She was ninety-six when the light came back. Mal had been in the grave for two months, and yet she seemed to have hardly aged. She had isolated herself behind the walls of Keramzin, when she felt a warmth in her chest - a call she remembered so well. She answered, it obeyed. And she cried.

When he came to her door, she was not surprised. It was only a matter of time before he came. It always was only a matter of time. He had hardly aged a day, it seemed. She supposed that she looked the same. Only his grey eyes betrayed any age - hardened by time. She waited for a retribution that was inevitable - a knife for a knife - but he only breathed her name.

Slowly she learned what he had always known. That years are expendable - that when you live for centuries, years are passing glances. That people die and with them all memories of your previous self. That what was once truth becomes only whispers in the dark.

She had expected the whispers. Pilgrims still traveled the roads between Os Alta and Kribirsk, still saying prayers in her name. And yet as the years turned, the pilgrims went home. Sankta Alina was a legend turned myth: an origin story of those with the power of light. And so she found that when she glowed with delight or burned with anger or light shined from her fingertips, no one paid a second glance.

He on the other hand did not summon in public for centuries. However in private groves or high mountain tops or their rooms at night he would call on the shadows and make them dance. And when the nightmares came, as they inevitably did, she would whisper his name and draw close to him. He would pull the shadows around them, a warm blanket to shut out the night.

Over time they changed. She became harder, more precise. Decades upon decades provided the time to hone her skills until she was fully his equal. She had promised herself when she walked out of Keramzin so many years ago that she would not let him rule her. And he let her. Sometimes out on the wilds of Tsibeya they would light up the sky with their arguments, explosions as their elements collided. And while she would sometimes end up on her back, it was never without a Cut aimed at his throat.

They watched together as dynasties fell and struggled to rise again. She felt the hardness of his hands and the set of his jaw as Ravka threatened to break once again. Murmurs began in the countryside calling for the leadership of the Grisha once again. When he summoned in public for the first time, he was hailed a hero. She nearly laughed at the irony - even stories of the Darkling had faded from memory, became a myth of their own. But the people needed a savior again and he delivered.

When they ascended the throne, hand in hand, more gods than men, she smiled. For he was right. His voice rang in her mind, words from so many years ago. We're going to change the world, you and I.

And so they did.