i.
Zoya didn't know what possessed her to do it.
One moment, she was on a high from having her first amplifier, the star of the Darkling's Grisha, and the next, she was being overshadowed by a newcomer, a girl who'd lived the past sixteen years in ignorance of her power; a girl who'd lived like an otkazat'sya.
The Kermazin filth irritated her. She hated the way she was so effortlessly welcomed into the Little Palace, wearing robes of Summoner's blue, the same colour as her. She didn't belong here, didn't know the years of harsh training, didn't know even the most basic of Grisha theory. She was an outsider and Zoya wasn't going to let her-or anyone else-forget it.
By the time she'd arrived back from Kribirsk, the whispers about the Sun Summoner had already started. Zoya wanted to laugh. There was simply no way that a First Army nobody was going to earn that title overnight.
Perhaps it was the need to show everyone that Starkov was nothing special. They could whisper all they wanted about how she was Ravka's saviour (wasn't that a joke?) and talk in awe about her frivolous light-show, but Zoya wasn't convinced that Starkov had any right to train with them like she was their equal or superior.
She'd gone easy on her at the start of their fight, but an unexpected blow from Starkov followed by cheers in the crowd made something inside her snap. Without even hesitating, she felt the rush of cold air greet her fingertips as she sent the girl flying across the room.
Botkin hadn't been pleased.
Neither was the Darkling.
ii.
The Squaller didn't bother asking after Starkov. She'd been carried back to the Little Palace with a Healer frantically following behind. She could have died for all she cared. With a dark sense of satisfaction, Zoya realized she preferred her dead if only it meant life would continue as normal.
It wasn't long before Ivan's harsh features came into sharp focus as she entered the domed hall later. The news had travelled fast.
"Nazyalensky," he drawled, cocking his head back in the direction of the dark ebony doors. "The Darkling wants a word."
Zoya raised her chin, determined not to let anyone see any trace of weakness. The incident hadn't been an accident. She'd known what she'd done. And she was prepared to face the consequences, even if her stomach lurched uncomfortably at the thought of those hard slate eyes.
Behind her, she heard people whispering feverishly and looking at her as if she were a lamb to be slaughtered. She paid them no mind, following Ivan silently into the Darkling's quarters.
The war room was mercifully empty, but as Ivan closed the door behind them, the space suddenly felt like a prison. She suppressed the small tremor in her spine at the sight of the figure in black, who stood up from his high-backed chair, the dark folds of his kefta unfolding as if he were a nocturnal creature stretching out its wings.
Saints, he was beautiful, the sharp angles of his face catching light and shadow in all the right ways. She should not have been so infatuated with this man, but she found herself drawn in by some invisible string.
She stilled as he edged closer and stopped in front of her, his expression impassive. A lump started forming in her throat but she forced herself to meet his gaze and regretted it immediately. His eyes were hard as ice.
"You behaved like a child."
"Yes, moi soverennyi," she replied quickly, before the sting of his insult could dig deeper. She learned early on that Darkling didn't like excuses or flattery. It was better to make her intentions seem as transparent as possible.
He watched her for an uncomfortable moment and Zoya often had the paranoid suspicion that he was a telepath, silently extracting all her secrets without her knowledge. But she knew this trick of his: he was giving her an opportunity to explain.
"She doesn't belong here," she said, picking her words carefully. "She's completely ignorant of her own power and she hasn't trained like the rest of us. I'm ten times the soldier she is."
He arched an eyebrow slowly. "Is that so?"
His voice was soft, gentle even. To anyone else, it would have looked like he was offering kind words of reassurance or a lover whispering sweet nothings. But she knew better. The Darkling's tranquil fury was more terrifying than whatever tantrum the King of Ravka threw.
"I simply meant," she said, keeping her voice clear and steady, "that Starkov has years of experience to catch up on. She can barely keep up with the rest of us."
"This is not about Alina," he said, glancing down briefly to the silver bracelet at her wrist. "This is about you."
She didn't respond, her mind suddenly fixated on the intimate way he said her name, as if they were already part of some secret club she was not privy to.
"You cannot stand to see someone else take your place," he continued. "So I will make this simpler for you by moving your place elsewhere."
"What?" She stared back at him in disbelief. "My place is here. If anyone should move, it should be Starkov!"
"And you are the judge of what is best for the Sun Summoner?"
She pursed her lips, blinking back the sting that erupted from the corners of her eyes. She'd meant to show him how strong she was, how valuable. She did not think that he'd brush her aside for the Kermazin filth as if all her years of training, all her years proving her ability to him, meant nothing.
The Darkling reached out to hold her chin, his thumb digging into her skin as if he wanted to break her. The touch brought the familiar sense of calm that helped her digest his next words without bursting into tears.
"I have been kind to you, Zoya. I've given you a place with my personal Grisha, gifted you with an amplifier, allowed you to travel where you please. But don't mistake my kindness with clemency. If you are labouring under the delusion that your skills set you apart, make you special, you are mistaken. You are replaceable, like any soldier of the Second Army. Alina is not."
He let his hand fall away and turned away from her, taking that sense of calm with him. Zoya stood absolutely still for a moment, sure that she'd misheard him, but he was already looking over the papers at his desk.
"Ivan will see you out," he added, nodding to the scowling Heartrender. "After the winter fete, you will be leaving Os Alta."
iii.
Zoya had never been a crier. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been upset enough about something that she'd actually shed a tear. Perhaps, many years ago, as a chid.
At first, she hadn't been able to identify the feeling that was washing over her as Ivan led her out of the Darkling's quarters. Disbelief, perhaps, mixed with a deep sense of rejection.
This was not how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to take her side, to consider her opinion like he had on so many other occasions, to offer her an approving nod whenever she impressed him.
She knew the Darkling didn't have favourites, but she considered herself in his confidence somehow. And now, a First Army nobody had stumbled into that place, almost my accident, without even trying, displacing her entire life with a trick of the light.
At the sight of the domed hall, the place where she'd lived and breathed and carved a place for herself, she covered her head in her hands and wept.