling could do it, then so could they.

By the time they reached the gates, all four of them had become something else.

And Os Alta was watching.

Chapter Text

The road to the Grand Palace was wide and lined with trees, their branches swaying with the early summer breeze. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the cobblestone path, and the air carried the scent of blooming lilacs and warm earth. It was still early, the chill of morning lingering in the shade, but the heat of the day had begun to settle in.

They rode through the heart of Os Alta at a measured pace, hooves clattering against stone as the city thrived around them. Vendors called from their stalls, voices weaving through the hum of conversation. The rich, buttery scent of fresh bread mingled with roasting chestnuts and the faint tang of iron from blacksmiths at work.

People stared.

They always did when The Darkling rode through the streets.

But today, their gazes lingered on her.

Sun Summoner.

The word rippled through the crowd, a whisper passed from mouth to mouth. Some watched in awe, others in fear. A few even crossed themselves, as if warding off something unnatural.

Lidiya didn't flinch. Didn't break stride.

Kirigan rode beside her, his posture effortless, his expression unreadable. This attention was nothing to him. She, however, could feel the weight of it pressing down, heavy as a mantle she had never asked for.

Not yet.

Behind them, Mera and Desa kept their distance, their faces carefully composed. They did not look at her, nor at Kirigan, but Lidiya felt the tension between them like a thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, after an hour of winding through the city's veins, the gilded gates of the Grand Palace loomed before them.

The weight of it settled on her shoulders before she even crossed the threshold.

She wasn't the only one who felt it.

At her side, she watched it happen—the slow, seamless shift as Kirigan's expression smoothed, the weight of command settling over him like a second skin. The sharp edges of his restlessness vanished, his presence sharpening into something absolute. Unyielding. Not just a man, but a force.

For days, she had seen glimpses of something else beneath the armour—a quick wit, a grudging amusement, something nearly human. But that man was gone.

Now, the Darkling rode in his place.

The shift rippled through their ranks. The guards straightened, their grips tightening on their weapons. The Grisha around them fell into step without hesitation. Even the air inside the palace seemed to still, as if bending beneath the weight of his presence.

Lidiya refused to react, refused to show anything at all. She adjusted her own mask in kind, letting her expression smooth into something unreadable. If he could become a myth before their eyes, so could she.

As they passed through the gates, the scent of blooming lilacs faded beneath something colder. The air within the Grand Palace was thick with incense, candle smoke, and polished wood—opulent, suffocating. It wrapped around her like a noose, a weight pressing against her lungs.

She had survived worse. She had endured.

She would not falter.

Then the attendants came.

Mera and Desa barely had a moment to react before hands reached for them, ushering them away with quiet efficiency. Palace servants, their expressions empty, their movements precise.

Lidiya tensed.

A single heartbeat of silence.

Then Kirigan's voice, smooth and absolute:

"They will be taken care of."

Not prisoners. Not captives. But not free, either.

Mera glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable, but Lidiya saw the tension in her jaw, the way her hands curled into fists. Desa—sweet, careful Desa—tried to smile, but her eyes flicked to the soldiers, to the palace walls, to Lidiya.

Neither of them wanted to leave her.

Neither of them had a choice.

Lidiya forced herself to nod. A silent command. Go. I'll be fine.

It was a lie, but a necessary one.

Then they were gone.

The doors shut behind them, and the silence that followed was heavier than any of the palace's golden walls. The weight of it coiled around her throat like a leash.

She hadn't set foot in Os Alta since she was a child.

She and Petro had been brought to court together, hand in hand, barely eight years old, their hearts hammering as the Grand Palace rose before them.

It had been Lady Mareva—the sharp-eyed mistress of their manor—who had escorted them through the gates. Their mother was long dead by then, they had no one else to bring them, and King Pyotr had summoned them for the first—and last—time.

She still remembered how tightly Petro had clutched her fingers, how they had whispered back and forth in hurried Ravkan, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the illusion that they belonged there.

The palace had been too big, too gilded, the air thick with perfumes that made her nose itch. Servants had fussed over them, scrubbing away the dust of the countryside, dressing them in silks too fine for a pair of bastards.

Petro had hated the formal tunic, yanking at the stiff collar. He had leaned toward her, muttering, "I feel like a stuffed goose on a noble's plate."

She had smothered a laugh, nudging him hard. "You look like one too."

That night, they had curled up in an unfamiliar bed, whispering secrets into the dark.

And the next morning, when they had been brought before the King, Petro had bowed too deeply, nearly toppling over. Lidiya had giggled before hastily covering her mouth. The court had stared. The Queen had frowned. But the King had merely smirked.

"So these are mine?"

Not my children. Not my son, my daughter.

Just mine.

The weight of that word had pressed down on them both. Petro had stopped fidgeting. Lidiya had stopped smiling.

And when they had left court, Petro had slipped his ring onto her finger.

"If we're not allowed to be royals, we'll be something else."

"Like what?"

"Legends." He had grinned, eyes full of mischief. "Kings don't last. But legends never die."

It had been too big on her then. Now, it fit like it had always belonged to her.

Her fingers twisted the ring on her hand. Petro's ring. A piece of him, here, where he should have stood beside her.

She had left this place with her twin at her side. They had been children together—held hands, whispered secrets, stood before the King and Queen with wide, nervous eyes, and imagined a future where maybe, just maybe, they belonged.

Now, she was here alone.

Kirigan said nothing as they walked deeper into the palace, but she knew he noticed—he always noticed. The way her grip tightened, the way her shoulders tensed for just a moment before she smoothed them out again.

She twisted the ring on her hand, but she felt his gaze like a brush of cold air against her skin. Watching. Measuring. Placing another piece of her into a puzzle only he could see. But she knew he noticed.

She exhaled slowly. Steadied herself.

They had not won. They had not tamed her.

She was here on her terms.

And she would make them all regret that.

So she took another step forward, where he gestured. And Kirigan, with that damnable half-smirk, followed.

⁂

The attendant led Lidiya through the halls of the Little Palace with precise, measured steps. She matched the pace easily, her own stride controlled, careful.

The weight of the place pressed down on her—too grand, too gilded, too much expectation. She barely let herself look at the details. Not yet.

Kirigan walked at her side, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his stride unhurried. To anyone watching, he was simply escorting his Summoner to her quarters, ensuring her comfort. That was all.

And that was precisely how he played it.

"You will find everything you need here, Miss Erben," the attendant said as they reached a set of doors. She pushed them open, revealing a lavish suite of rooms. Large. Immaculate. Luxurious.

Cold.

Not hers.

Lidiya let no hesitation show as she stepped inside, scanning the space with polite disinterest. This wasn't a home. This was a stage.

Behind her, Kirigan inclined his head, his tone perfectly even. "I will return in a few hours to escort you to the royal court. The King and Queen will expect introductions."

Lidiya turned back to him, her expression carefully neutral. "Of course, General."

His gaze lingered a moment longer, assessing. Not in concern—no, he wouldn't show concern, not here. But he was watching. Reading her.

Whatever he saw, he said nothing.

Just a final, courteous nod before he turned and strode away, his black kefta vanishing into the corridors like a shadow swallowed by candlelight.

Lidiya exhaled softly, stepping fully into the room as the doors shut behind her.

And then—

"So," a familiar voice drawled, rich with amusement.

Lidiya startled—just slightly. Then, the mask cracked. Just a little.

Genya sat waiting, arms folded, eyes glinting with mischief.

"How was that for a grand arrival?"

⁂

By the time Lidiya emerged from the bath, skin warm and flushed from the heat, the maids had already laid out her clothing. Her new kefta gleamed black with intricate gold embroidery—a declaration of power and alignment.

A silent statement that she belonged to the Darkling. She put that thought aside for later.

She exhaled softly, gaze drifting over the room—too perfect, too polished. This wasn't a home. This was a stage. The silence pressed in around her, thick as the velvet drapes framing the windows. She resisted the urge to touch anything, to disturb the careful order of the space.

And then—

"So," a familiar voice drawled, rich with amusement.

Lidiya barely had a moment to breathe before Genya was already herding her toward the vanity, a wicked smirk playing at her lips.

"Sit," she instructed, pulling pins from her belt and shaking out her sleeves like an artist preparing a canvas.

Lidiya arched a brow but obeyed, lowering herself onto the cushioned stool. Genya stepped behind her, gathering the damp platinum waves of her hair with practised ease.

"You've been in the sun too long," she mused, twisting a lock between her fingers. "Your hair has lighter streaks."

Lidiya smirked. "And here I thought you'd tell me I have a 'healthy glow.'"

Genya scoffed. "You look like you fought a pack of wolves and lost. But don't worry—I can fix that."

Lidiya barely suppressed the instinct to turn away. She wasn't ashamed of the weariness clinging to her face, the bruises marking her jaw. They were proof—of her survival, of what it had taken to get here. But proof had no place in a court that only cared for illusions.

"Fine," she muttered, lowering herself onto the stool.

Genya's fingers swept down the length of Lidiya's hair, and suddenly, the strands gleamed. The dullness of travel vanished, replaced by a rich silver sheen, as if the moonlight itself had kissed her hair.

Lidiya blinked at her reflection. "That's... mildly terrifying."

Genya grinned. "You're welcome."

She moved on to her face, tilting Lidiya's chin up with two fingers. Her sharp eyes flicked over every imperfection—the faint bruises at her jaw, the exhaustion lingering beneath her eyes. With a flick of her wrist, the bruises faded, the weariness smoothed away, and her complexion taking on a soft, ethereal glow.

"Impressive," Lidiya admitted.

"I know." Genya smiled, smug. "Now, let's talk gowns."

Lidiya glanced toward the kefta. "That thing comes with trousers and boots, doesn't it?"

Genya gave her a pointed look. "It does. You're not wearing them."

Lidiya scoffed. "And why not?"

"Because you, my dear, are not just a Grisha. You are a noblewoman, whether you like it or not, and tonight you will look the part."

Lidiya narrowed her eyes. "I don't need to play dress-up for them."

Genya leaned in, voice smooth as silk. "You don't. But you do need to make an impression."

The maids had already laid out an array of dresses across the bed. Each was clearly selected with care—some in rich jewel tones, others in softer hues, but one thing was certain.

They were all dresses meant for a noblewoman, not a soldier.

Lidiya frowned, crossing her arms. She had spent years watching the daughters of nobles drape themselves in silks and velvets, twirling in ballrooms, always part of a world that had never belonged to her. And yet, here she was—expected to step into that role as if she had been born for it.

She took a slow step forward. Her fingers brushed over a deep sapphire gown, its fabric cool beneath her fingertips. Another was smoky grey, subtle but commanding. A third, crimson, bold and unapologetic.

Beautiful, all of them. But none of them felt like her.

Then, her gaze landed on the one at the very end.

Black tulle, delicate yet striking, its layers shimmering with the subtlest hints of gold embroidery that darkened to silver toward the hem, like the last flickers of sunlight fading into night. It was elegant yet haunting, a contradiction in itself—both powerful and ethereal.

A dress for someone who could not be easily defined.

Her fingers brushed over the fabric, considering.

Genya watched her carefully, lips curling in satisfaction. "That's the one, isn't it?"

Lidiya hesitated before nodding. "It's... close enough."

Genya snorted. "You're impossible. But at least you have taste." She gestured to the maids, who immediately moved to help Lidiya dress.

As the black kefta settled over her shoulders, its intricate gold embroidery catching the candlelight, Lidiya felt the weight of it—not just the fabric, but what it meant. The kefta belonged to the Darkling. The gown belonged to the court. And somehow, she had to make them both hers.

Genya stepped closer, fingers deftly pinning her hair into a loose, elegant twist, letting a few strands frame her face. She leaned in, eyes flicking over her work with sharp precision.

"A final touch," she murmured, reaching for the perfume.

The scent was floral, rich—jasmine, layered with something darker beneath.

She stepped back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Not bad," she mused. "You almost look like you belong here."

Lidiya met her gaze in the mirror. "Almost?"

Genya smirked, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "You and I both know you don't want to."

Lidiya's lips curled slightly. "Maybe I really do like you."

Genya winked. "Of course you do."

She paused, then added, almost casually, "If Kirigan asks, I'll tell him this was necessary. But between you and me? This isn't about what he wants."

Lidiya turned at that, something sharp passing between them—understanding, perhaps. A quiet rebellion.

She exhaled, adjusting the edge of her kefta as the weight of what came next settled over her. The game was about to begin.