Notes: This chapter definitely got away from me (22 pages?), and is therefore a lot longer than the first part. Let me know if I should split it into two parts! Also there is a lot of death 8(.

Nikolai and Alina's wedding ceremony is based off a program I found online for the wedding of Alexandra and Nicholas II (it was a ridiculously complicated affair), and my Russian is nonexistent, so I apologize in advance if I butchered any spellings or phrases.

iii.

Genya is attempting a fourth elaborate hairstyle on her when Alina has a moment of revelation. She does not care for weddings.

At least, not royal weddings. And even today, when her mind should only be on one man, she finds it instead on three. She twists the Lantsov emerald on her finger, and dreams of the impossible wedding she might have had with Mal, whose death she now wears like a necklace instead of armor. It's never taken off, but it is now a hidden thing, and kept close to heart.

They would have had a ceremony in Keramzin, just the two of them and an official. They would wear their usual uniform and kefka. They would have said vows they already knew. Later, maybe, they would have had nicer cakes and perhaps a stronger tea if only to show that the day was important despite how beautifully unimportant it seemed.

But there is no more Mal. And there is no more Keramzin. And the thought is sobering and leads her to thoughts of the second man. They are pervasive thoughts, ones that she doesn't want, but they slink in her mind between the pins that Genya expertly snaps into her white hair. Had Alina stayed that night, would she be here with the Darkling instead? And how might that have ended, with her collared and blinded? With a grisha sitting on the throne instead of a privateer?

There are two thrones on that dais…

Alina snorts, and dismisses the thought as she fiddles with a thread of gold embroidery on her sleeve. That ceremony, she is sure, would have been short.

"I'm starting to feel foolish," Genya mutters, her scarred mouth full of pins as she grabs another chunk of Alina's hair, "All this work for something going under a brocade veil."

Alina allows herself to smile. Allows herself to, for a moment, put aside thoughts of Mal and fears of the Darkling, and just be something close to alive, "You'd still know what's under it, and it would bother you regardless."

Genya laughs, "You're right. And perhaps I just need something to keep me busy."

Alina cranes her head over her neck in order to fully demonstrate her amazement at the sentence. Genya swats her for interrupting the third elaborate braid she's constructing. Weddings are exhausting affairs. Weddings between living saints and clever tsars even more so. For months, arrangements and plans have been put into action, and Nikolai had attacked every obstacle of the wedding with the same relentlessness he puts into planning a siege.

Seating charts were constructed based on political affiliations. Color palettes of linens selected based on the colors of Ravka, the Lantsov line, the grisha, and the Sol. Music selections for the reception at the Little Palace afterwards were based on cultural heritage, with one or two Fjerdan and Shu numbers thrown in for the invited dignitaries. Alina has five customized kefka she is to wear today, commissioned by the finest tailors throughout all of Ravka. She's already certain that Nikolai is going to change his military dress every hour. And suspects he enjoys this sort of revelry and parading more than she ever could. It was as they said: sharks are born swimming.

But Alina is not a shark. She decided some time ago to keep herself ignorant to such things, only suffering the etiquette training as a gesture of kindness to Nikolai. Instead, she keeps to the grisha, teaching the twenty three rescued students what she can with Genya, David, and Zoya. She's never had a mind for politics, and isn't about to start playing the game at her wedding of all things.

Genya gives a sad, little twist to her lips, "Oh no, trust me, our good Tsar Nikolai has made certain that I participated in the arrangements for today," her fine fingers begin to thread the final braid of Alina's hairstyle, and she makes sure it's in a manner that won't be ruined by wearing a crown, "But that's like breathing, and gives my mind too much rest. Which means too many thoughts."

"What's wrong?"

Genya swats her again as she smooths her hands over Alina's finalized style. The pins are gold and catch the light like mirrors, "Don't start. This is supposed to be a happy day."

Alina can never tell when Genya is lying.

Her friend hands her a mirror to look at her hair, "You look like a Tsaritsa."

Or when Genya's telling the truth.


Alina never learns the thoughts that haunted Genya on her wedding day. Never knows that Genya was thinking of how she was once a confidante to a Lantsov queen, how she was once loved and then tossed aside. Never realizes that Genya is carrying the guilt for Alina's ruined life with Mal like Alina carries his death.


The ceremony is five hours long. And miserable for all but a few moments. It begins with a salvo of twenty one cannons being fired: a loud, thunderous noise that reminds Alina of how her marriage owes its origins to war. It fits, but she wishes it didn't.

Then there is a processional into the Little Palace, even though they were all living within the Little Palace to begin with. The courtyard is flooded with the people of Ravka, as is to be expected of the wedding between a Tsar and Sankta. The crowds are parted by a red carpet that starts with the carriages and ends at the altar within the Palace where they will exchange their vows. Alina watches the people first, before looking at the dignitaries exiting the carriages or trying to see if Nikolai is already inside. She is startled to find that most have happy tears in their eyes. That all are glad of this day. While she is not afraid of the ceremony, or the marriage, it helps her nerves to see that maybe it is true, what her and Nikolai believed. Maybe together they will help heal their country.

When the processional begins, the Apparat leads, with some religious book held over his head as if it could catch the rays of the sun. She hopes it is not a Morozova journal. Behind him are Alina's Soldat Sol, her sunburst embroidered in shining gold on the fronts of their navy blue kefka. She is happy to see Tamar and Tolya immediately flanking the Apparat, happier still to see that their presence makes cold beads of sweat fall down his forehead. The man who is to be her husband has a wicked streak of humor, evident even in his processional arrangements.

After the Apparat, the members of Nikolai's Council follow. They are all grim and rigid, firmly pressed men and women in firmly pressed uniforms. Alina knows they are inherited, much like the Palace and the emerald, and thinks it could be entertaining to see them under the thumb of a too-clever fox.

After the Council, Alina watches the representatives of the Grisha, and they, unlike the Council, make her heart warm. Genya is dashing and terrifying in her embroidered eyepatch and red kefka, Zoya stunning and imposing in her blue one, and David has managed to brush through his hair. These are the people she will lead, and the people she will protect. Watching them feels like pride.

Then comes the representative color guard of the First Army. And seeing them march resolutely, carrying the banners and wearing the military dress, makes her heart ache and her eyes water. Misha has an honorary place in front, his wooden sword still on his hip. These are the people she will protect for Mal

After the soldiers come the dignitaries, people from Fjerdan and Shu and elsewhere. Honored guests she has not bothered to learn the names of, though Nikolai no doubt knows strange details about all of them—like that the Shu diplomat hates caviar but loves to waltz. They are followed by members of Nikolai's court, all attended by servants.

There is a noticeable absence in the procession where their parents should be, but then it is Alina's turn.

She is assisted out of the carriage, because for the ceremony she is wearing the traditional garb of a Tsaritsa and not a kefka, and the moment she steps forward, she hears everything go quiet. Alina swallows tightly, grips the hand of her first attendant—Nadia, because it is more important for Genya to be seen as a Grisha instead of a servant today—and realizes that all the fear she has not felt in five years has chosen this moment to manifest itself.

A hush falls over the crowd. Their heads bow, they drop to a knee.

Alina takes a step, and tries to keep breathing. She's never felt comfortable like this. The band nearby plays one of the local hymns she remembers from growing up in Keramzin as she walks. And Alina feels a strong surge of genuine affection for Nikolai, who chose every piece of music for the ceremony.

Though the affection is tampered with irritability. Because the processional walk is nearly a kilometer long in Nikolai's zeal for theatrics, and it is the longest kilometer she has ever walked. When she can take no more of the revered silence, the hushed whispers, and the eyes on the ground, Alina closes her eyes and feels the connection between her and the sun. And she makes it dance.

Sunlight streams through the air, twirling and cascading down around the heads of the people of Ravka. Awed whispers replace the silence, and eventually she hears some of the children laughing as her power circles around them. And she hears people cheer Sankta! as she continues past them.

The cheers make her smile, despite herself. She is a grisha first, a Tsaritsa second, and it feels good to make that distinction today. It feels nice to be Alina as she walks into her marriage. To use her power for something other than the cut.

And Alina does not see a grey-eyed man standing in the crowd, face drawn somber behind the laughing children and cheering adults.

Because palace doors close behind her and she does not look back.


When she walks into the Little Palace, Nikolai is standing at the end of the red carpet in full military dress. He is handsome, but more importantly, when their eyes meet he is smiling at her like she is the only one in the room.

Alina did not think she would ever see someone look at her like that again. He grabs her hand in his gloved one, and kisses it before they both kneel before the Apparat to exchange their vows.

He also jabs an elbow playfully into her side when she starts to doze off. Royal weddings are tedious things, and she has already listened to the Apparat drone on for two hours.


When he kisses her to finalize their union, she only thinks a little of Mal, of what it would be like if it were him instead. But she mostly thinks of Nikolai, and how they are going to heal together.

Fifty one cannons sound. The marriage is complete, and she is no longer Alina Starkov, but Tsaritsa Lantsov.


Royal weddings are tedious affairs, but royal receptions have a little more enthusiasm to them. Alina is finally able to change into one of her elaborate but more comfortable kefka, and Nikolai has changed outfits no less than seven times. The dinner is elegant, and pleasing to nearly every palate, and it does not take long for cold vodka and kvass to be served and for dancing to begin.

As the newly wedded couple, she and Nikolai have the first waltz. He is, of course, much better at it than she is.

"Don't worry, moya zhena, I won't embarrass you too badly," he whispers as he glides her across the floor, "Though I have to admit, my reputation at all the social circles is going to suffer greatly if you keep going off tempo."

And Alina laughs. It feels like the first laugh she's had in years, and her fingers tighten around his hand, "Be happy I'm not scuffing the leather of your fine boots with my feet."

Nikolai smirks, and leans down near her ear, "Don't you dare. These boots were expensive. Hand-stitched."

"Whatever happened to having an obscene amount of money?"

"Normally you'd be right. But it appears I've just lost half of it to a horrible dancer."

He spins her just as she rolls her eyes, "It's hard to imagine why it took eight proposals."

Nikolai smiles, and it's tinged with sadness, because he knows why it truly took eight times. But he can play around the ghost between them, "Maybe I just like proposing."

"I think you prefer planning weddings."

"Much more than you like attending them, if the snores in the middle of the Apparat's sermon are anything to go by."

Alina returns the smile, eyes meeting his and something softens within her as the song begins to near its conclusion, "The people seemed happy, about us."

Nikolai's expression softens as well, hearing what Alina isn't saying as he gently curls a finger under her chin, tipping it up, "What isn't there to be happy about? It's not every day two beautiful, powerful individuals get married to one day produce devastatingly attractive children."

She shakes her head, leaning her forehead to rest against his chest as the song ends. His hands wrap around her waist, "Thank you, Nikolai."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, "I am your friend, Alina. And while I hope one day you will allow me to be more to you, please don't forget that my affection is grounded in something besides Ravka."

Alina closes her eyes and tries to keep her voice from catching, "…I bet you say that to all of your wives."

He chuckles, "Only the ones with half my money."

The band begins to play another song, and Nikolai bows to her as she musters a pathetic excuse for a curtsy in return. Amusement flashes across his fox-like face, and he goes to speak, before Alina is tapped on the shoulder.

She turns, and an older man in a waistcoat stands before her, giving a half bow and offering his hand, "If I might have a dance with the new Tsaritsa?"

Alina winces, and tries to place his face. He is one of Nikolai's Council.

Nikolai laughs, and she knows it is at her expense, "Of course, Gospodin Kosoglad. It would be greedy of me to hog such a beautiful wife all evening."

Alina takes Kosoglad's hand and tries not to sigh. It appears her royal duties would start earlier than anticipated.


As she dances, she feels a pull at the back of her mind, but when she looks into the crowd she only sees happy wedding guests.


The dancing continues throughout the reception, and though Alina does not realize it, with every waltz she is being drawn further and further from the center of the ballroom. It is not until she is near a dark corridor that a different hand seamlessly replaces that of Duke Abelev's as the music changes to a slower song.

Alina is too focused on her feet, on keeping tempo, to notice that she has a new partner until she hears his voice and her heart stops in her chest.

"Tsaritsa."

Alina's mouth goes dry, and she looks up to stare into grey eyes.

The Darkling holds her hand gently in his, like he's cradling an egg. But the other is placed on her hip with bruising finger tips. For a moment, they just stare at each other. The dead man, and the woman who killed him. The pull in the back of her mind thrums, like a dam waiting to be broken, and she wonders how he has been alive for the last seven years and she has not been able to tell. She wonders why she is not surprised to see him here, in the Little Palace, once again.

She wonders why she is not calling for help.

"You don't seem surprised," the Darkling says in a low voice, the thumb of the hand holding hers ghosting over her knuckles.

"You don't seem dead," she whispers, and she cannot stop looking at him. He hasn't changed, but then again, neither has she.

"Greater weapons than a blade have been used against me."

"Are you here for revenge?"

The Darkling smiles, and the fingers on her hip press in a little deeper, "One day, perhaps. But not this one."

"Then why are you here."

"Would you believe that I've missed you?"

"No."

"I have."

He starts to move their bodies along to the waltz, though there is no one to see them in the shadows and therefore no need to keep up pretenses. It's enough to make Alina wonder if she's gone mad.

"I put a knife into your chest."

"I have already told you that I am not here for revenge tonight."

Grief hits her hard in that moment. Because he is here, somehow. He is here and Mal is not. And that can only mean that Mal is gone for nothing but the blood on her hands. She staggers in his hold, but his only response is to gently correct their timing. They move for a few steps, before he speaks again.

"Does this make you a peninsula, Alina?"

She wants to be sick. She wants to be surprised that he remembers an exchange from what feels like a lifetime ago, "Don't."

"I suppose an otkazat'sya king is more suitable than an otkazat'sya tracker."

"Don't."

"Though equally as weak."

She tries to rip her hand out of his grip, but he holds her firmly against him.

"Or do I need to remind you that all otkazat'sya husbands come and go, Alina?" the Darkling looks down at her, and she hates that even though there is mostly irritation in his gaze, there is also pity, "And that you will see this one leave just as easily as your tracker, even if he wears a crown?"

Alina doesn't want to listen to him. Doesn't want to know that he is right. That some part of her already knows she will outlive Nikolai, and any other person, besides one, "We'll have decades-"

"And you and I will have centuries," he whispers, "You and I have forever."

Alina shakes her head, "You and I have nothing but war."

The Darkling looks at her, and it finally registers that he's not here. That the Darkling is not in the Little Palace, but far away somewhere else. That he can't see beyond the space she inhabits. That this is a call of like to like. That he has somehow managed to restore their bond.

Her stomach twists. And even now, she's not sure if it's in anticipation or fear.

The Darkling leans forward, and she feels his lips press against the shell of her ear, feels their connection resurfacing. His next words are whispers, promises that hang between them, "Before I leave, I want you to know something."

She wants to rip her hand out of his. She wants to scream. She wants to let the world around her know about this dark, hidden thing between them. But she can't leave him, "What."

"That I do not mind waiting for you, Alina Starkov," he kneels then, and the dread in her heart is so strong she can't hear anything but her blood rushing in her ears. And she doesn't resist when he presses his lips against her knuckles, in the exact same way Nikolai did when he proposed. She doesn't believe it's a coincidence.

Lips against her skin, he continues, "I could kill one hundred otkazat'sya men. I can let time kill one hundred otkazat'sya men. The end result will be the same."

She throws her hand back, as if she has just realized that it was held in the fire for too long, "You will not kill Nikolai," Alina hisses coldly.

The Darkling stays kneeling, "No. I have decided I will not kill this one, because he has the potential to suit my purpose," a bitter smile crosses his features, "Consider it my wedding gift to you, Sol-nyshka moyo. This one, I will let you watch die. And then you can know what it feels like to be powerless. You can see with your own eyes, how the otkazat'sya are not enough, will never be enough. How there is only one other like you, and though it may take one hundred years, or a hundred otkazat'skya husbands, everything your heart belongs to will fall through the cracks in your fingers like water, until there is only one piece, one part in your grasp."

He stands, and the corners of his mouth twist up, "Because as I said, if you must know one thing, know that I can be patient, Alina Starkov. I've waited more than a hundred lifetimes for you, one more means nothing to me."

She moves without thinking, drawing her arm down hard.

The flash of her cut illuminates the darkened hallway, and he is gone.


Alina does not return to her wedding. And though he looks throughout the palace, Nikolai does not find her until he sees her sitting in his rooms. His new wife offers no explanation as she wordlessly and ardently takes him to bed. And later he does not ask for one.


The Darkling does not visit her for another three years.

iv.

Time heals all things. Even restlessness.

The tether between them is strong as ever, but Alina does not go to him, and he does not go to her. She passes the days being wary of the shadows, and practicing her summoning. The amplifiers give her strength over him, and it's something that lets her manage the first few months of her reign. Because it's Mal, watching out for her as always.

After months of feeling him, but not seeing him, she tells Nikolai about their connection resurfacing. She does not tell him about their wedding night.

The Tsar of Ravka assembles a task force to search, but they both know that the Darkling will only be found when he wants to. Security increases, but they both know the Darkling will arrive when he wants.

They do not tell the public. Because Ravka is in shambles, and what it needs to grow back together is hope.

When a year passes, with the task force finding nothing and the shadows not stirring, Alina starts to hope that he is not returning. It's a lie, but it's a lie that lets her live her life as best she can.


In that year, Nikolai and Alina start to bring Ravka from its knees to its feet.

His money and connections as a privateer bring in trade, and his ingenuity helps them develop flying ships that are enough of a discouragement to invading countries. His ability to be a shark helps him form strong political alliances and removes the threat of nobles challenging his claim to the throne. He sends ambassadors to other countries: Tamar and Nadia's sojourn to the Shu nation has been particularly effective in negotiations.

To his wife, he leaves the armies. And Alina changes them. The grisha and the otkazat'sya start running drills together. Start learning together. Start sharing the same barracks. The same food. All three branches of the Second Army become equal in standing, and with their new heads of David, Genya and Zoya, progress is made. Power in the army becomes less about hierarchy, and more about brotherhood. She oversees the training, and she makes herself feel as though she has a purpose again.

They reform the First and Second Armies into what Nikolai calls the Bol'shoy. There are not enough grisha left to justify an entirely separate army, anyways.

In that year, Nikolai also asks her permission to formally adopt Misha. She agrees, until she finds out that he wants to put him in the line of succession.

"The nobles will never allow it."

"Nonsense. The nobles will love it."

And they do. The nobles eat out of the palm of Nikolai's hand as he spins a tragic story during a press conference. Of how Misha is not just the favorite pupil of his dear wife- who is still a saint, by the way- but a symbol of Ravka born anew. A living representation of how Ravka is in the hands of its people. Misha is accepted into the family with royal enthusiasm. Public opinion of Nikolai skyrockets.

Alina is just happy to see his smiling face when the Apparat begrudgingly proclaims him Misha Lantsov. Happy to give him hope when he did the same for her in her darkest hours.

Proud when Misha joins the Bol'shoy as a junior soldier.


Every night when they're in bed, Nikolai rolls over and asks if she's hopelessly in love with him yet.

Alina snorts or rolls her eyes, but every time he asks, her protests grow softer.


The Apparat stays on as an advisor and head of clergy. She goes out of her way to avoid him, only stopping by the order of the Sol to make sure its charitable programs are being followed. They are. The Apparat and Alina have not exchanged more than a handful of words in the eight years since she escaped from his underground base.

Therefore, it's surprising to her that when he dies, he leaves her his effects. Hundreds of books are delivered to her personal study, with only one note to give any explanation:

A poor saint. A strong queen.

She takes anything relating to Morozova and thinks about burning it. Eventually, she decides instead to store them in the auxiliary library, out of sight and out of mind.


Genya and David marry. They have a healthy son, whom they name Ivan.


On the second anniversary of their wedding, Nikolai blindfolds Alina and throws her in a carriage. He gives no explanation, only that he has a surprise and she is to accompany him on a journey.

She is surprised indeed when he removes the blindfold, because the first thing she sees is an oak tree. Her eyes move to the mansion, to the old house she knows the Darkling has destroyed, and her heart clenches in her chest so tightly she can almost see spots.

Her husband has taken her to Keramzin.

But a Keramzin that is not a burned out husk. The old house has been rebuilt, refurnished and repainted. It is a new and different Keramzin, but it is not a destroyed one. Her breath comes in short inhales as she sees her home as she was sure she would never see it again.

"Not the most traditional of anniversary gifts," Nikolai says softly beside her, and if she was not frozen in shock, she would hear the uncharacteristically nervous tone in his voice, "But I thought if we are rebuilding Ravka together, it would make sense to start here."

Alina cannot speak.

"…It doesn't replace anything, I know that."

Her eyes flood with tears.

"You're offended, aren't you? I can do something about the paint-"

"Nikolai."

"Alina?"

She has enough time to say, "The paint is perfect," before she breaks down into sobs, a pain that had been resting on her heart for years finally lessening.

He holds her as she cries.


One week after Keramzin becomes an orphanage again, Nikolai rolls over in bed.

"Are you hopelessly in love with me yet?" He asks, though this time she does notice that his tone is softer.

Alina says nothing, but instead of rolling her eyes or snorting, she kisses him.


Later in the second year of their marriage, Alina gives birth to a daughter. She is small, with wide blue eyes and thick curls of light brown hair.

She's the most beautiful person Alina has ever seen, and when she holds her for the first time, she feels a new part of her form.


They name her Ana, after the closest thing Alina had to a mother.

v.

Ana is laying in her crib, and Alina is making sunlight dance across the mirrors that hang from the ceiling of her nursery when the Darkling appears to her again. Alina closes her eyes, but keeps her fingers moving, keeps her child cooing in delight as she sits next to her in a rocking chair.

If she had them open, she would see the Darkling staring at her hand, at the sun moving, at the column of her neck, with a look that could only be described as wanting.

"I assume the rumors are true, then."

His voice is silky, and distant. Cold.

Alina shrugs a shoulder, but does not turn to him, "It depends on the rumor."

"You've had a child."

It's been so long, Alina has almost forgotten that the Darkling cannot see beyond her when he comes to her like this. That he doesn't see the crib clearly, only a vague outline of a nursery.

She hears him take a step closer to her, but she doesn't move. He can't hurt either of them like this. But she remembers his promise from ten years ago, the promise of having no shelter but him.

"If you come near her, I will cut you down."

"I have no desire for either."

"Then why are you here?"

She feels his hand rest on the back of her neck, sweeping away the pieces of loose hair as he kisses her behind the ear. She finally opens her eyes.

"Would you believe that I've missed you?"

"No."

His other hand trails up her arm, resting over the hand that she is using to manipulate the sunlight. He follows her movements like a ghost. Like a shadow, "You're hoping that she's like you. She won't be. There are only the two of us."

Alina curls her fingers into her palm. The light dims in the mirrors. Ana gives a short cry of protest. The Darkling, she realizes, can see her daughter now. He is close enough, and he is touching her.

He is staring at Ana like she's a puzzle he cannot solve.

"…Have you ever had children?" She asks quietly, staring at her daughter as her face wrinkles and she curls into sleep.

"I was never so thoughtless."

Alina stands, and before she knows what she's doing, she's picking Ana up and holding her close to her chest. The Darkling's hands fall off of her as she moves.

"I will never understand why you insist on making such hardship for yourself," the Darkling whispers, watching her face carefully.

Alina doesn't look away from her daughter, "Because that's what keeps me from becoming you."

He scoffs, "Would it really be so terrible, Alina, to be like me?"

It wouldn't. And the temptation is there. Has always been there. But she knows that for the Darkling, having someone love him isn't enough. And it's enough for her. She's convinced herself that it's enough. It has to be enough.

"It wouldn't be terrible," Alina finally replies, even though she suspects that it would be, "But it's not what I am."

"You are still young. What you are will change hundreds of times."

Alina turns to look at him, "Not like that. It will never change like that."

He sits in her rocking chair, eyes not moving from her own, "I will return again. How far will you go to stop me the next time?"

Alina's fingers clench into Ana's blanket.

"How much more are you willing to lose?"

She looks down at her daughter. Who looks so much like Nikolai it hurts.

"Alina. How much more are you willing to lose until you understand that it is easier to be beside me, than against me?"

"Get out."

"You deny yourself what you need to survive. And I won't always be as forgiving. You won't always have someone to die for you."

She moves with intention, the arm not holding her daughter moving down.

The flash of her cut brightens the nursery, and he is gone.


He returns when Ana is six.

vi.

Time heals all things. Even fear.

The years go by, and there is no sign of the Darkling. Nikolai goes as far as to disband the task force, something that sits uneasily in Alina's stomach. But he is right in that a rebuilding country needs its resources where they are needed, and not where they will be futile.

Her children grow. Misha joins the Bol'shoy proper. Every day he looks more and more like Mal. Not in his hair or eyes, but in his posture. In his smile. In his need to look after those smaller and weaker than him. Nikolai lets him know every day that he is proud of him, and she sees her husband making up for something he never received. She understands. Because Alina lets Misha know every day that she loves him.

Ana grows as well. She shares almost no similarities with her mother besides her hair, because she grins, and laughs, and causes trouble. Genya and Alina set up play dates between her and Ivan, and it isn't even an hour before Ivan is crying and Ana is innocently stacking blocks in the corner. Nikolai dotes on her, and Alina is afraid Ana will grow up spoiled and having a preference for only clothes that are immaculately tailored.

Alina grows, too. She has Genya tailor her to age with her husband, she learns as much about politics as she can stomach. She gets closer to being hopelessly in love. She finds her place, even after she thought her place was gone with Grisha steel.


On one of their numerous playdates, Ana moves a tide of water from a fountain to splash Ivan by waving her hand above it.

Alina does not know what she is feeling. Ana is her father's daughter, and like Nikolai, no doubt feels the call of the sea.

And like Nikolai, she is not like her. There are only the two of us.

Maybe what she feels is heartbreak.


He comes to her that night, when she is in bed but unable to sleep. He is sitting in a chair in the corner of their room, and his arrival is so sudden that Alina jolts into an upright position in her bed. Beside her, Nikolai mumbles incoherently in his sleep. The Darkling sends him a disdainful glance before he turns to her.

"You are upset."

She looks at him and shakes her head, "Go away."

The Darkling only continues to stare at her, his gaze intense and somehow demanding. She realizes, then, that she is only wearing a light sleeping gown. And Alina looks down at her hands, folded into her lap, before she lifts the blanket tighter around her.

The words come out before she can stop them. Because he is the only one she can tell, the only one who would understand, "Ana is a Tidemaker."

The Darkling frowns, tracing his fingers along the armrest of the chair, "Then it is time for you to leave."

Alina winces, "No."

"Why not?"

"They're my family."

"Family," he echoes flatly, "Can be left."

"Not children," she replies, and she gets a dark satisfaction at seeing him flinch. At knowing he is capable of love, and of loss. That he is still Aleksander, somewhere buried deep.

It takes him a moment to reply.

"You only have to seek me out, Alina. When you are tired of losing. When you are tired of being naïve."

When she looks up from her hands, he's gone.


Five more years pass. Misha becomes a man. And he becomes a man in love with a dark-haired Squaller who reminds Alina a little too much of Zoya to make her comfortable. But she sees him happy. And so she helps Nikolai see to his marriage preparations.

Two years after Misha marries, his wife gives birth to a son. They name him Malyen, and it hurts her in a good way.


One day, after another five years have passed, Alina finally sees her friends growing older. She sees the lock of gray in David's hair, the wrinkles starting to form in the corners of Genya's mouth. The crows' feet in the corner of Nikolai's eyes.

Alina wakes up every morning the same, until she has Genya add wrinkles to match her own. Her friend has never commented on Alina's ageless skin, her still-dark hair. And she thanks her for it silently.


Her son begins to lead the armies in her place. Her daughter learns how to sail a ship. Ivan becomes the new court Tailor under his mother's guidance. Time moves forward for everyone but her.


Three more years pass, and Ana begrudgingly tells her mother that Ivan has decided to surrender and actually propose. Genya sends her a knowing smile, and Nikolai takes the news exceedingly well by only drinking two bottles of vodka with Tolya and David.

Ana makes for a beautiful bride. Ivan gives a rare smile when he sees her walk down the kilometer-long procession, and Alina dutifully holds out a tissue for Genya to cry into.


Ana has a daughter. They name her Vasilia.


Alina searches the shadows every night. When her daughter asks her why, she pretends she never hears the question. Her husband knows better, but stays silent.


One night, years later, she and Nikolai are sitting together in the garden, him with a blanket over his lap, and her with a glass of kvass. The veins on the backs of his hands are more prominent, but Alina doesn't notice. Time is strange that way, where large changes can happen unseen simply because they are the same from day to day. And while Alina knows her husband is now approaching sixty, she does not see a difference in him. Does not acknowledge that his breath is coming in rasps, or that his hair is more grey than blond. That he is seen by the court healers more often.

"You know," he says, and gives her the grin of a much younger man, "You don't need to have Genya change your face every day on my account. I'm very secure in the fact that I'm still the pretty one."

Alina smiles, "Ivan changes my face every day now, actually."

"I thought it looked worse."

She snorts, and throws an elbow playfully into his side.

"I hope you find an ugly man after me," Nikolai pouts, rubbing his ribs in mock pain.

Alina rolls her eyes, "Don't talk like that."

"Why not? If I don't say something now, you might find a handsome one. And I don't think my ego could survive that intact."

"Your ego will outlive us all."

Nikolai smiles then, but it's full of grief, "Your hard head might give it a run for its money."

Alina grabs his hand, and kisses the back of it. The pain in his smile eases, but doesn't disappear. They both know what lies ahead. And they both know they shouldn't speak of it any further.


They lose Tolya first, when he is sixty-three. A heart attack. Then Adrik, in a training accident two years later. Tamar and Nadia return from Shu to attend both funerals, and three years later Nadia returns from Shu alone because there is no longer anything there to keep her.


Ana takes over training the grisha from Alina. She is too old, Ana argues, to keep up with the rigorous demands of the position. And Alina wonders why Ivan hides her secret from his wife, from her daughter. Until she thinks about what it would do to Ana if she knew, and then she understands.


Nadia dies the same year that Nikolai develops a chronic cough and Vasilia gives birth to their first great-grandchild, a boy named Anton.


Nikolai gives Ravka to Misha. The coronation ceremony is just as extravagant, just as tedious, as their wedding so many years ago. Nikolai must have the same thought, because he smiles at her throughout it and jabs an elbow into her side when she begins to doze off. It's not the jab of his elbow that wakes her, however, but the sound of his heavy, wet coughing as the crown descends on Misha's head.


She loses Genya that fall. David follows, not even a month after. And the former Tsaritsa spends her time looking at the red kefka that Genya had earned so many times over and trying not to break, not to shatter all over the floor like that blue cup from a lifetime ago.


Time heals all things. Even grief.

But grief always comes back.


Nikolai is confined to bed rest three months after David dies. And he is just as difficult of a patient as Alina believed he would be. Soup is sent back for being too hot and then too cold, curtain changes are requested because the drapery is not in fashion. He desires fifty different books a day but reads none of them. And she sits at his side almost every night, and she has since stopped asking Ivan to Tailor her at Nikolai's request.

One night, he grabs her healthy, unveined hand and kisses her knuckles.

"I'm still the pretty one."

Alina smiles, "You are devilishly handsome, and if not for your delicate condition, I would be jumping into bed with you right now."

He laughs, and it's a hoarse, awful sound. Nikolai pats the side next to him, "I'm not that delicate, moya zhena."

She rolls her eyes, but climbs into bed. He doesn't release her hand. And as Alina settles under the covers, he brings it to rest over his heart. It beats weakly, and she feels the harsh rattle of his lungs as he inhales. She closes her eyes and tries not to cry.

"So," Nikolai whispers, closing his eyes as well, "Are you hopelessly in love with me yet?"

Alina chokes back a sob, "Of course I am, you foolish man."

He grins, "I thought as much."

He holds her as she cries.


The next week, Nikolai slips away from her like water from a sieve.

vii.

She has been grieving for only six months when she sees him again. The former Tsaritsa thought she was out of tears to cry, but when she sees him sitting in the same chair she had once rocked Ana to sleep in, unchanged and still as beautiful and terrible as ever, they come again.

The Darkling sits in the rocking chair like he's a ruler on a throne, one leg resting on the opposite knee and fingers folded contemplatively over his stomach.

She doesn't have the strength to tell him to move. Death has made her tired, and she can't manage the desire to send him away with the cut.

He just watches her. Grey eyes shining in the dark. He doesn't move, because at the moment he is too afraid to touch her. Touching her is always an exercise in a dark lack of satisfaction—he wants her, but he wants all of her, and tonight she could give it to him. But not for the reasons he desires. All this time away from her has made him a greedy man, and if he is to have her, he will have her only the way he wants after waiting for so long. He will accept nothing less. The original desire, the way he had thrown himself at her like a boy, is done. Something else has been seeded in his mind, slowly taking root. Something not as forgiving.

He watches as she folds into herself, like a mouse once again. He watches tears crawl down her perfect face and he is angry, because he had warned her of this and she had been too stubborn to listen to the voice of experience. Of reason. He is angry that her pain makes him hurt, too.

But he did not come here to be angry. So instead he breathes deeply and leans forward, resisting the urge to cradle her face in his hand.

"They are whispering your name in the Little Palace, Alina. They are whispering about how you have never gone to the doctor. Have never left your quarters since the death of the Lantsov. Some say that they have seen you as you were decades ago," his eyes dart around the former nursery, where she now sleeps because she cannot go back to the room she shared with Nikolai, "You have gotten careless, and now your shelter is gone."

Alina closes her eyes as she remembers his words, from so long ago. From Keramzin. He did not need to lift a finger to ruin this one. She hates him, for deciding to remind her now while she is in mourning. And she hates that his words make sense and that they slither onto her bones. That it is time for her to kill Alina Starkov. That she must go, or stay and watch her children die as she had watched her husband and friends fade. But she can't say anything, and instead just sits on her bed.

The Darkling continues his gaze of her, committing everything to memory even though Alina does not change. They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity.

His voice is a caress when he finally speaks again, light and dancing on her skin, "Once I gave you a name. Do you remember?"

And Alina is surprised by how calm her voice is. How sure and steady, "Yes."

He wants to ask her to say it again, but that name is a weakness she carries against him, and tonight he cannot indulge. Because the game is, once again, about to change, "I would like to give you another."

Alina stares at him, and she feels bone-dry and empty, "You remember what happened the last time you gave me a name, Aleksander."

The Darkling manages to smile and flinch at the same time. It is always so good and so painful to hear that name. And he has to admire her ruthlessness in using it now, "Even still."

She takes a deep breath, because she is already a woman who has lost much, too much, and who would soon be losing her life. So tonight it does not pay to keep up pretenses, "What is the name."

One of his fingers traces the arm of the rocking chair, not looking at her as he whispers, "Morozova."

Alina remembers Baghra's tale of two little girls. She has not thought about that tale in some time.

She hugs her arms around her stomach, and looks around her daughter's ruined nursery. At the man in front of her who is what makes her whole, even if that sense of completeness means loving the shadows and the dark parts of her. Even if it means accepting the one who guided her into murdering Mal. Who had burned down Keramzin. Of admitting, in her grief, that he is the only one who can understand this sort of loss.

"…Will you take this name, too, Alina?"

Time heals all things. But wounds scar.

She wants to say no, but what comes out instead is, "Not tonight."

As soon as the words leave her lips she freezes, heart thudding against her chest at the concession she has just made. The Darkling is an observant man, and she is disgusted at seeing the smile on his face as he finally sits up from the rocking chair.

He gets down on one knee in front of her bed, and uses a hand to thread through her hair as another cups her face towards his.

"Until another night, then. Sol-nyshka moyo."

The fingers in her hair tighten, and Alina closes her eyes. His thumb hovers over her pulse.

When he kisses her, it takes her away. For a moment, Alina Starkov is not in the old nursery, not in the Little Palace that was reclaimed by her and Nikolai decades ago. She is a girl again. She is a mouse. She is dancing with him, light and shadow entwining together as the Sun Summoner and the Darkling unite for a demonstration. She is wanting to ask him to come to her rooms.

Alina tears away from their kiss not even a moment after it starts, and doesn't look at him even though she can feel his heavy breath against her cheeks. Can feel his lips move against her neck as he desperately tries to find that surrender he had but a moment ago. She shakes her head, and stares a hole through the floor.

"But not this night, Aleksander."

He tries one more time to reclaim her mouth for his own, but she does not give in or yield. The Darkling sighs a tired sigh, and presses his lips to the corner of her forehead.

Then the shadows flicker, and he is gone. The heat from his lips still on her neck. The taste of her tears on his tongue.

viii.

The next morning, Alina finds Misha. Bright and earnest Misha, who is a fine king. Who she must leave behind with her hopes. Who she loves, and can't watch die. Who she tells her secret. He grabs her hand tightly with his liver-spotted one, but he understands. Because he did, after all, serve Baghra when he was a young man and still had eyes good enough to read.

The two of them stage the death of Tsaritsa it's a peaceful tale, of an old woman going to bed and simply not waking the next day. Alina takes the rest of her time in the Little Palace to set the affairs of the armies in order, to make sure protective laws for the grisha are strongly in place, to leave her things for her children, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, to let them know she loves them all very much. She tucks the Lantsov emerald under Ana's mattress.

In the years to come, her actions will be reflected upon as divine action. For who could so tidily leave the world behind but a saint? One who knew the exact moment of her death?

For such mysteries were not for the people of Ravka to understand, but when the news broke that the Tsaritsa had passed, all mourned her loss. And, in mass, they attended the funeral rites of Sankta Alina, Tsaritsa Lantsov. Defeater of the Darkling. Closer of the Fold. Who, with her husband, united the armies of the grisha and the otkazat'sya. Who brought peace and prosperity. Who was already history, taught in schools, before she removed herself from the stories.

They give her a holiday, in the middle of summer. The day where the sun shines the longest is called Sankta Alina's, and the people of Ravka are given time off to enjoy the outside.


In the chaos of indoctrinating a new saint and mourning the loss of a ruler, no one notices an old servant woman leave the grounds of the Little Palace, with only a pack on her back. No one notices as she heads for the borders of Ravka. No one sees age fall off of her with every step, until she is no longer a crone of Os Alta, but a young girl who has decided that it is time to travel.


Fifty years pass. And people forget about the Fold, as the people who lived it have all died. The Lantsov line continues to rule, despite there not being a drop of Lantsov blood in their veins. The armies are one combined, instead of two apart. Misha leaves the world behind to his son, Malyen, who leaves it behind in turn to his son Boris, who is fair and well-mannered. Ana's granddaughter, Tatiana, marries a Shu prince and secures an alliance.

The children of Ravka hear stories about the Darkling and the Sankta, and of how good won against evil. In some versions, the Darkling wanted the Sankta for his bride, but she was stolen away, not by an orphan boy, but by a dashing Tsar. In others, he steals children that the Sankta frees. And the people begin to forget that these stories were once memories, that the characters were once humans, brave and flawed and strong and weak.

Time heals all things. Even Ravka.


The Sankta continues to travel and takes on different names. She meets many people, studies different languages, tries strange new foods. Sometimes she has lovers, though nothing that can get close to her heart. Nothing that can take away a piece of her, because she has so little left to give.

The Sankta wears her loss like a crown. And she begins to leave Alina behind, in order to try and keep living.

During the day she laughs and learns and grows.

During the night she tries to sleep and forget. It works, for a little while. But sometimes, in that space between rest and waking, she can see the shadows moving around her room, and she knows that he's watching. Biding his time. Waiting to give her another name.

xi.

Ninety years after the death of Tsaritsa Lantsov, almost two hundred since the end of their first war, a discovery is made in the training barracks of the Bol'shoy Army.

An Etheralki trainer is making his rounds when he sees a new recruit doing something no one has ever done in the history of the Bol'shoy:

A young man, with grey eyes and dark hair kept back in a knot at the base of his neck, sits bending shadows around his hands.