Chapter Text
Zoya had only spoken a mere handful of words to him since they had risen from her bed. Despite both their silent offerings of peace and the hours of rest they had managed to string together, the storm brewing over them had not settled. They had dressed in silence; he had holstered the revolver at his side and handed her a knife to keep, more for his own comfort than hers, while they approached the others just as quietly. Zoya had kept her back straight, her blue eyes glimmering with silver flecks, an ocean under the moonlight. They had gone over their plan and went their separate ways: Linnea and Nadia had ventured into the city, while they took their horses toward the industrial district, accompanied by a very watchful and silent Tamar who had tried to ignore the aura of discomfort looming over them. Every command she had given him had been clipped and soaked in anger. As for him, he could not shake her biting words. You will die, Nikolai, Zoya had spat at him. She had said it like it was his fault, like he had chosen to abandon her someday. And Saints only knew how the knowledge of his mortality weighed on him. Zoya had struck a bleeding wound, an open nerve she must have sensed in him after the war, ruthless and precise as she ever was in battle. The guilt of his own irredeemable flaw ate at him; to have her hit this mark had felt like a betrayal, the pain deeper than any physical blow. To add to that, his dread at not being able to protect her when in harm’s way had been mistaken for mistrust; his temper had flared when he had understood that Zoya believed he still did not trust her.
Nikolai loathed himself for the way they had left things before running off to the warehouse. For surrendering, for having walls of his own he still needed to break through to truly open up to her.
His fists clenched at his sides as they turned the corner of another alley now, diving deeper into the district. Zoya glanced at him over her shoulder, sensing the movement. Faintly, some rational sliver of his brain tried to warn him; they could not storm into battle with this kind of grudge. But he knew nothing would stop Zoya; for him to voice his concerns, she would think he was opposing her again. And he knew he was too proud and stubborn to shy away from a mission, that he loved her too much to let her go on her own. Even if Zoya no doubt shared his turmoil, she did not speak, and returned to looking straight ahead .
Nikolai forced himself to summon that last ounce of concentration he could muster and see this wretched ordeal through. After, he would deal with the downfalls of their altercation. Now, he needed to stay alert. Which was easier said than done, with Zoya’s stiff shoulder in front of him, the deep furrow in her brows betraying that her mind, too, was drifting somewhere else. He shook his head, and let his gaze explore their surroundings.
They had made it to the district unspotted; it was a quiet night, the dark sky clear and poked by stars. The quiet was broken by the occasional sounds of a bustling city that never slept. A too q uiet night, for his liking. Not a full day had passed since Zoya’s outburst that morning; yet, Nikolai was entirely sure that the governor had been alerted, and her incursion had not gone unnoticed. There should have been more guards, more soldiers taking rounds in the whole borough. They had only encountered a couple of tired young boys in uniform; maybe a day was not enough to organize the movement of stocks, but it still was plenty of time to reinforce patrols. Since the move had not been made, they could be fairly sure someone was waiting for them. It felt like a cage was closing in on them, and they were the willing prey walking right into a hunter’s trap. As they turned into another deserted alleyway, Nikolai exchanged a brief glance with Tamar, catching a flash of her alert golden eyes.
“It’s too silent,” he murmured to both of them, the whisper barely audible over the thrum of his heart.
“Something is wrong,” Tamar agreed, hands braced on her axes.
“They are waiting for us, Zoya,” he uttered more urgently, lifting a hand to brush hers, to catch her attention and warn her. She recoiled from his touch and fixed the fetters at her wrists instead.
“I know,” Zoya clipped out briskly, a strained edge to her voice. “We’ll be ready for them.”
Her tone had a finality to it that was impossible to counter. A solid panic gripped him, the tangible fear that something awful was going to happen if they kept going. They could not fight like this; they were used to having each other's backs, to knowing with a look what the other needed. That was why they were so good in battle together. With her refusal to meet his gaze, and his own roaring anger, they were almost a liability to each other. Yet they were stubborn and weary enough not to recognize this particular weakness. The slithering fear remained, tugged at his heart, clogged his brain. He made an exasperated sound with his throat, at which Zoya responded with a withering glare.
“Keep your focus, the two of you,” Tamar advised, cutting through the tension. She was on edge, and no doubt irritated by having to deal with the two childish nuisances she had as friends. The Heartrender stopped abruptly, forcing Zoya to turn and face her and Nikolai. “Can you postpone this ,” she gestured between them angrily, “whatever it is, for later? I need the two of you alert and ready, or we turn on our heels and I hand in my resignation tomorrow.”
Zoya grunted but begrudgingly nodded, and had Nikolai not known her better, he would have missed the slight somber exhale she made, the faint tremor in her hands. It made his heart even more sore. Tamar moved with the inconspicuousness only a spy possessed, leaving them to face each other. They stared at one another in utter silence; if part of him wanted to reach for her again, the other was scarred by her refusal of his touch earlier. Zoya seemed to be facing the same internal battle. In the end, she squared her shoulders and just nodded at him. Nikolai did not stop her when she turned to go.
Damned stubbornness , he grunted to himself as he picked up the pace. Hers and mine. Zoya would probably have not appreciated the irony; maybe they could take turns being the headstrong one. He could propose a calendar to her, he considered, if one night he felt particularly inclined to have his neck snapped. In his reverie, he almost bumped against Tamar, who was now standing in front of the warehouse. Their presence was shielded by the darkness; the shadows gathered on Nikolai’s feet as the demon awakened, sharpening its senses. As before, no one was spotted, save from the two guards stationed at the entrance. Nikolai checked his pockets, finding the vials of explosive liquid they were supposed to place near the crates. They shared a last quick look, and plunged into action.
Tamar and Zoya sprinted forward first; the guards fell to the ground with a soundless thud under Tamar’s power, as Zoya managed to create a bubble of air around the warehouse that shut out every noise from outside and within.
They silently snuck inside, and he allowed himself to marvel for a second at the impressive labyrinth of crates in front of them. Wherever had the Governor acquired such an amount of the drug, when they had chased every remnant of it up to the end of the known world? Nikolai always felt a pang of awe for the people who outsmarted him, rare as the occurrence was. They needn’t forget how resourceful the Kerc merchers and West Ravkan elite were. Zoya moved them to the center of the building and squared her feet in a fighting stance, her hands still moving in circles to hold their cover.
When she signaled them to go, Nikolai dared not look at her again, instead scurrying inside the maze of wooden boxes. Later , he amended himself, later you will fix it. The quicker it was over, the better. Tamar ran to the left, swiftly dropping the explosives under every pile she passed. He ran alongside a row of crates, then two, and found himself back where Zoya was, sweat already glinting on her forehead. The sight of her struck him, as it always did, the determination in her gaze. He wanted to marvel at her, to keep her close; he moved out of his own will to do so, drawn to her like a magnet. As he did though, the striking sound of a firing gun pierced the silence. A bullet ran along Zoya’s side, tearing the kefta but missing the mark. The near hit seemed to snap her out of her trance, making her lose her concentration for the briefest of seconds, the sudden rush of the noises coming from outside deafening. Impressive as her sound-proof creation might be, it required her to focus a great deal of power; which was probably why she had not felt the marksmen move on the upper balcony. Another bang cut the air, but a sudden wall of wind slammed in front of them and halted the course of the bullets. Nikolai barely registered Tamar panting beside him; his demon hurled free, hovering, just as he rolled his revolver out and the Heartrender swung her axes. In the time it took Zoya to reform her protective bubble of air, another round of ammunition was emptied at their feet. This time, both he and Tamar followed the sounds, spotting four cloaked figures perched on the iron railings.
“Go,” Zoya spat out through gritted teeth. “I’ll cover you.”
At the Queen’s command they were off chasing the gunmen, who upon seeing the two people after them took off like spiders. He swore under his breath as he and Tamar raced through the crates, covering her as he shot aimlessly above their heads; he only needed to get her near enough to stop their damned hearts. The chase was short lived though, as the four assassins with the advantage of height disappeared easily from view, making it impossible to cause any sort of damage. The gunshots suddenly stopped, and an eerie quiet descended over them. They stood back-to-back, their heads turned upwards, weapons at the ready. Every once in a while, a shot echoed around them, but never landed true. Nikolai realized in a jolt that the men didn’t have any intention to kill them; turning around, he found out with horror that they were in another section of the warehouse. Away from Zoya. A dreadful knowledge crept in his mind.
“That was the trap,” he shook his head with understanding. Tamar threw him a glance, her eyes wide. How could they have been so naive? Those marksmen had lured them away. “They wanted to separate us from Zoya.”
His voice was hoarse, needles in his throat, and as soon as the words were out he was panting again, running back to his light, to the one person he constantly failed at protecting. When he got to her again, his heart stuck in his throat.
Zoya now stood in front of a different figure, one that was not amongst the previous attackers, not even dressed like them. A man was looking at her with cold, calculating eyes. She stood with her back to Nikolai, still in her fighting stance, feet planted on the ground. Her focus was solely on him, palms crackling with static sparks.
The stranger chuckled and spat on the floor; he looked older than them, not by much. His eyes were contoured by deep dark circles, his face cut by prominent cheekbones and a scar that ran above his nose. Long midnight hair hung loose on his shoulders. With a shudder, Nikolai noted that his clothes reminded him of a uniform that used to wage terror in Ravka: the one the Druskelle wore.
Under Nikolai and Zoya’s careful scrutiny, the man moved his hands upwards; the prince recognized the gesture even before the ground rumbled beneath him and the windows blew up into shreds. The man was not just human, but a Grisha, summoning his Small Science. And judging by the earthquake he had just provoked, it was not any Grisha; a Fabrikator, clearly under the influence of parem or whatever variant the Kerch had managed to create.
He looked different from the addicts they had seen in the war, though. More in control, determinate, which made the sight of him only more menacing. Linnea had said they were trying to alter the drug, making it more bearable. They could very well be looking at one of the first subjects of the experiment.
Whoever he was or whatever he had become, it did not really matter. What mattered was Zoya, standing directly in his line of attack. What mattered was the flock of ruins the Fabrikator lifted from behind him, and with a low growl, hurled toward the queen.
Without second thought, Nikolai launched himself at her, his demon following closely behind, the shadows snarling and twisting around him. As soon as his feet lost their touch on the ground, a violent gust of wind slammed into his chest and sent him rattling to the floor. He hoisted himself up on his elbows, blinking, and when the mist cleared from his sight, he saw Zoya standing at the center of a whirlwind, hand raised mid-hair. She had been the one to push him aside, and sent the ruins flying behind the Fabrikator.
“Stand back!” Zoya commanded over the deafening howling. Unbelievably, the order was directed at him and Tamar, who was bracing herself on a column, shielding her eyes from the sand Zoya’s power had kicked up. With a flare of frustration, Nikolai realized Zoya was keeping them at bay to let herself deal with the Grisha. A Queen commanding her soldiers to keep in line.
The Fabrikator’s look had a sort of erratic quality, the sharp grey eyes glazed over with raw need. His mouth cut into a dangerous sneer. As soon as he was up on his feet again, he frantically paced back and forth; a sharp movement of his arm through the air sent the floor rumbling.
“Look at this!” He spat , scornful. “The almighty Grisha queen, gracing with her presence. I see you have come running with your little shadow servant, how nice of you all to attend this joyful party.” He sketched an irreverent bow in her direction; his voice dripped with sarcasm and disdain, rough and low. Zoya gritted her teeth and the wind howled higher, stronger.
“Who did this to you?” She asked, careful. Nikolai saw her assessing her enemy, saw her eyes darting around them. He tried to take a step closer to her but the strength of her power kept him away.
Stop this, Zoya, he wanted to scream. Let me come to you.
She would have not listened.
“You think they forced this on me?” The Fabrikator spoke, a harsh smile like a wound on his face. His finger pointed toward Zoya, accusatory. “I chose this. I wanted this. You took power away from us, you stripped us of a chance to be grander, invincible,” he opened his arms then, leaving them hanging, palms upwards. “What is an amplifier in the face of this ?”
The ground screamed under them, a terrifying shriek of violence; cracks ran from the man’s feet, slashing the floor in a sinister web. Nikolai lost his footing and braced himself to stand, desperately trying not to put more distance between him and them.
“The noble Grisha Queen, thinking she’s building a shelter for us. You are weakening us!”
The Fabrikator barked out a laugh, a twisted sound, screeching nails on glass. The demon trembled behind Nikolai, his eyes fixed on Zoya. The need to snatch her away was relentless, unforgiving. He could sense her pain, the wound that had been inflicted inside of her by those words. She flinched, and the hold on her power faltered; the wall trembled, the crates came crashing down from their piles, the parem shattering on the floor.
“Is power the thing you are searching for?” Zoya’s voice stood firm, betraying nothing of the turmoil raging on behind her eyes, echoing in Nikolai’s chest. “This,” she gestured to the stock around them. “Is not going to give you power. It’s going to enslave you.”
It was one thing for Zoya to face endless enemies and threats to defend her people. She did that gladly, with every bone in her body and every inch of her strength. She never faltered through those wars. This, though, was not an enemy; it was a brother, a fellow Grisha, plunging a blade in her back, spitting on her efforts to protect them.
“You call it power, I see it as freedom. As an endless possibility. One I can choose to take to make something grand of my life, instead of following another selfish leader like a lost puppy.” She flinched, imperceptibly; for all the things Zoya still loathed about herself, the one she feared the most was becoming the monster that had taken away her family and exploited her people. “Enough of that tho,” the Fabrikator hissed. “Let’s see if the eternal Queen bleeds just as any other Grisha does.”
They stalked each other like feral beasts. A low rumble shook the earth, echoing in the vaulted dome of the warehouse. Nikolai wanted to shield her from this; his shadows seemed to escape his hold and rush away from him. That was when Zoya lifted her hands, and the air crackled with electricity, startling the demon away. Stand back , he could almost hear her repeat, the fearsome general.
A horrifying knowledge truly settled in then; Zoya was not holding them back to prevent them from taking initiative. She was protecting the Fabrikator from them. Because she knew Nikolai would have not waited a second to dig his claws into his neck, if it meant protecting her from danger. And this was not dangerous. This was a fellow Grisha, one who had a very different appearance from the apathetic ones they had seen in those addicted to the drugs. This one, in her eyes, could be saved. She would not hurt the Grisha. Not if she could prevent it.
Which meant he was going to hurt her first.
The man threw his fist in the air, and the ceiling cracked. But Zoya had been fighting her whole life, and had the advantage of having a dragon’s reflexes on her side. With a side glance, she caught Nikolai trying to reach her and shoved him back violently. The debris falling from up above sent astride by the force of the gust she summoned. “Stay back,” she said again, but this time it was a plea. Stay out of danger. Her voice shook with his same terror; the Fabrikator’s eyes darted between them, glinting with satisfaction.
“So it’s true what they say,” he mused. Zoya brushed sweat and hair away from her face with trembling hands. “He is your weakness, just as much as you were his. What a moving tale you will one day tell to your children,” the man sneered, half-amused.
“ Enough, ” her voice cut through the rumbling noise inside the building. Her back straight, her chin held high. She clenched her fist, and the very atmosphere around them vibrated with power. A croaked breath went out of the man’s throat as he fell on his knees, his hands flying to scrape around his neck. The air had been snatched out of his lungs, useless organs now crumpling on themselves. “You cannot comprehend what power is. You cannot grasp the meaning of it.”
Zoya barely flicked her wrist, the movement almost unnoticeable; a sudden burst of flames sparked from the ground as she slowly walked toward her opponent, seemingly leaving her unscathed. The Fabrikator growled as his fingers still desperately searched for air.
“Power is not dominance, or terror.” As she talked, Zoya approached the man, the fetters dangling on her wrists. “It’s not destruction,” she added, and the wind chanted with her. From the crack in the ceiling, rain poured through, faint at first, a cascade then, dampening her hair, soaking her kefta . He saw her brush the pendant on her neck, her gaze severe, fierce. “I believed it was protection. It’s not; power is mercy, and hope.” Zoya seemed to glow under the storm. She had never looked more saintly, never more terrifying. Still, Nikolai’s chest tightened with worry; she was too close. Too close to an enemy who could tear down the building with a movement of his hand. “It is a choice, but one to better ourselves. To build a future. You will not rob my people of this chance. We can show you.”
At her last words, her eyes glinted with outrage. Keeping him alive was a long shot; he was not a harmless prisoner, a weakened soldier. Nikolai watched as Zoya lowered herself to the man’s level, his demon thrashing behind him, his forehead damp from the struggle to keep it leashed. Too close, a dark voice boomed inside him with discontent.
Had they not been in a fight, Nikolai would have known what to do. He would have known to trust her, not to let his worry overcome his rationality. Had his mind not been clouded by the pain of their confrontation, of the idea of losing her, he would have known to hold his surroundings. But none of this was true; the truth was that he was envisioning with sudden clarity and devastating sorrow what a life without her could be, and he could not tear his eyes away from the sight of her.
He would soon realize how much this could have cost him. The prince had been too intent on looking out for her, too worried by her dangerous position, that his senses had been numbed; thus, he heard the sharp movement behind him a moment too late, accompanied by the urgent call of Tamar trying to warn him. Turning swiftly, he saw a burst of metal shine in his range of vision, then a gunshot bristled through the air, then another; a flash of pain in his shoulder blinded him for an instant. With the demon’s eyes he saw himself gripping the limb as a red stream of blood began coursing down his arm. The darkness creature reacted, a brutal growl erupting from his throat. Shadows sprinted toward the man who fired the shots, crashing on him, enveloping him; the moistness of blood seeped through the claws. Enough , Nikolai clenched his teeth, retracting his monster, his head snapping toward Zoya, terrified at having lost sight of her. Bang after bang , bullets started ricocheting again in the vast space; Tamar rolled beside him, fists clenched in the attempt to stop as many hearts as she could sense. But Nikolai had only one thought in mind; his eyes caught Zoya’s, widened blue irises locked on his figure. The controlled countenance of the soldier had washed away from her features, and he saw her beautiful unguarded self, a frightened girl who wanted to be sure he was safe. That instinct seemed to take hold on her, to propel her legs to come to him; the pressure she was keeping on her powers relented, enough for the Fabrikator crouched beside her to take an intake of air and swiftly shove a hand inside his uniform. With horror, Nikolai watched the glow of a blade slicing the air, disappearing under Zoya’s kefta .
Time seemed to slow down as Nikolai held his breath. The handle of the blade stood at the height of her stomach; Zoya clutched it, brushing her fingers on it, stunned by the sight. With harrowing slowness, she pulled the dagger out, a groan escaping her as her kefta rapidly drenched with blood. Too much blood. She pushed a hand on the gash, the waves of her hair falling around her face. Power completely slipped her grip, as the blood continued to flow and she lowered herself to the ground. The Fabrikator sneered wickedly, a single stream of red dripping from his mouth. As he wiped it away, he made to close his fist and end his work. Nikolai’s mind exploded with the sight of Zoya crumbling on herself. What did it, though, was the whisper that ran from her lips, his own name ushered softly in a plea for help.
“Nikolai,” she breathed, and the sound tore through him, crushed his bones and traveled in his veins, an arrow shot to the center of his being.
Whatever control he was keeping snapped wildly, instantly. The demon left his body in a vicious bolt, baring his fangs; it hauled the Fabrikator up, shadows curled around his throat. The man’s gray eyes flashed with terror, and whatever fight he was about to put up died with him as Nikolai buried his teeth in the soft flesh of the Grisha’s neck. A metallic taste laced Nikolai’s mouth, horrifying in his victory. Just as the demon tossed the lifeless body on the ground, rounds of bullets began firing from above. The shadows engulfed Zoya, shielding her from view, as he traced the origin of the sounds. The one from his left suddenly stopped, likely thanks to Tamar’s handiwork. He launched himself upward, wings booming inside the warehouse. His fangs found their preys, scattered over the balcony with their useless rifles pointed at the blur of darkness in front of them. His talons sank in their chests, their hearts, tearing them apart. The screams meant nothing to his ears, when all he could focus on was Zoya’s whispering his name, a curse inside his mind. A man fell, then another, more than they had counted before. His hands were slick, his chest tight, every breath burned with a metallic aftertaste.
The carnage could be endless, for those who had tried to harm her. He would chase them into oblivion to get his vengeance, to keep her safe.
Then that whisper reached him again. That voice that pulled him out of even the worst of nightmares. Zoya was ushering his name again, and this time what she meant was: come back .
Come back to me.
In a blur, the demon was beside her. An ominous silence had settled. Zoya was panting hard, her face pale; when she lifted her gaze, cheeks streamed with tears, two beasts looked into each other’s depths. Silver slitted pupils met glinting red ones. Nikolai extended a shuddering taloned hand toward her, afraid for a moment that Zoya would not take it.
But Zoya had seen him and had not shied away from him; she had seen him and loved him nonetheless.
So she gripped that claw and let him help her to her shaky feet. The dragon leaned toward him. “My turn,” she murmured, as the shadows swirled around her, stroking her hair once, gently. Zoya bit her lip, fighting the pain, a determined look on her face. “You stay back now, Nikolai.”
With that, she let go of his hand; Nikolai called the demon back, slamming it into his own body once again, so close to her but still too far. “Zoya'' he called helplessly, and shot up to reach her. He ignored the sight of the Fabrikator’s limp corpse, of the neck twisted at a wrong angle, of the blur of flesh that remained of his throat. He could not consider the lives he had taken right now.
Nikolai had barely taken two steps when the storm stilled and then, in booming thunder, the sky came crashing down on them.
Zoya stood straight at the center of it; she looked at him, and Nikolai was not sure where she was, who remained. Before him the Dragon queen extended a hand toward the sky, where a swarm of thick clouds and crackling lightning had gathered, and slammed her palm on the floor.
A single violet lightning bolt tore the night open and went through her, exploding from within her frail human body. The electricity ran through the cracks the Fabrikator had traced on the ground and made its way inside the bones of the building, shaking it violently. The devices they had placed ignited and the night came alight with flames, bursting uncontrollably upward, devouring everything in their path. Zoya fell back, fists clenched in the agonizing attempt of keeping the chaos away from Nikolai and Tamar. The Heartrender made her way toward him, gripping his arm, rocking him out of his stupor.
“It’s crashing down, we need to leave,” she shouted urgently. Her voice came from far away. The only soundls Nikolai could hear were Zoya’s ragged breathing, the thump of her heart slowing down, the flow of her blood dampening the floor. Her pain, searing, devastatingly bright. Her sorrow, her anger.
In a beat, he was crouched beside her, cradling her in his arms. Zoya’s skin was cold as ice; her lashes fluttered closed, and everything she was to him, everything she meant, came down on him.
“Nikolai,” she breathed, gripping his shoulder. A flash of pain sent him staggering as he tried to get up with her, and he remembered he had been shot.
“Tamar, out!” he shouted back to the Heartrender, eyeing the structure around them as it lost its balance, as the vast column of wrought iron swayed and cracked dangerously. Zoya’s fists were still clenched, and he realized she was commanding the storm to wait, to hold the building in place as they ran.
“Just a little longer,” he murmured in her ear. Zoya’s eyes met his and she exhaled, her lips trembling. He begged his limbs to move faster, farther out of the burning chaos they were leaving behind. He begged the Saints he did not believe in anymore, begged Juris and whoever watched over Zoya. Dust and smoke clouded his vision; then the bite of the chilly night breeze stung his cheeks, and with a breath of immense relief he gazed at the dark blue sky. Nikolai felt a hold on his arm tugging him forward violently, Tamar’s voice reaching him, relieved. He staggered, his legs failing him. He fell to his knees and encircled Zoya with his arms, holding her as the warehouse crumbled into pieces behind them.
Tamar crouched beside them, her palm hovering over Zoya’s wound as the other hand traced her pulse on her delicate wrist. Nikolai let her work, delicately shoving the dirt away from Zoya’s face. Never in his life had his mind been so loud and so utterly empty at the same time, never he had felt so excruciatingly helpless and desperate. When Zoya groaned and tried to get up he held her down, pressing his lips on her forehead to try to stop himself from shaking or crying from relief.
“Would you let Tamar heal you before you go be a heroine again?” he murmured shakily. Zoya shook her head just as Tamar said worriedly “Something is not right.”
“It was poisoned,” Zoya managed to get out weakly. Her breathing increased, and though she was trying to push through the venom dragging her down, Nikolai felt the ache, as he felt her blood clinging to his clothes. Tamar cursed loudly, clenching her teeth.
“We need to get her back,” she clipped out. Nikolai had already pulled Zoya up, close to his chest. Ferocious, deadly Zoya, bleeding out on him. She managed to mutter a protest, but it was broken by a cough that shook her body and left her with red stains on her lips. Sheer terror gripped him. Nikolai did not remember at what point they had started running back for their horses; he was moving out of his own will to get her to safety. He did not know if the strength keeping them afoot was his, or hers; his mind meddled with Zoya’s, their feelings shared, doubled in their intensity. He did not know where she ended and he started, whose pain he was feeling, whose heartache. Zoya kept trying to haul herself up; she needed to stay still, not struggling with whatever poison was running through her veins.
“I am about to do something you won’t like, love,” he murmured, as Zoya’s eyelids shut again and she weakly reached for his collar, groaning in protest.
“It’s bad when you call me that,” she whispered, every word less intelligible than the last, every sound more feeble.
“You hate it so much that I use it so that your nerves distract you.” Blindly, he let Tamar help them on his horse. He kept talking mostly to soothe himself, to make her react again, to ensure that she still had that bite for him, that glare he loved. That she was breathing and alive and full of life. “Maybe one day you’ll grow to like it.”
To his surprise, Zoya clutched the folds of his shirt tighter, breathing fast against his skin. She pulled at the fabric and pushed back like she was trying to slap him. He might have missed her next words hadn’t they ricocheted on his chest. “I already do,” she blurted out. Only Zoya could have admitted it like that, brisk and annoyed at the fact that Nikolai had not realized it sooner; he might have laughed, or cried, if he had the guts to. Instead he just gazed at her, felt the strength with which she had thrashed against him slowly fading away.
“Tamar, put her under,” he asked his friend, his voice heavy with dread. Tamar nodded, flexing her fingers while she held her reins, but she stilled when Zoya’s faint whisper reached them again.
“Don’t,” she croaked out. “You need me. What if –,” she trailed off, pressing on her wound and clenching her jaw.
“Put her under,”, Nikolai ordered again , the tone of the king slipping back on him. He lowered his forehead on Zoya’s, brushing her eyelids with his lips. “It’s going to be alright. I am taking you home,” he promised, knowing he would give up his life to keep this vow. Zoya nodded, exhaling a long breath and letting her head rest on him. “It’s going to be alright,” he repeated as Tamar’s power soothed Zoya. Her breathing steadied, and when he was sure she was out, he let himself curse loudly out of frustration. Tamar remained focused on Zoya’s vitals as they raced their horses against the clock, Zoya’s life ticking away
Zoya’s frail weight in his arms felt like the wreckage he had been cursed to bring about when those black veins had stained his heart. You couldn’t protect her when it mattered, the demon gloated. Nikolai tugged at the reins, squeezing his eyes against the cold, urging the horse to go faster. What can a mortal do in the face of such forces?
For just a mortal he was, and a failure of one, too.
***
If Nikolai had thought that the nightmare of Zoya’s limp body in his arms would haunt his dreams until his last breath, it was nothing compared to the void he felt when she was scooped up and taken away for healing. His mind reeled on itself as he went over the information Tamar had given him; the wound per se was not critical, but the poison had kept the Healers from closing it, and thus Zoya had kept bleeding. They had spent a good deal of time figuring out what type of venom the dagger had been dipped into to produce an antidote; it was Fjerdan made.
All the while, Zoya had fought her Corporalki from putting her under again, fought the heat in her bones the poison was igniting. At last, someone had concocted an antidote fit enough; Nikolai had patiently stroked her hair, and he had managed to convince her to let Tamar calm her careening heart and lull her into sleep. The Heartrender had approached him quietly once Zoya’s breathing had steadied, looking at her over Nikolai’s shoulder.
When she stole the air from that man’s lungs, Tamar had murmured softly, worriedly, she also gripped his heart, squeezing it until it almost stopped. I felt it. I’m not sure she was aware of it.
Nikolai did not need to see the grave look on Tamar’s face to know that Zoya should have not been able to perform such a feat . It was a Corporalki’s gift. The fact that it happened meant her powers were growing, and not yet fully under her control. As he lurked at the edge of her room, leaning on the doorframe, watching her rest in that unnatural, too quiet sleep, Nikolai decided he would sort out the issue at another time. He gazed at the black veins on his fingers; it felt like they had turned crimson, stained with Zoya’s blood. The sight made his stomach lurch, his vision blur.
A gentle, warm hand was placed on those infernal scars. His head snapped to the side and he met a pair of clear gleaming eyes that reminded him of the sky on a summer day. Linnea smiled softly at him, nodding toward a velvet bench in the sitting room. They sat together in silence; Nikolai let himself exhale for the first time in hours, slowly building up the courage to step outside and face the crowd of people banging on their doors. This time, their intervention had definitely not gone unnoticed, as he had left bodies in the wake of his rage. Nikolai would never get used to the weight of stolen lives that tainted his soul. His sister mercifully handed him a clean shirt she must have snatched somewhere, jolting him back to the moment. He had not even realized he still wore the one soaked in dried blood, the one that felt like it was gnawing at his skin, clinging to it as if it was trying to drag him to hell. He found he did not have the strength to stop it, as he took the piece of clothing from Linnea and stared at it.
“You know she’s fine, right?” His sister considered reassuringly. “She will sleep throughout the day. And will likely wake up ready to scold you for not having handled affairs right.” Nikolai merely nodded; even with the worst being averted, it felt like something nasty and monstrous was clawing at his heart. He was tired, so incredibly tired.
Linnea lightly bumped a shoulder against his. “Sulking is not a good look on you, brother,” she said, giving him a sidelong inquisitive look. Nikolai’s lips twitched in a half-smile. They were really alike; she could have easily been his twin. He wished he had met her sooner.
“I’m doing it with intent.” Nikolai replied easily, though he failed at infusing the lightness he had hoped to have in those words. “So I’d venture it is acceptable; loud minds like ours need reprieve.” Linnea leaned against the seatback; from nowhere, she flicked a pencil between her fingers and hauled her curls on the top of her head with it.
“And what, pray tell, would this intent be?” Her tone was soft and teasing, but he felt Linnea’s gaze studying him. He knew that casual, assessing attitude well; Saints knew how many times he had used it on people. Linnea’s mere presence was soothing, and Nikolai wondered if he was half as good as her with people. Her worry was honest, heartfelt, but she disguised it well. “Is it about drowning in your own pointless guilt and self-deprecation? Or are you pondering how to resume your sparring match from last night and further nourish whatever argument you were having?”
Last night. Nikolai mindlessly looked over at the large windows, and saw the daylight creeping on the horizon, shredding away the darkness. The first question landed too harshly to be addressed, and it was only his to deal with; the other, though, might need Linnea’s advice. “It was mildly awful, to say the least.” He said at last with a long huff. And he knew he and Zoya had to address it and sort it out. Linnea would not press for details, but a small part of him wanted to confide in her. He felt so lost.
“And it got in the way of the mission.” Linnea added softly. Nikolai wanted to bury his head in his hands, or his sorrow in a bottle of whisky. Instead, he merely rubbed his eyes with his palms, his silence enough of a confirmation. His sister hummed in understanding, following his gaze toward the sea, set on fire by the first reddish sunlight of the day. Linnea cut a cunning glance at him before turning back to the windows.
“I won’t presume to know you both well,” Linnea started. He braced himself; his sister was often brutally honest, though her truths were always delivered with a kind of considerate softness. “But I am a keen observer. And I am not sure if the two of you even realize, on a deep level, how much you rely on each other. With everything that happened…” she trailed off, adjusting her hair, fidgeting with the buttons of her fine blouse, as if she was searching for the right words. Then she shook her head. “Hardships are bound to divide people. You stood through them together for years, but now things have changed, the balance has shifted. Maybe you felt like you needed to face some of your struggles alone, and I suspect you both did it to protect the other. Which has its purpose, except - I don’t know. I guess that even if you handle the core elements of a conundrum alone, you can still ease the burden by sharing other aspects of the challenge with those who you love. You see what I am saying?”
Nikolai glanced at her, at her sharp cheekbones and the way she bit her lower lip, lost in her own reasoning. She was his family. And if he had felt like he needed to protect her, it had not really occurred to him up until now how much she could feel the same way about him. How much she could know of him, as she knew herself. He did see what she was saying; they had taken it upon themselves to let the other adjust and face their own battles alone. And Saints damned him, he knew with a painful awareness that he had avoided sharing his fears, his exhaustion. In doing so, it was likely Zoya had kept her insecurities to herself. Whether it had been pride or dread preventing him from searching for her help, in wanting to sort things out on his own, he had left Zoya alone. Shut a part of himself off from her. The whole argument about waiting to make their relationship official had been a way to help her as much as it had been a tool to ease his insecurities and give himself time to sort his role out. Did it feed Zoya’s fears, him acting this way? How alone had he made her feel, for her to end up pushing him away like that?
“I don’t know what to do with myself, Linnea.” Nikolai admitted wearily, leaning in head on the wooden line of the backrest.
“Ask her,” Linnea merely shrugged, matter of factly. As it was the simplest answer in the world. “I have an inkling she will have the answers. And maybe you will bring her to voice questions of her own.” The grip on Nikolai’s heart loosened. The claws seemed to retract, the demon to sit still inside of his chest. They sat in a comfortable quiet for a while, his gaze eyeing Zoya’s slowly rising chest as she breathed safely under the covers. Linnea nudged him playfully on the shoulder again, her look now firm and vaguely amused. “Ask her the other thing, too. You’re going to rip her patience to shreds, you obnoxious lovesick fool.”
Nikolai could not help the full grin that spread on his face. “I’m glad to see we share both a clever mind and an insufferable talent to tease.”
“Younger siblings are usually smarter, you know.”
“No doubt they are.” Nikolai conceded as Linnea returned his grin. His expression softened. “I will. I want to. Saints know how much I want to.” His gaze shifted back to Zoya, smiling again. “She likes you. A lot. Which is rare, to use an understatement. I am beginning to see why.”
“Then you’re not that cunning, if you’re just beginning to see it.” Linnea smirked, twirling a strand of hair onto her finger. She bobbed her chin toward the room. “I like her too. I wish I could spend more time with you.” Nikolai saw the gears turning in her brain, as if she was pondering a decision. Then she shrugged it off with a sudden shake of her head, and regained her focus. She slipped a folded stack of letters from her pocket and handed it to him.
“When you’re ready, sort through them. We found enough to pin the parem on governor Durachov, and the trade he was making with the Merchant’s council.” Nikolai faintly remembered Tamar as she updated him on Linnea and Nadia’s venture, but he had been too distracted by Zoya’s groan of pain to pay any mind to it. “I took the liberty to send words to the Dregs.” He widened his eyes in surprise. Apparently, those thieves and Linnea did work well together. An inclination toward deceit and adrenaline clearly ran in the Opjer family, Nikolai considered. Linnea waved a dismissive hand at him. “They raided Schenck’s study and found other letters. We’ll have them in a couple of hours. Durachov’s involvement is clear, but I suspect he was not acting on his own accord. Nevertheless, it’s enough to bring him down.”
The dagger that had been buried in Zoya’s chest still stood in his hands. “I knew choosing her would come with perils. But I hoped - ,” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I hoped some things would be quicker to change.”
Linnea took the dagger in her fingers, examining it. Nikolai wondered how her childhood had been, growing up in a Fjerda, the sole daughter of a wealthy merchant who was suspected to have a bastard son in Ravka.
I was ten when I first heard rumors of you, Linnea had told him as they sipped on coffee in Ketterdam, one of the first times he had visited her. I was so happy at the idea that I might have a brother waiting for me somewhere. I had not realized it was supposed to be a secret, or something to be ashamed of, until father told me. Until kids had started pestering her about it, and Magnus had told her as much as he could to keep her safe. To keep Nikolai’s claim to the throne safe, back when it had mattered.
Linnea’s mother, Magnus’s wife, died when she was fifteen, from a long and untreatable illness. I considered writing to you, reaching out, the girl had murmured to him, lost in her thoughts. I was so alone, and I needed family. But father worked so hard to keep both of us safe, and I just could not waste his efforts.
He could almost envision her, bent over her books, over her drawings, to find solace, lonely as he had been. In a safe mansion, though, loved and cherished by her parents, until she had to deal with a loss for which there were no words painful enough. Linnea loved to paint; in Nikolai’s study in Os Alta hung a huge canvas of a stormy sea, courtesy of his sister. Maybe she had found comfort in that, too. When rumors got thicker, Magnus had hauled her off to a boarding school in Ketterdam. She had thrown herself in her studies , went to university; madly fell in love with a Kaelish girl with hair of burning flames she thought to marry, who broke her heart. There had been others, then, who had tried to help her piece it back together; a Suli boy who had taught her how to sing and spot the constellations in the sky, nameless faces that had brought her solace and distraction. In the end, her inventions had done the work of healing the wound, and she found purpose, a quiet life.
Nothing mattered anymore when you reached out, she had confessed at last. I settled for a life that still felt too restrictive to bear. I wanted to travel, to see the world, to roam the sea. You gave me the encouragement I needed to find new inspirations beyond graduating. Then she had smirked at him, and gulped down her coffee, resting her chin in her hands. And Saints, you are even tolerable and fairly smart. Everything I wanted in a brother.
The first times they had met had been cautious, polite. In a short while, they had found a kinship with each other none of them had thought possible, a comradery that felt like they had indeed spent their life growing up together. And Nikolai was most grateful for it. He found a sister, a friend. And someone who did not have reserve to smack him in the face when needed.
“Fjerdan prejudices are built on a thousand year’s foundation,” Linnea considered now, voice tight with despise. “They’re hard people, born from ice. Though the crown is now your ally, it would not surprise me to know that dissidents are still lurking in that territory.”
She squared her shoulders, returned the weapon to him and got up smoothly. Giving him a warm smile and a squeeze on his arm, she made to exit the room and leave him. Another thing Linnea deemed unnecessary were formalities, and she stuck to speaking only the utterly necessary words. Everything else was just noise to her. A wave of gratitude washed over Nikolai.
“Thank you, Linnea.” He said. His next steps appeared in front of him, clear, decise. This conversation had somehow managed to turn a restless sea into a quiet ocean. “For everything.”
Linnea glanced at him over her shoulder, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “Whenever you need me, brother. Whatever you need. You finally brought some adventure in my life.”
And just like that, with a wink, she left, leaving her brother with a clearer mind, a lighter heart and a renewed, welcomed sense of purpose.