The Thief and the Dark

by Amaryllidinae

For as long as anyone could remember, there had only ever been one Darkling—one person in all of Ravka who could summon the power of the shadows. No one, not even Esfir herself, expected that century-old truism would unexpectedly be proven false, and especially not by a common thief.

1. Chapter 1

One

I slipped into the window, silent as the dark.

It didn't surprise me that the latch on the sill had been left unlocked: rich people rarely had a fortune in brains to match the gold that jangled in their pockets. But what did I care? This idiot's folly was my gain: not having to fight with the window latch meant I could get in and out more quickly with what I was after. And the faster I could get this job over with, the faster I would have a little more gold jangling in my own pockets.

The room wasn't anything special: like every other 'fancy' inn in Kribirsk, the suite was large and well-appointed, but it had an air of transiency about it that always lingers in borrowed spaces. The chairs in the small sitting area were sun-faded but the cushions still looked stiff and unused. The table, desk, and dressers were well-made but still glistened with the sheen of new, stiff lacquer. The only thing about the place that looked worn in was the large bed at the centre of the far wall. No one stayed in a Kribirsk inn long enough to settle into a space like this—to make it their own—but they did have to sleep. Otkazat'sya and Grisha alike needed rest, regardless of whether those haughty Second Army snobs wanted to admit it.

I could see a single oil lamp sitting on the table nearest to the only door in or out of the room and, thankfully, it wasn't lit. Although some second-storey men and women I (loosely) knew needed a dim lamp to work by, I preferred to practice my craft in the dark. Shadows were where I felt safest and most at home; they didn't hinder me like with most people. I could see almost as well in the night as I could in the day—an odd trait that had served me extremely well in my chosen profession.

As I suspected, whoever was staying in this suite clearly hadn't turned in for the night yet. The bed was still made and the fireplace was dark. Those facts, combined with the late hour, told me they more than likely wouldn't be back for a while yet—they were probably still out drinking or playing at cards or dice. There was little in the space to suggest that the tenant had a travelling companion: a single, small trunk was at the foot of the bed and the personal belongings left out were spartan. A few maps were splayed out across the table in various states of use and a dozen or so books were piled on the dressers, but that was it. This room was, as I figured, only being used for rest and nothing more.

Or so it appeared. I knew better.

Even though no one really considered a stale suite like this more than a temporary place to recuperate, it was a given that they would want to keep their most precious belongings nearby. Whether it was stuffed to the back of an inconspicuous drawer of an armoire or tucked underneath a lumpy mattress, there was always something of some value to be found for the opportunistic larcenist. Tonight, however, was different. I wasn't prowling just because I had found an open window to sneak through. No. Tonight, I had been hired to take something very specific. The only question left for me was: where would I find what I was after?

Creeping nearly silently towards the table nearest to the windows, I quietly pulled open each of the drawers, one after the other turning up empty. Not unexpected, but still a small disappointment. I was sure to put each drawer I opened, each object I moved, back exactly the way I had found it—a skill that I had honed over many years of practice. But as I moved through the room, opening drawer after drawer (and there were many), I still hadn't found anything yet. Not even a scrap of clothing. As I continued to ghost around the room, keeping to the darkest spots when I could, I began to worry that what I sought might not be here, but I calmly reminded myself that my job had only just begun. I had only searched the obvious places to this point: there was still the game of sniffing out the secret hiding spots to attend to.

The real fun was about to begin.

Slinking back to my starting point by the open window, I again inspected the first desk I had looked through, though this time I was much more thorough. Pulling out each drawer, I carefully felt each panel of wood, my sensitive fingers searching for even the slightest hint of irregularity. It wasn't uncommon in these posh places for secret compartments to be put into drawers or the floorboards. I had learned very early that the rich fancy themselves somehow more important than everyone else; for some reason, that also gives them the additional belief that their belongings (and secrets) needed to be elaborately hidden. Since I refused to relieve anyone poorer than myself of their valuables (hey, even a thief can have standards), I had become intimately familiar with the ways that merchants and nobles devised to make themselves feel 'safe'. Sometimes it was a small indentation on the bottom of a drawer or a slight unevenness in the floorboards. Sometimes it was a false-bottomed chair or a compartment hidden in the wall behind a painting. I'd even encountered a false drawer on which the knob was a pressure switch and an oddly worn book on a shelf that doubled as a lever for a false shelf. The novelty and ingenuity of these hidey-holes never ceased to impress me, but only because I knew they were dreamt up and crafted by people with more brains than money.

The process was slow, but I eventually re-searched every obvious place where a secret trove might be hidden in the room. Still, I found nothing.

Still not worried that I might have company any time soon, I sunk into one of the sun-faded and very stiff chairs in the small sitting area before the windows to think. There was a slight but refreshing breeze wafting in from the sill I had used to gain entry and, below, I could hear the thrumming of nighttime in Kribirsk. The First Army was stationed nearby, as always, but over the last few weeks activity there had nearly tripled, infecting the town with a sort of nervous energy. The brothels were especially busy, as well as the taverns and pubs, as men and women alike enjoyed as many worldly pleasures as they could before they risked their lives against the volcra. I heard from several little birdies that a military excursion across the Fold was in the works, though the reason was up for debate. Not that I cared what the First Army was up to; all they were good for was killing people and getting themselves killed. And the Second Army was no better, though it usually took a little more than a mere bullet to take them down.

Curling my fingers around the armrests of the chair, I drummed them rhythmically on the polished wood. "Think, Esfir," I muttered to myself in time with the tapping of my nails. If I were staying in this room, I mused, where would I hide something of value? Where was the most inconspicuous spot? Letting out a deep, calming breath, I scanned the room again, glancing suspiciously from the low dresser by the door, to one nightstand and then the next, and onto to the fireplace, then finally to the little iron stove in the corner.

That was when it hit me: why would a room with such a lovely fireplace need a stove, especially when the coal-scuttle was empty? Not to mention the fact that there wasn't a kettle nor cups anywhere in the room. Jumping out of my seat, I bent down before the little black stove and inspected it closely. Just like all of the other furniture in the room, it looked practically new; even the coal-scuttle was free from grime. The fireplace, on the other hand, had obviously been cleaned for a new guest, but clearly showed signs of use: the stone walls were charred with soot, the iron tools beside the tiny hearth were blackened and battered, and there was a fresh pile of wood tucked in the corner.

First, I opened the front grate to look and feel inside. As I expected, when I ran my fingers over the walls of the burn chamber, they came out as spotless as they went in. Unfortunately, however, there was nothing inside to suggest a latch or trigger for a hidden compartment. Closing the tiny metal door, I delicately ran my fingers over every edge of the surprisingly over-embellished stove. It was covered in scrollwork, branches, and sparrows in relief which struck me as odd. Taking a closer look at the decorations, I noticed that one of the birds was posed differently from the others. At first, I thought it just an artistic choice, but as I examined that single little sparrow, sitting in profile on the low right side of the stove, I noticed that its only beady and lifeless eye looked somehow more worn than the rest of the metal around it.

"There you are," I whispered to myself as I pressed firmly on the circular bump and felt it give beneath the pressure. With a click, the whole top of the stove slowly began to rise open, revealing a secret cavity. Excitement thrilled through me. This was easily my favourite part of my job… Next to getting paid, of course.

Rising to my feet, I peered inside the stash and found a strange fold of black cloth, the likes of which I'd never seen before. Even in the dim light of the moon, the pitch-black cloth seemed to shimmer and shine like it was made of liquid darkness. Cautiously, I reached in and unfolded the shroud; it felt cool but familiar beneath my fingers. When I finally saw what lay beneath, my breath caught in my chest.

On behalf of my current 'employer', my contact had sent me here under the simple pretence of retrieving a dagger. When I pressed for details about the artefact before accepting the job, I was told I 'would know what I was looking for when I found it'. That annoyed me, but I'm not in the business of being nosey when the price is right for an easy job (and, Saints, was it ever right this time). It struck me as odd that someone would pay so much for a simple dagger, but I hadn't thought much of it after that. A job was a job, so what did I care why some rich idiot was willing to pay for something as stupid as a knife? Now I knew why.

The dagger was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Although simple in design and shape, it was clearly produced by a master craftsman for someone far above the station of this inn. Melded into a Grisha steel hilt, the grip was made of polished greywood, an exceedingly rare material that only came from the desecrated trees within the Fold. A rough-cut black gemstone made up the pommel, its uneven facets, like the bed of strange cloth it rested on, somehow glimmering even in the darkened confines of the secret compartment. The simple quillioned cross-guard, also made from polished Grisha steel, sat snugly above the dagger's silver-inlaid greywood scabbard like a crown.

Without thinking, I reached in and picked up the dagger and partially unsheathed it. I had to hold back a gasp: the blade was formed from a strange metal so black it seemed to be made of a shard of the night sky. Pulling the dagger completely free of its scabbard, I took a better look at it. "Saints," I whispered, awestruck. Even in the relative darkness, the edges of the blade seemed to shift and twist, undefined but still visibly sharp beyond imagining. And although it looked dense, the weapon was as light as air in my hand and twice as fast. I was jealous of whoever was to receive such a beautiful prize. On a whim, I rolled the dagger over in my palm to look at the other side of the blade and nearly dropped the damn thing on my foot. Emblazoned in what I could only describe as 'moonlit silver' on the true face of the blade was a symbol I hoped I would never see in my entire life: the sun in eclipse. The sign of General Kirigan—the Darkling.

"Shit," I cursed in a hiss as I quickly shoved the damnable blade back into its scabbard and then through my belt for safekeeping. Of course, Zdisek, that bastard, would send me off on a job like this without so much as a warning. The high price for such an easy lift was also suddenly explained. Casting a quick look over my shoulder to check on the door, I thankfully still found myself alone.

Looking around the room once more, it occurred to me that the Darkling would never stay in a place like this. In fact, I was quite sure that he wouldn't be caught dead here, considering he apparently travelled with a retinue of personal guards and at least a dozen other Grisha at all times. It would make far more sense for him to be staying within the First Army's encampment outside of Kribirsk where he would have the most protection and accommodations to suit his 'station'. So what was such an astounding dagger with his mark on it doing in a place like this? Hidden very well, mind you, but still tucked away within the confines of an inn usually frequented by merchants. Zdisek had a lot of explaining to do.

It was definitely time that I left. The dagger, as wonderfully light as it had felt in my hand, suddenly seemed like a boulder attached to my hip and I wanted to be rid of it as soon a possible. Just as I went to push the false top of the stove closed, I heard the unmistakable sound of a key being pushed into a lock. Someone was at the door. "Fuck," I swore again as I cast a quick glance over to the window I had left ajar. It was too far away for me to make it completely out and down the drainpipe beside it before I was spotted. Frantically, I looked around the room for the deepest spot of shadow that I could find. With few options, I hurriedly pressed the lid of the secret compartment closed and rushed to duck into a scrap of darkness cast by a nearby armoire. Luckily, this placed me ever so slightly nearer to my only means of escape.

Pressing as far back into the corner as I could as the lock of the door clicked open, I slowed my breath and focussed on staying hidden. No one can see you if you don't want to be found, I silently repeated over and over to myself as I waited in the shadow and listened.

It felt like an eternity before I heard the sound of the handle twist and the heavy door open. Someone quickly slipped inside the room, closing the door behind them. I then heard them strike a match to light the oil lamp and the room was instantly flooded with a small spot of light. Picking up the oil lamp, my unexpected host began to walk across the room, the heels of their boots clicking noisily on the hardwood. A moment later, a tall, thin man with blonde hair in a purple kefta with red embroidery at the sleeves came into sight, making a beeline for the coal stove. For some reason, I noted he was wearing odd black gloves that looked to be made of the same cloth which had enshrouded the dagger.

A Grisha. A Materialnik. An Alkemi.

While he was still a problem, I would have been more worried if an Inferni or a Heartrender had been in his place.

Without hesitation, the Fabrikator knelt down exactly as I had before the false stove and immediately pressed the release switch for the secret compartment. As the top of the stove gracefully rose open, he stood and looked inside only to bristle with shock. "Saints," he blasphemed roughly as he put down the oil lamp on the fireplace mantle and dashed over to inspect the (empty) compartment more closely. "Shit!" He cursed again, this time very loudly, when he realised the dagger was truly missing.

At the sound of his second expletive, the door to the suite opened and closed again as another person entered. "What's wrong, Kole?" A female voice asked as she hurried noisily across the room towards the blonde Materialnik and the false coal stove. It was another Grisha, this time an Etherealnik with short blonde hair in a blue kefta. I couldn't help but focus on the red embroidery on her cuffs. An Inferni. I should have known that a Fabrikator would be paired with a stronger Grisha for protection.

"It's gone," the Alkemi spat, pointing angrily towards the false stove. "It's gone, Jana," he said again as if he still couldn't believe it.

The Inferni immediately stiffened as if she could sense a stranger was nearby.

No one can see you if you don't want to be found, I began repeating again, hugging the corner where the armoire met the wall as tightly as I could. Thankfully, the Inferni looked right past me as she scanned the room—as expected. The only thing she noticed was the open window. Rushing towards it, she thrust her torso outside to peer down at the street. "Whoever took it must have fled out this window and down the drainpipe," she observed keenly. "We'll have to tell him."

"We're as good as dead," the Alkemi moaned. "I can't believe the dagger was stolen. No one knew about it but us and the Darkling." The Inferni seemed to shift awkwardly as she ducked back inside the suite. The Alkemi noticed her reaction as well as I did. "Who did you tell, Jana!?" He barked, his voice shrill with fear.

The Inferni seemed to blush as she looked down at her boots. "I may have let something slip at the tavern in Adena a few days ago," she muttered. "Aleyev was paying attention to me and—"

"—You're an insufferable flirt, Jana!" The Alkemi squeaked furiously. I was shocked to see a lower-order Grisha speaking so coarsely to someone who technically outranked him. They must have either been lovers, close friends, or family. My money was on 'family', considering their matching hair colour and the fact that, since Etherealki considered Materialki so far beneath them, the younger woman wouldn't associate with such a man unless required to.

"I'm sorry!" The woman cried, begging for forgiveness. "I was trying to impress him and it just slipped out… I didn't think—"

"—No, you never do," the man snapped, his hands flying up in frustration. After running his fingers through his hair a few times, he seemed to calm down. Taking off his strange gloves, he shoved them into the pocket of his kefta and sighed heavily. "You're right about one thing: we have to go tell the Darkling. Now. The sooner the better. Just let me handle this," he muttered before angrily snapping the lid of the hidden compartment closed and storming out of the room. The Inferni stood for a moment, head hung low, before she gathered herself, slammed the window shut, and finally snatched up the lamp from the mantle. She quickly followed after the Alkemi, closing and locking the suite door behind her.

Thrust into the familiarity of the dark, I let out a heavy sigh of relief. I'd escaped detection once again. Still, I lingered against the crook of the wall and the armoire for a moment, waiting to make sure that the coast was clear. After a minute or so, there was no sound of movement from within the suite nor from outside in the hall. The two Grisha must have either been alone or the rest of their ilk were waiting outside the inn. Cautiously, even though I was sure I was alone, I stepped out towards the window I had entered and slowly opened it (the Inferni had forgotten to lock it again).

Leaning my head out into the alleyway ever so slightly, I looked both ways down the street to below to make sure that no one was waiting unexpectedly for me to show my face. Thankfully, no one was there; I breathed another sigh of relief. With one last look around the suite to make sure I hadn't left anything behind to betray me, I hopped up and out of the window, making sure to close it behind me as I clutched to the drainpipe just outside. All evidence of my entry (aside from the mess with the Grisha and the false stove) handled, I effortlessly shimmied down the thick metal pipe and landed silently on my feet in the alley below.

I couldn't get away from that place fast enough.

Even though I was confident I wasn't being followed, I still took all of the secret routes I knew through back alleys and side streets, to keep out of sight. I also made sure to double-back and change direction every so often, just to make sure any tail I might have acquired was thoroughly confused. It took three times as long, but I eventually made it to The Rended Volcra and slumped onto a stool before the owner, barkeep, and my contact: Zdisek. A bull of a man, he was about the size of one, too. His usual stern glower was in place on his thick, dark brows, highlighting the scar that ran the length of the left side of his face and through his milky eye. Immediately, Zdisek poured me a shot of kvas which I downed with a wince before motioning for a refill.

"You're back quickly," Zdisek grunted with his usual gruffness as he filled my glass again so I could down it.

"We have to talk," I cringed over the burn of the cheap alcohol in my throat. "Now," I added as I thumped my glass down on the pitted bar counter.

Zdisek glanced discretely down the length of the bar, both ways, before nodding tersely towards the back of the pub. "To the back," he muttered. "Come in five minutes after I do," he instructed before filling my glass one final time, corking the bottle, and placing it next to me. Without another word, he wiped his hands on the grimy towel he always kept at his waist and left.

I watched him walk into the back, waiting until he disappeared before I downed my third shot of kvas. I hadn't realised how frayed my nerves were until I had arrived in the relative safety of The Rended Volcra. And it wasn't because of the close encounter with the Alkemi and the Inferni. I'd had closer calls than that before in much more dire circumstances. It was because the Darkling's dagger was still resting at my hip, weighing on me as if it were made of iron. I couldn't wait to pass it off to Zdisek in return for my payment and let him deal with the Darkling's wroth should he be found with it.

As instructed, I waited for five minutes to pass before I pushed myself off the counter and sauntered with quiet confidence towards the back of the pub. I hung around The Rended Volcra so often that the regulars didn't even look up when I left the bar, but the key to convincing strangers that you weren't up to anything untoward was to make it look like you belonged—like you owned the place. So I walked surely through the tables of soldiers and peasants and into the storeroom as if I was meant to be there (even though I really wasn't). Zdisek was waiting for me, leaning casually against an unopened barrel of salt cod.

"You have it?" He asked with as much enthusiasm as he could muster (which wasn't much). I nodded once, trying to draw as little attention as possible as I quickly flashed him the dagger stuffed into my belt. On seeing it, Zdisek's one good eye opened a little wider. He was impressed. "Did you have any trouble?"

I shrugged, the formalities dealt with. "Not really. Just an unexpected visit from a couple of incompetent Grisha, but they didn't see me. It was as you said: in and out, easy pickings. The hardest part was finding the damned thing."

"Where was it?" He asked, now talking shop. Even though Zdisek was still a rogue, orchestrating deals on behalf of anyone who had enough coin to pay, in his youth, he had been more of a hands-on type of thief. Until he got into a fight with a volcra and lost his eye—or so the story goes.

I smiled to myself as I hopped up to sit on a pickle barrel. "Inside a false coal stove," I beamed, excited. "It took me a minute to notice it, but after that, it was a cinch to crack."

"How did it work?"

"A pressure switch at the bottom, hidden in some ridiculous design work, opened the top of it. Slow-release gears and everything."

"Interesting."

"Yes," I agreed. "Though they could have done a better job of making it look like it belonged."

"You notice everything, don't you?" Zdisek asked with a wry grin, his crooked teeth poking out from behind his thin lips.

I shrugged. "It's my job. I wouldn't be the best thief this side of the Unsea if I wasn't." Still desperate to be rid of the uncomfortable burden on my hip, I jumped back down to the storeroom floor and pulled the dagger out into the open. Holding it out towards Zdisek, I waggled it at him in invitation. "Pay up; I'm eager to go play cards. There are some very drunk soldiers making bets out front and, like a shark, I smell blood."

He made no move to take it. In fact, he seemed to tuck his thick arms more tightly across his massive chest. "Can't," Zdisek refused easily. "Buyer's not in town until tomorrow. You hold onto it."

"No," I laughed dryly, still holding it out to him, "you hold onto it. I don't want to keep this saintsforsaken thing any longer than I have to."

Zdisek shook his head. "I can't pay you yet."

"Honestly, at this point, I don't care," I growled, considering if I had the strength and bravado in me after three shots of kvas to shove the damned thing down Zdisek's throat and be done with it.

"Esfir? Not caring about payment? Huh," he said with a bark of a laugh, "you must really be desperate to be rid of it. Why?"

I debated beating him over the head with the pommel but quickly decided that wouldn't get me anywhere. "Because," I groused pointedly as I unsheathed the blade to flash Zdisek the Darkling's symbol. It was odd how I knew without looking at the stupid thing which side of the blade was emblazoned. It was probably just luck. Unsurprisingly, Zdisek didn't seem affected. Snapping the blade back into its scabbard, I glared at him. "You knew," I snarled, brandishing the sheathed knife at him angrily. "You knew and you didn't tell me?"

"I'm glad I didn't," he shrugged, "considering how you're acting. You might not have taken the job."

I wanted to say that, no, of course, I wouldn't have taken the job if I had known I was stealing from the Darkling. No sane person would: he was legendary for his awesome power and his ruthlessness. Only people with a death wish crossed him, even in the slightest. But… On the other hand, it was very satisfying to know that I'd relieved one of the most powerful men in Ravka of something so precious. I mean, sure, it was just a dagger (and a pretty one at that), but it obviously meant something to him if it was to be kept a secret. "Maybe not, but I do have to admit it feels amazing to have lifted something so easily from him, considering how brilliant he fancies himself." That might have been the kvas talking, but the more I thought about it, the more proud I started to feel of myself for pulling off such a stupidly simple heist.

"That's my Esfir," Zdisek said with as much warmth and feeling as he could (which, to an outsider, still wasn't much; you had to spend a lot of time around him to be able to tell his moods apart).

Realising I was fighting a losing battle, I shoved the Darkling's dagger back into my belt and sighed. "Fine, you win: I'll hold onto it—but only until tomorrow. Even if the buyer doesn't show, you're taking this damned thing off me whether you like it or not."

Zdisek barked another short laugh and pushed himself upright before clapping me on the shoulder with one of his massive paws. "Don't worry," he rumbled, not really agreeing to my terms before he left.

I watched him leave, eyes narrowed with suspicion. As with entering, I waited a few minutes before reemerging into the main pub. Zdisek had taken up his spot behind the bar and, even from here, I could see that he had poured me another glass of kvas. Apparently, he was in the mood to celebrate. Starting across the room towards the bar, I stumbled ever so slightly. Pausing, I took stock of myself: I was feeling oddly tipsy for someone who could drink any man but Zdisek under the table. Perhaps I had taken in those shots too quickly, or, maybe it was something to do with my nerves. After all, the dagger at my hip did fill me with a strange sense of unease, as if it knew that I wasn't its owner. Which was ridiculous, I chided myself. Daggers aren't sentient.

Pulling myself together, I made my way back over to my seat at the bar without incident and plunked myself down. Zdisek motioned to the full glass before me and, begrudgingly, I dug into the purse at my hip for money. As I did so, my hand grazed the gemstone pommel of the dagger at my hip and I shivered as a strange wave of familiarity ran through me. "No," he said quickly, "your drinks are on the house tonight. I said I can't pay you what you're due, but I can at least let you celebrate."

I dropped the coins I had gathered into my hand back to be with their kin. "That's very generous of you, my friend," I grinned as I reached for the glass set before me and raised it in a salute to Zdisek. "Ne zalost," I toasted him before downing the shot and holding my hand out for another.

As if on cue, the front door of The Rended Volcra burst open in a tremendous gust of wind and everything inside the pub screeched to a halt. Turning in my seat, I felt my stomach sink to my toes: two Grisha in red kefta were standing just inside the entrance, flanked by three more Grisha in blue. Two Squallers, a Tidemaker, and, by the darkness in their eyes, two Heartrenders. What were they doing here? This was a place for poor folk, ordinary peasants, soldiers, and the occasional scoundrel, not Second Army toffs. That was when I saw them. The coast apparently cleared for them, the blonde Alkemi and Inferni from the inn strutted through the door, looking around them as if they had walked into a pigsty. They hadn't seen me back in the inn, so I wasn't worried about them knowing who I was or what I had taken. Though, I had to admit, that the dagger suddenly felt so conspicuous that it might as well be vibrating and singing at my hip.

As the Alkemi and the Inferni walked farther into The Rended Volcra, flanked by their Etherealki and Corporalki compatriots, I cast Zdisek a sideways glance. Strangely enough, he wouldn't meet my eyes. Instantly, I was on high alert. "What do you lot want?" Zdisek barked at the Grisha, his particular brand of courtesy knowing no bounds of class or rank.

"Which one of you is Zdisek?" The Alkemi ordered, ignoring the question posed to him.

"That would be me," the man in question growled, his thick arms folding tightly across his chest.

The Inferni glared at Zdisek as if he was an insect. I despised her instantly. "We're looking for someone—a thief," she answered snidely. "We were told you are the man to see to find someone like that."

"I might be. I might not be," Zdisek sniffed. "But, either way, I don't take kindly to my business being disrupted by a litter of snot-nosed pups. Especially ones who don't belong in this part of town."

"Watch your tongue, otkazat'sya," the Alkemi snapped.

"Eh," Zdisek scoffed with, from what I could see out of the corner of my eye, a single but very dismissive tilt of his head.

"If that's how you feel, pig," the Inferni said stonily, ignoring the outburst from the Alkemi to her left, "help us find what we're after and I won't burn this saintsforsaken shit-hole to the ground."

That struck a nerve—Zdisek's only nerve. If there was anything he cared about in the world, it was The Rended Volcra. "Keep threatening my pub and you'll regret it," he snarled.

"I doubt that," a calm voice said, cutting through the tension in the pub like an icy winter wind. I didn't think it was possible, but an even deeper hush fell over the pub. Then, to my shock and horror, the Darkling suddenly appeared in the doorway, striding in as if he owned the place.

"Moi soverenyi," the Grisha all murmured with quick bows before focusing back on the rabble before them. I couldn't help but roll my eyes, their instant display of supplication revolting.

Pausing at the front of the formation of Grisha who had opened the door for him, the Darkling seemed to scan the room, taking in each face his eyes fell on. When he looked towards me, his focus pausing for much longer than it had on everyone else, I had to suppress a shiver. Although he wore a snobbish air of superiority like a second cloak over his jet-black kefta, I had to admit he was extremely handsome. His face was sharp but impossibly beautiful, his shock of thick, black hair luxuriously soft and shiny even from a distance. But his eyes—I couldn't stop staring directly back into them as he observed me. Like two chips of clear, grey quartz, they seemed to glimmer in the ruddy light of the pub, screaming of intelligence and years beyond his apparent youth. Considering he had been leading the Second Army since before I was born, I had always pictured him as some sort of old man with wolfish features to match his purported cruelty. I was shocked to find myself fighting the blush that raised in my cheeks when he smirked at me before looking to Zdisek.

"Is it done?" He asked simply, his voice still cold and almost disinterested.

"Da," Zdisek replied, drawing my attention. Turning to face my long-time friend, I found him still unwilling to look at me. He was instead looking directly back at the Darkling, his large hand wrapped tightly—almost angrily—around the bottle of kvas he had been pouring me drinks from.

"Who is it, then?" The Darkling asked, though I felt he already knew the answer. I could feel his eyes lingering once again on me as I continued to stare daggers at Zdisek. My oldest friend hesitated in answering, his good eye finally meeting my glare. The remorse there (which wasn't much) was uncharacteristic and heartbreaking. Without saying anything, I knew he was ratting me out.

"Double-crossing bastard," I hissed under my breath. Zdisek flinched, practically admitting to his deceit. For a moment, time seemed to stop. I could feel every set of eyes in The Rended Volcra fall on me, some astonished, some curious, some appalled. Without thinking, my hand slipped to grasp the hilt of the stolen dagger at my waist as I quickly tried to formulate a plan. There was only one other door in or out of the pub, tucked back towards the storeroom, and it would be a fight to get there. Unless I wanted to be set on fire or have my heart crushed in my chest, I didn't stand a chance of making it through the front door, so escaping out the back was my only option. I suddenly regretted letting Zdisek feed me so much kvas so quickly.

"Surrender, you worthless thief," the Inferni barked, her voice filled with a mix of self-righteousness and hatred.

Taking a quick glance in the direction of the storeroom and the back exit, I suddenly realised that the pub was oddly full of First Army soldiers. On most nights, peasants outnumbered the soldiers present two-to-one, but tonight there seemed to be four soldiers for every one civilian. Somehow, I'd allowed myself to be set up. "I'm afraid I don't know the meaning of the word," I smiled brashly over my shoulder to hide that I had shifted just slightly on my stool to angle myself towards the back door.

"Esfir," Zdisek cautioned, "don't."

"Shut up," I snapped back at him with a glare. He winced.

It was now or never. If I didn't move quickly, the Heartrenders would surely immobilize me before I could react. With a hurried prayer to any Saint who might be listening that my plan would work, I steadied my breathing. No one can see you if you don't want to be found, I chanted internally to myself as I leapt from my seat, dashing for the back door. The sudden, massive uproar of confusion that exploded from peasants, soldiers, and Grisha alike within The Rended Volcra told me that, for the moment, things were going my way. But as I wove through the crowd, I found myself extremely unsteady on my feet as though I had drunk a full bottle of kvas rather than a few stingy shots.

Something was wrong.

I didn't have time to think about it, though. Clumsily, I tripped over the leg of a chair in my path and went reeling forward. Luckily, I still had the wherewithal to twist as I fell, preparing to land on my back instead of my face. As I careened to the floor, I stupidly looked in the direction of the Darkling only to find him staring directly at me, his cool grey eyes piercing through me to my core.

He could see me.

I grunted as I collided with the dirty floor and the glamour that had hidden me from the rest of the pub instantly vanished. "She's here!" A nearby soldier bellowed as I slid awkwardly into his leg, nearly toppling him.

Without thinking, I unsheathed the stolen dagger at my hip and held it aloft, threatening anyone who might approach as I tried to scramble back to my feet. As I did, the men and women around me backed away, hands raised in submission, giving me space. Or so I thought. When I finally hauled myself back to standing with an undignified sway, I found myself face to face with the Darkling.

"You're a tricky one, aren't you?" He mused evenly, looking from me to the dagger and then back to me.

I felt myself surrounded and tightened my grip on the blade in my hand. "You should see me on a good day," I quipped, my voice surprisingly clear despite the overwhelming sensation of drunkenness that weighed me down.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was trying to suppress a smile. "You have one chance to come quietly before I set my Heartrenders on you," the Darkling said, his voice soft and conversational as if we were discussing the weather and not squaring off in a seedy pub.

I couldn't stop myself from letting out a short burst of manic laughter. I'd never pictured myself going out like this. I always imagined I would die old, alone, and warm in my bed, not on the gallows with my sordid history having caught up to me. And, if it was a choice between hanging or having my heart crushed, I'd rather take the quick death at the hands of a Heartrender. "Death first," I smiled with a confidence I didn't truly feel.

And then I lunged at him.

The mysterious blade in my hand seemed wreathed in a halo of pure shadow as I slashed for the Darkling's throat, my aim true. I couldn't say the same for my feet, though. Again, the odd feeling of drunkenness that weighed me down slowed my pace, making my strides clumsy. That small opening was all it took, though, for my target to overwhelm me. As if he were swatting away a fly, the Darkling reached out and knocked away my strike, rolling my hand just so to dislodge the weapon bearing down on him. With a final, quick flick of his wrist, he took hold of the dagger and twisted my arm, sending me crashing back to the floor at his feet.

The second my shoulder collided with the ground, I felt myself start to lose consciousness. Darkness bloomed at the fringes of my vision as I stared up, confused, at the impressive man towering over me. Struggling against the oppressive fog of intoxication and unconsciousness, I tried to get back to my feet. As I pulled myself to my hands and knees, a boot flashed out and kicked me squarely in the shoulder. Unable to keep myself from yelping with pain, I crumpled back to the pub floor.

"Stay down," a strange voice hissed. Looking up with the last bit of strength I had, I saw a man with dark, close-cropped hair and a stern, unfriendly face standing next to the Darkling and glaring down at me. He was the one who'd kicked me and, by the set of his hands and the colour of his red kefta, was also the one killing me.

Suddenly exhausted, I let my head fall back into the cool dirt floor and sighed. Dying wasn't so bad, I thought, as the blackness in my vision returned with a vengeance. Stupidly, I let my eyes slide from the face of the hostile Corporalnik to the Darkling's. He readily met my unfocused stare, his eyes narrowed with unrestrained curiosity.

That was the last thing I saw before everything went dark.

o-o-o-o

I came to with a groan, my head pounding worse than it did after a night spent drinking cheap kvas. Registering that I was sitting and leaning against something hard, I went to rub my eyes only to find my hands fettered. Shocked into full awareness, I glanced awkwardly over my shoulder to look at my bonds. I was restrained around the broad pole of a tent of some sort, my hands kept far apart by the thick iron bar between my shackles. Realisation flashed through me: these were the kind of restraints used on Grisha to keep them from summoning. Why would something like that be used on me, a mere otkazat'sya?

Foolishly, I tried to lift my hands again, the metal of my fetters clanking dully against the wooden pole at my back. How had I ended up here? (Wherever 'here' was…) Even though my head was still pounding furiously, I forced myself to think back on what I remembered. The night before, Zdsiek had sent me out of a job to lift something on behalf of his client—a dagger. The Darkling's dagger. I'd pulled off the heist and then… Then, I went back to Zdsiek. After that, things got muddy. Zdsiek and I had talked about the job. He'd refused to pay me. Insisted I keep the dagger. And then what?

My mind swam with the effort it took to remember, intensifying the pounding within my head. There'd been something else… Kvas. Zdsiek had poured me several shots of kvas. He told me to celebrate the success of the job. And then—

"—Awake, are we?" A voice I'd thought I'd dreamt asked from behind me. I knew it was futile to try to turn to look at the Darkling, so I glared at the cloth wall in front of me.

"Unfortunately it seems so," I grumbled, my mind racing clumsily beneath the pain that clouded it.

I heard him rise from a chair, the legs of it dragging slightly against the floor. Then came the steady, graceful sound of his gate: first a few strides, next a step down from what must have been a dais, and then the trek across the tent towards me from behind. I couldn't stop my heart from racing as he approached, but I tried to keep my breathing steady to hide my fear. When he stopped in front of me, looking down, I glared back up at him. "How are you feeling?" He asked calmly, pleasantly even.

"Where am I?" I demanded, not falling for his false courtesy.

"My personal tent within the First Army encampment at Kribirsk," he answered easily. I blinked in shock; I'd expected him not to be so forthcoming. "Now, since I've answered your question, you will answer mine," the Darkling said, still oddly affable. "How do you feel?"

As I considered that, my head throbbed angrily as if to remind me of the answer. "I feel like I've been run over repeatedly by a six-horse coach," I muttered blackly, suddenly desperate to massage the bridge of my nose to relieve the pressure in my skull. Instinctively, I tried to reach up to do so, but my fetters stopped me with a clank.

"You'll have to excuse the restraints," the Darkling half-smirked wryly. "You tried to kill me."

I did? As I tried to remember more of what had happened after taking that last shot of kvas from Zdsiek, my head spun horridly. "Well, if I could, I'd pat myself on the back," I groaned, resting my head back against the pole I was restrained to. Cramming my eyes shut, I tried not to vomit.

"And here I thought you were just a thief."

"Usually I am."

"'Usually'?"

"Well," I sighed, the urge to retch finally passing, "I only kill when I have to, which isn't often. And I make a point of not taking those kinds of jobs on principle."

"A principled thief," the Darkling mused, "how oxymoronic."

I wisely chose not to dignify the insult with an answer. Opening my eyes, I found him still standing over me, curiosity burning in his stare. "Look, my head is killing me. Could I have some water?" When he didn't respond I grudgingly added: "Please?"

The Darkling looked over his shoulder at someone or something and snapped his fingers before motioning back in the direction he had come. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a charcoal-clad oprichnik—one of the Darkling's elite bodyguards—dart past, heading towards the back of the tent. Moments later, he returned to stand at attention next to his master, bearing a large silver goblet. "Answer my next question and you can have all the water you want," the Darkling said.

I couldn't help but lick at my parched lips, my eyes darting desperately from the Darkling, to the goblet, and back to my jailor. "Fine," I conceded.

The Darkling cracked another lopsided smirk. I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes at him as I then watched him slowly, deliberately, move aside his black overcoat to reveal a very familiar dagger sitting on his left hip. I swallowed hard when he drew the blade from its greywood scabbard, intensely aware of my own vulnerability. Twisting the blade effortlessly in his hand, he regarded it with cold appreciation before presenting it to me. "What do you see?" He asked.

"A dagger," I said as I eyed the unmistakable blade, the edge of it wreathed in an intense, shifting halo of darkness. It was still the most beautiful weapon I had ever seen, but in the Darkling's hand, it seemed to take on a life of its own. As I stared at the weapon, fragments of the night previous started to come back to me in fits and spurts: Zdsiek lipping off the Grisha at his door; my attempt to flee, unseen, through the pub; and finally drawing the very blade I was staring at on its rightful owner.

"Just a dagger?" He asked. I could tell he didn't believe me. "Describe it."

I hesitated, unsure if a simple drink of water was worth the paces I was being put through. "It's just a dagger," I said again with a laugh, but the Darkling cut me off.

"Describe it," he repeated, his voice violent like the crack of a whip.

I flinched, rightly afraid. "It has a Grisha steel hilt and crossguard with a greywood grip and a rough-cut gemstone pommel. And the blade…" I faltered. "The blade—"

"—Yes?" The Darkling pressed, expectant.

Suddenly, the sinking feeling that my life depended on the words I next spoke came over me. I had been tempted to lie and say it was a Grisha steel blade, but the intensity in the Darkling's stare told me that was the last thing I wanted to do. "It's… It's made of a metal I've never seen before: black like the night sky and lighter than air."

If I wasn't so observant (even with a raging hangover), I would have missed the infinitesimal widening of my jailor's clear, quartz eyes. "Anything else?" He pressed, his voice cool and calm.

I swallowed hard. "Your symbol—it bears your symbol in silver as pure as moonlight and… And it's wreathed in shadow," I murmured, passing over a threshold I knew I would never be able to backtrack across.

The Darkling regarded me for a moment, his stare calculating if not mildly bemused. "Water," he said brusquely to the oprichnik at his right before sheathing the dagger once more. Immediately, the man in charcoal knelt before me and lifted the goblet he held to my lips. Water spilt forth against my mouth, ice-cold and refreshing. Greedily, I drank and drank and drank, paying no attention to the rivulets that ran down my chin, until the goblet ran dry. His job completed, the guard briskly pulled away and returned to stand at his master's side, back at attention.

"Get rid of that and unshackle her," the Darkling instructed next before striding away and out of my sight, the man beside him following close to heel. Nervously, I tried to follow them as they left, but I couldn't turn enough to see what was happening behind me. Listening instead, I heard two sets of feet cross the tent (one more hurried than the other), the clink of metal on wood, and then more footsteps returning to my prison. After that, I heard a jangling of keys and then the sound of metal on metal as a key was slid home inside a lock. Finally, the click of my left fetter followed by the opening of the right, and the iron weight on my wrists fell away, clattering to the floor.

Jumping to my feet, I rubbed the chaffing left behind by my bonds before turning to face the other way. The oprichnik who had released me hurriedly walked past, back to his post, without meeting my (admittedly harsh) stare. Alone for a second, I wiped at the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand to remove the (unflattering) residual wetness on my face from where water had overflowed down my chin. "Is this how you treat all of your guests?" I asked cheekily of the Darkling, striding towards him around the support post to which I had been bound. Being the good thief that I am, I took this chance to observe the space around me: it was a massive, richly appointed tent divided into three separate yet intersecting areas. The walls were draped with ebony silk panels that shimmered as if speckled with stars in the candlelight of the many crystal chandeliers overhead. To the left was clearly a sitting area with an elaborately decorated tiled stove and more pillows and books than I'd thought could ever exist. To the right and tucked behind translucent black drapes, I could see the shape of a four-poster bed heaped with blankets and furs, several trunks, a full-length mirror, and an ebony privacy screen. At the back of the space was an area which I could only dub a 'study': sat atop a dais, a large table covered with books, parchments, various instruments, and maps took up most of the space, headed by an elaborately carved ebony throne. Several other chairs were placed about the table, but I doubted that they were frequently used. I was currently standing at the intersection of these three spheres, where I supposed visitors came to supplicate themselves before being allowed entrance.

"No," he replied slyly as he took off his overcoat, hanging it on a rack nearby, and sat down on the throne in his study, "just the ones who try to kill me."

"Right," I muttered, hesitating on the bare wood floor of the receiving area. I couldn't help but note that the floors of the other three sections of the tent were covered in rich rugs and furs. "So, am I free to leave?" I asked hopefully even though I knew what the answer would be.

"No," the Darkling said again.

"Right," I also repeated, trying to decide what to do next. After having a drink of water, I was feeling significantly more myself: the pounding headache that had plagued me earlier had lessened to a minor annoyance. Casting a quick glance behind me, I saw four very stern-looking guards, including the one who had released me, standing near the only way in or out of the tent, blocking any unauthorized entrance or exit. I was, for all intents and purposes, trapped. "What do you want from me?" I asked bluntly as I looked back to find the Darkling pouring himself a glass of dark, red wine from a crystal carafe.

"I want you to sit," he said as he finished serving himself and raised his goblet to his lips. "Please," he added as he placed his glass down, smirking approvingly when I didn't move.

I regarded him warily. "First you have me chained to a post and now you're asking me to sit with you?" I asked sceptically. "Smells fishy."

"Are all thieves so mistrustful?"

"The good ones are."

"And the bad ones?"

"Have you ever heard of a bad thief?" I retorted bluntly.

"Point taken," the Darkling smiled to himself.

"Why am I here?" I asked innocently as I took a couple of tentative steps across the barren receiving area, discretely checking the places on my torso and arms where a mix of throwing knives and small daggers should have been hidden. They were all gone, much to my dismay. "If I tried to kill you—as you claim I did—you should be taking me to the gallows, not entertaining me."

The Darkling took another refined sip of his wine before looking directly at me, his grey eyes once again piercing through to my core. "You find me entertaining?" He asked with the barest hint of amusement, not answering my question.

I shrugged. "In a 'pompous ass' sort of way, yes," I snarked, the words flying out of me before I could think better of them.

Anger flashed through the Darkling's eyes, but he didn't rise to the insult. I was mildly impressed. "Where are you from?" He asked instead of reprimanding me. Gathering up his goblet again, he leaned back into the throne that bore him and took another drink of wine. He was interrogating me.

Looking over at him, I could see that same hint of intensity in his returning stare that told me it was best not to lie, lest I wanted to end up dead (for real this time). "I was raised on a farm south of Kribirsk," I answered.

"And your parents?" The Darkling prodded.

"A man and a woman, I should think," I said truthfully.

He mulled over that for a moment, taking another sip of wine to give himself time to form his next question. "Were you tested as a child?"

I smiled at that. "No," I replied with a sly sort of triumph.

"Why not?" The Darkling demanded.

"You have to catch a street rat to test it," I smiled proudly. "And I've always been very good at hiding."

"So I've seen," he acquiesced as he looked down into the contents of his goblet. Placing the silver cup back on the table, he looked at me intently. "Were your parents Grisha?"

I shrugged, taking another tentative few steps across the bare wooden floor towards the dais. "No idea," I admitted.

"You said—"

"—I said I think my parents were a man and a woman; I never said I was sure they were."

"Explain yourself," the Darkling snapped, offended by my interruption.

I sighed heavily, offering a quick prayer to the Saints for the wherewithal to make smart choices. Crossing the remainder of the receiving area, I stepped up onto the dais and plunked myself roughly into the chair at the opposite end of the table from the Darkling. Thankfully, the water pitcher and a fresh goblet were within reach. "The man and the woman who raised me were simple farmers," I said as I poured myself a generous glass of water. Placing the pitcher back down with a dull thud, I picked up the brimming goblet and took a deep drink. "But they weren't my parents," I breathed. "I'm a foundling."

A tense moment of silence fell over the tent as the Darkling stared at me. I avoided his gaze, instead looking at my reflection in the gleaming silver water pitcher. Although warped, I could still see my jet-black hair, my creamy skin, and my full, rosy lips. But most of all, I could see my vibrant, violet eyes staring back into myself, questioning why I was telling such a ruthless stranger any of this at all.

Because you don't want to die, that's why, I chastised myself.

I heard the Darkling take another refined sip from his goblet before pausing to consider his next words. "What's your name?" He asked unexpectedly.

I looked up sharply to find him staring at me, that same air of curiosity that I had seen overtake him before once again prevalent in his eyes. Even though it seemed an innocent enough question, the feeling that this was another threshold I could only cross by shutting the path closed behind me burned anew in my mind. "Esfir," I murmured before taking another long drink of cool, clean water. I couldn't look at the man across from me.

"Any last name?" He asked, his voice full of an air of good humour.

I smiled around the lip of my goblet before taking another quick sip and placing it down. "Just 'Esfir'," I said demurely to the condensation on the outside of the water pitcher, my head finally free of the horrid ache that had plagued it.

Another heavy silence fell over the tent. I could feel the Darkling starting at me from the other end of the table, but I still couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. Letting the oppressive quiet linger, I heard the Darkling take another polite sip of wine before obviously setting his goblet back down and speaking. "Perhaps it was time you were tested, then," he mused open-endedly.

Astounded at his brazenness, I couldn't stop myself from snorting a laugh and glaring at him. "No way. I've gone the last twenty-odd years without subjecting myself to that shit, so why start now?"

The Darkling bristled slightly, trying to hide the fact that he was offended. "That wasn't a suggestion," he said coldly, his voice slicing through me like a bitter winter wind.

When I heard the oprichniki at the entrance snap noisily to attention, I realised just how thin the ice I was treading on was. "I'm not Grisha," I said defiantly, "so don't waste your time."

"Are you so sure?" The man opposite me asked. "There aren't many people who can disappear into the shadows at will, nor directly touch a blade made of the Fold without screaming in pain."

I suddenly found myself wishing I was drinking something stronger than water. "I can't disappear into shadow," I countered obstinately. "It's like I said: I'm just very good at hiding."

"Is that what you call being able to vanish amidst a crowded room?" The Darkling posited with just a little too much naïvety to be believable. "And what do you call being able to hold a dagger that only I should be able to wield?"

'Lucky' was what I wanted to say, but I knew better. I was already taking chances by being stubborn in the first place. "I'm not Grisha," I said again, though more to myself than anyone else. I decidedly ignored the pointed questions thrown at me.

"We'll see about that," the Darkling responded, his surety drawing my attention. I found him staring at me like I was some kind of oddity in a parlour curio cabinet, his beautiful quartz eyes narrowed with a mix of wariness and intrigue.

o-o-o-o

After being shoved roughly inside by two very unfriendly oprichniki, the door of my tiny cell clanged shut with resounding finality. Having had enough of my smartass remarks and defiance, the Darkling had deemed it appropriate that I spend some time in the brig. After all, I had tried to kill him, he pointed out again before having his lackeys wrest me from my seat at his table.

As the lock clicked into place and the two charcoal-clad soldiers walked away, I violently shook the bars of my cell. I don't know why I did it; I knew it wouldn't do anything. But something about the rattling of the metal and the infuriated growl I released with the effort made me feel somehow vindicated. Plunking myself down on the small cot behind me, I ran my hand through the longer side of my hair and sighed.

"That's quite the haircut you've got there," the person in the cell next to me pointed out casually.

Looking to my left, I saw a young man who was probably no more than eighteen sitting on his own cot and staring at me. His hair was cropped short in military fashion and he was dressed in the same style. I couldn't help but think his drab olive uniform clashed monstrously with the shadow of his fiery red hair. "Thanks, it's strictly First Army issue," I joked with a wink. Most people I met made remarks about my hair, so it had ceased to bother me long ago. Parted crisply over my left eye, one-third of my head was shaved almost to the scalp while the other two-thirds of my hair fell in a long, thick cascade of loose curls over my right shoulder.

"I guess you could say the same for your 'uniform'?" The young soldier joked, his humour decidedly better than the company I had suffered last.

"Oh, definitely," I nodded, smiling. Truthfully, a woman in the First Army would be publicly flogged for wearing what I was sporting: a low-cut linen blouse, brown leather underbust corset, black breeches, and knee-high brown leather boots. I had been wearing a knee-length leather jacket at one point, but I had very clearly been relieved of along with my coin purse. Top that all off with the plethora of gold and silver jewellery that was dripping from all ten of my fingers and both of my heavily pierced ears and I wasn't exactly the definition of a 'modest Ravkan soldier'.

The young man chuckled a braying laugh and reclined against the bars of his cell, turning to face me directly. "What'd you do to end up in here? I tried to start a fistfight with my superior officer," he grinned. I could tell by the way he sneered the word 'superior' that he didn't have any fondness for whoever he reported to. "I was feeling rather sorry for myself for only managing to get one good punch in, but things are suddenly looking up," he added with a playful wink of his bright green eyes.

I hesitated before answering, casing the confines of my cell for anything that might be used to jimmy open a lock. The set of picks that I always kept on my belt had, of course, been taken from me along with my weapons and I was suddenly finding myself ill-equipped to do much of anything. "You know, I'm not really sure," I lied smoothly, my cursory search turning up nothing. It didn't seem like the best idea to be throwing around the words 'kill' and 'the Darkling' in the same sentence when asked by just anyone.

"You're not sure?" The soldier asked incredulously. "It had to be something to be thrown in here—and by oprichniki, no less."

"Just lucky, I guess," I sighed as I reclined against the bars at my back.

"C'mon," my neighbour pressed, "I won't tell anyone."

I looked sideways at him, my stare sceptical. "You'll have to forgive me for not believing you."

"Fine," the young soldier grinned impishly, "I'll make something up then."

"This oughta be good. I'm listening."

"Well, considering the way you're dressed, I'm going to say that's part of it."

"Go on."

"My money's on desertion," he said sagely after an overly-exaggerated moment of thought.

"You think I'm a soldier?" I laughed. "Please. Olive isn't my colour." I also have a strict policy of placing myself first on my list of priorities—unless, of course, I'm being paid to make sure someone else is kept alive.

"Ah, so you're a civilian," my neighbour exclaimed triumphantly. "Now we're getting somewhere. You must have done something really spectacular to end up in here, then."

I sighed heavily as I flopped down on the flimsy cot, staring up at the barren metal ceiling of my cell. "You have no idea," I muttered bleakly before closing my eyes and trying to sleep.

o-o-o-o

When I next awoke, the young soldier in the neighbouring cell was gone. In fact, the entire cell block was empty and eerily quiet. It had been late afternoon when the Darkling had thrown me into confinement, but the brig itself was poorly lit and disconnected from the outside, so I had no idea what time of day it was now. For all I knew, I had either been asleep for a few minutes or several hours; there was no way to be sure.

Sitting up on the rickety cot that supported me, I massaged my neck. I was stiff after lying on such an uncomfortable bed, but it was far better than being fettered around a tent post. Taking another look around the brig, I made sure that no one else was in sight before I got up from my cot. Although a quick glance around my cell had turned up nothing, now that I wasn't subject to prying eyes, I could search more thoroughly for something that might help me to freedom. Kneeling down on the straw-covered floor, I first ran my hands carefully over every inch of the cot. It was simply made with no metal connections (unfortunately), but the wood used was extremely strong. I was hoping to find a loose splinter of wood somewhere on the damned thing, but my search came up fruitless. Standing up, I carefully examined each rung of the metal bars that contained me, but those too came up as solid as ever. Running out of options and a little frustrated, I dropped back to my knees and began to scour the floor, rummaging through the chaff for anything that might have been left behind by previous inmates. After a slow, inch-by-inch search, I found five brass buttons, three copper coins, a match, and a single, glorious hairpin.

Slipping the coins into my bosom for safekeeping, I stuck the match behind my right ear, hidden beneath the tresses of my hair, and tucked the hairpin into the laces of my corset. Discreetly making sure that I wasn't being watched, I lay back down on my wretched cot and rolled over to my side, presenting my back to the cell door. I remained that way for quite some time, just to be sure I didn't hear anyone nearby. When I was sure the coast was still clear, I slyly retrieved the hairpin. Carefully and very slowly, I opened the u-shaped bit of metal and began to bend the two ends back and forth repeatedly. It took a while, but eventually, the hairpin split in two, leaving me with everything I needed to create a makeshift set of lockpicking tools.

As I stashed the two pieces of metal back in their hiding spot, I heard the tent flap of the entrance to the brig move, followed by two sets of footsteps. Pretending to be asleep, I listened as the terse footfalls approached and finally stopped directly before the door to my cell. "You. Thief," a gruff and unfamiliar male voice barked, using my occupation as a curse. When I didn't move, the door of my cage was rattled noisily in a clear effort to try and wake me.

Playing the part, I groggily rolled over to look at the two charcoal-clad oprichniki staring angrily at me from beyond the bars. "What do you want?" I asked with a false yawn. "Can't you see I'm sleeping?"

"Get up," the man on the left snapped, his voice different from the one who had first addressed me.

"I'd rather not," I mumbled groggily, turning my back to them intentionally.

"Get up, filth!" The first voice snapped, his temper raging. I didn't intend on facing the Darkling's lackeys at all until I heard the sound of metal ringing on metal. Turning with a start, I watched as the second oprichnik pulled out a heavily-laden key ring and fished a particular skeleton key out from the rest. I watched intently, still lying prone, as he jammed the multi-ridged key home and noisily opened my cell door. Before I could react, the first guard entered the small confines of my prison and sharply grabbed hold of my wrist.

"Hey!" I barked as he painfully pulled me to my feet and hauled me out into the open.

"Get moving," the second guard sneered as I was towed along behind his partner. We carried on this way until he shoved me out into the open, making me stumble and fall to my knees in the dirt. Blinded by the early brightness of the day, I blinked furiously to try and make sense of my surroundings. When I could finally see, I was shocked to find myself surrounded by all manner of First Army soldiers in different states of work. All of them had stopped what they were doing to stare at me, wide-eyed, as if I were some kind of creature. Stunned just as much as my audience, I gaped around for a split second, trying to find a familiar or friendly face. There were none.

Just as I was ready to pick myself up off the ground, both of my 'escorts' grabbed me by my upper arms and wrenched me upright, their gloved hands pinching viciously against my flesh. "Get moving," the guard who had opened my cell door hissed into my right ear as he dragged me forcefully onward in tandem with the man on my left.

"If you'd give me a second to get to my feet," I snapped, struggling futilely against their combined iron-clad grips, "I'd be more than happy to run in the opposite direction without your help."

"Mind your worthless tongue," the man on my right sneered before jerking my arm painfully.

Reflexively, I whimpered in pain. It wasn't one of my finer moments.

Despite the humiliation of being drawn forcefully along by two oprichniki through the First Army encampment, I tried my best to take note of the path we were taking through the maze of ridiculously similar-looking tents. If I remembered correctly, we were heading back along the exact path I had last been forced down from the Darkling's tent to the brig. Well, at least we aren't heading to the gallows, I thought sardonically to myself. Though, after the notion occurred to me, I wasn't sure which was the more sorry fate.

Moments later, I was again being roughly forced through the flap of a tent, sent reeling forward into the all too familiar and barren receiving area of the Darkling's quarters. Tripping to my knees, I slid a foot or so forward across the worn wooden floor, finally coming to a stop at the lip of the dais which supported General Kirigan's study. Glowering blackly over my shoulder as the two oprichniki who had so gracefully presented me retreated out of sight, I quietly vowed to repay them in kind for their cruelty.

"You look well-rested," the familiarly detached voice of my jailor observed from on high. Looking up around the table that took up most of the dais, I barely saw the Darkling sitting in his ebon throne, mulling over what must have been his morning meal.

Not willing to keep to my knees in his presence, I picked myself up and stood to my full, proud height. "Sleeping on something that resembles a bed will do that to a person," I quipped briskly. Perhaps it had something to do with the crick that still nagged at my neck, but I currently found myself lacking the patience for idle chit-chat. "I could have done without being locked in a cell, though," I snapped, my temper running away with me.

"You brought that on yourself," the Darkling countered offhandedly, still not deeming me worthy of an upward glance.

Yes, just as you've earned the scorn of a nation, I thought bitterly. "What do you want from me?" I growled. "Your stupid guards roused me from a particularly pleasant dream in which I was slitting your throat and, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to get back to it."

"Come sit," the Darkling offered, ignoring my outburst.

I floundered at his civility, completely lost for words.

"Or stand," he continued when I neither moved nor declined his invitation. "Suit yourself."

Shaking my head gently as if to put some sense back between my ears, I decidedly mounted the dais and, once again, took up the seat at the farthest end of the table from the General. As I suspected, the man opposite me was picking at his breakfast, though the content of it surprised me: coarse rye bread and pickled herring—peasant fare. "You fancy yourself humble?" I asked bitingly.

"Not on my best days," the Darkling answered as he shoved his plate of half-eaten fish and bread away in disgust. Immediately thereafter he washed down the taste of whatever scant morsels he had consumed with a long drink of dark tea.

"Can't say I'm surprised," I scoffed, reclining as regally as I could against the hard wooden chair I occupied.

"Feel free to help yourself," he offered, finally looking me in the eye. I could tell by the hardness in his stare that he was daring me to eat from his table scraps. "You must be hungry."

"Maybe, but I think I'll pass," I smiled.

"As I said: suit yourself," he shrugged before taking another sip of his tea.

"What do you want from me?" I asked again, done with playing games.

The Darkling delicately set down his porcelain cup before meeting my stare, his quartz eyes piercing through me with ease. "I wanted to offer you one last chance to admit to what you are before I have you publicly tested," he answered matter-of-factly.

I couldn't stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Where I should have been on trial for thievery and attempted murder, I was instead facing accusations of secretly being Grisha—which was absolutely ridiculous in and of itself. I was no more Grisha than a fish was a bird. "You can't be serious," I smiled, still chuckling. When the Darkling's face remained stony in its seriousness, I paled. "Oh, you are serious," I gulped, suddenly afraid and oddly self-conscious.

"Very," he whispered, the single word sending a chill racing up my spine.

"Well," I said before clearing my throat to try and hide the tightness that had crept into my throat, "prepare to be disappointed."

The Darkling let out a quiet breath of a laugh as he relaxed back on his throne. "For your sake, you'd better hope not."

"And why is that—will you hang me otherwise? And here I thought we were on our way to being friends…"

"Yes, for thievery and attempted murder."

"In that case, then, let's just save ourselves the public humiliation and march straight to the gallows, hm?"

"Are you so ready to die?" The Darkling asked, genuinely intrigued.

I shrugged with a small smile, the confidence I was once again projecting completely and truly false. "There are worse fates than dying," I answered. Namely, being revealed to be Grisha when I'd spent my entire life hating them for believing themselves my betters.

He seemed to consider that (and me) for a long while before offhandedly snapping his fingers. Seconds later, the same two oprichniki who had so kindly brought me to the Darkling's tent reappeared to snatch me from my seat. "Take her to the Grisha pavilion," the General said dismissively, ordering the three of us out with a wave.

"No, wait!" I protested as I was hauled away from the Darkling's table, resisting as best I could against the two much stronger men who held me. "Please. Please!" I begged the Darkling, my 'escorts', the Saints, or anyone else who might be listening. "I'm not Grisha! I'm not!" I insisted vehemently over and over again, my impassioned pleas falling mute on a sea of mortal and divine ears.

I fought every step of the way to the Grisha pavilion, not caring what kind of a scene I was making as my handlers paraded me through the First Army encampment. Soldiers of every station stopped to stare as we passed, hesitating mid-task as though they were watching some sort of freakish sideshow roll by. I vaguely registered the hushed murmur of whispered speculations that followed my wardens and me through the camp, but I couldn't make myself listen to what they were saying. All I could think about was trying to run: run to my hovel in Kribirsk, run to the confines of my cell, or run straight to the gallows—I didn't care. I'd put the noose on myself if I had to, but literally anything was better than being tested before the Second Army.

"Please," I begged again of the oprichniki at either side of me as we came within sight of the grand Grisha pavilion. "Please, I'm not Grisha! Just let me go!"

"Shut your filthy mouth," the man on my left growled, his focus never straying from the path ahead.

"Please! I can pay you," I offered desperately. "Anything you want! Please!"

The two men laughed together, the sound condescending and harsh, but didn't rise to my offer.

"Bastards!" I shrieked hysterically, thrashing violently against their hold on me. Somehow, by the grace of the Saints, I managed to break my right arm free. Flailing like a wildcat caught in a snare, I lashed out at the remaining guard at my left, my fist colliding ruthlessly with his proud nose. There was a sickening crunch of bone on bone before he howled in pain and blood spurted forth from his broken face.

"Cunt!" The wounded oprichnik bellowed as he clutched his gushing nose, releasing my left arm.

In the split second of confusion that reigned, I found the wherewithal to turn on my heel and bolt in the opposite direction. I only made it a few steps away before an impossible, wrenching pain constricted my chest, the bulk of it centred directly within my heart. Stumbling to my hands and knees in the dirt, I clutched at my left breast, desperately trying to save myself from the intense pain that overtook me. Gasping for air with collapsed lungs, I looked frantically around for help, only to find a Grisha in a blood-red kefta standing in the distance, his hands outstretched towards me in summoning. Dully, as a trickle of blood leaked from my nose and blackness started to bloom at the fringes of my vision, I recognised him as the Grisha who had kicked me in the shoulder the night that I had lifted the Darkling's dagger.

"Enough!" A familiarly icy voice commanded from the fringes of my fading consciousness. Immediately, the pain in my chest ceased and precious air seemed to return to my lungs. Gasping a ragged breath, I looked in the direction of the sound to see none other than the Darkling striding towards me.

"Moi soverenyi," the two oprichniki muttered meekly, one voice now decidedly muffled from his broken nose.

"Fools," the Darkling cursed, the simple word even sending a shiver up my spine. "You," he barked at the unbloodied guard, "see this oaf to a Healer. Then, the both of you will report to the brig," he snapped in closing, visibly furious beneath the air of collectedness he wore. "I'll deal with you later."

"Da, moi soverenyi," both men nodded before skittering away.

"Incompetent morons," the Darkling hissed under his breath before looking down at me. "I should have taken you myself from the start. Get up," he demanded, stalking away from me towards the Grisha pavilion.

I'd like to chalk it up to shock, but, nonetheless, I stupidly scrambled to my feet and followed after him. I caught up to the billowing hem of his overcoat just in time to catch the beratement he was heaping on the Heartrender who had tried to kill me. "If you ever do something like that again without my express permission," he seethed, his voice uncannily calm, "I'll feed you to the volcra myself. Do I make myself clear?"

The dark-haired Heartrender flashed me a haughty glare before bowing deeply before his master. "I understand, moi soverenyi," he murmured as he backed out of the way.

"Come with me," the Darkling commanded at me without even looking over his shoulder. As he neared the entrance of the Grisha pavilion, I hesitated. He seemed to sense this and paused, his slender hand hovering on the heavy flap of the tent. "Follow, or I'll let Ivan kill you," he threatened pleasantly.

I glanced at the Heartrender in question, meeting his glower with one of my own before I hesitantly walked towards General Kirigan and my impending public humiliation before the most conceited people in all of Ravka. When I paused beside the Darkling, a hint of a lopsided smile threatened on his lips.

"So, you have some sense after all," he said before pulling the tent flap open and motioning for me to enter.

"Just enough to get myself killed," I muttered before stepping inside the pavilion.

I had to stifle a gasp as I took in the magnificence of the tent that unfolded before me. Like the Darkling's personal tent, the inner walls were draped with sheets of glimmering bronze silk that caught the light of the candle-lit crystal chandeliers overhead. The floors were covered in intricately woven rugs and rich furs; only a glimpse of the base wood floor below was visible along the entry aisle. Sheer silk partitions separated the larger space into different compartments where Grisha gathered in their vibrantly coloured kefta. Some reclined on pillows, reading, while others sat, bent in deep in conversation. A balalaika was being played somewhere, sending a haunting melody floating through the already ethereal space. At the end of the carpeted aisle that made up the entryway, I could see yet another dais, though this one was distinctly clad in rugs so black that they seemed to absorb any light that dared get too near. Again as within the Darkling's private tent, a large table was situated atop the raised platform, headed by yet another exquisite throne of the blackest ebony and surrounded by several other uncomfortable-looking and contrastingly plain chairs.

As I hovered just inside the tent, I felt the distinct presence of the Darkling next to me. "Come," he half-ordered-half-invited as he strode past, heading towards the dais without so much as a backwards glance.

At the sound of the Darkling's voice, all activity in the Grisha pavilion seemed to stop. As strange faces, all clad in blue, red, or purple kefta, craned to see what all the fuss was about, I felt very singled out and uncharacteristically small. Glancing over my shoulder with the intention of fleeing, I saw the dark-haired Heartrender—Ivan—enter the tent behind me, the menace in his eyes enough to quash my plans of escape. With no choice but to move onward, I very carefully made my way up the aisle towards the dais at the far end of the massive pavilion and tried to ignore the hushed conversations that exploded all around me.

Once again free of his overcoat, the Darkling was clad in a beautiful black-on-black kefta and leaning nonchalantly against the massive, map-covered table which clearly served as a meeting place for the King's ministers and high-ranking Grisha. I stopped just before the General, uncertain of what was about to happen next. "Roll up your sleeve," he ordered as simply as if he had asked to borrow a length of rope long enough to hang me with.

"What?" I asked out of pure shock.

"Roll up your sleeve," the Darkling repeated, enunciating each word so that I might hear him better.

Looking around the tent, I found at least twenty sets of eyes staring at me yet none of them willing to save me. "Please, there's been some sort of mistake—" I began futilely, pleading even though I knew it would do no good. I wanted to confess to the world that I was nothing but a selfish, adrenaline-seeking, money-obsessed thief with a penchant for gambling and a soft spot for orphans, but I couldn't make the words come out fast enough.

"—Obstinate woman," the Darkling hissed as he angrily descended from his place above me and, with his left hand, grabbed my bare right wrist. Instantly, I felt a strange sense of calm and confidence wash over me, distracting me long enough to overlook the fact that my sleeve had been roughly pushed up towards my shoulder. "Now," the Darkling continued, assuming that same pleasant and conversational air he had used when I had first laid eyes on him in The Rended Volcra, "this is your last chance. What are you?" He asked, his choice of words baffling.

I wanted to say so many things: a thief, a woman, a foundling, an otkazat'sya, a nothing—anything but Grisha. I could only manage to shake my head 'no', hoping that the terribly beautiful man before me might understand the fear in my eyes. He was making a mistake. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

"Fine," he practically sighed, the sound almost resigned. Before I realised what was happening, the Darkling pulled me impossibly close to him, his right hand sliding almost seductively up the bare flesh of my arm. Looking down in shock, I finally saw the black ring on his thumb, the protruding edge of which was as hooked and as sharp as a raptor's talon. Before I could blink, he pressed that razor into my bare flesh and pulled it downwards, splitting my pale skin wide open. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

The pain I felt was intense and immense. But instead of blood spilling forth, shadows seemed to erupt from my wound, curling forth and flooding the room with darkness the likes of which I had never seen. Taking over like ink dropped in water, all of the light within the Grisha pavilion was surely snuffed out, plunging everyone and everything into an impossible and impassable blackness. I heard gasps of shock and terror erupt from every side of me, making audible the fear that thrummed wildly within my own heart. Afraid, I gaped around for something to explain what was going on, but, no matter which way I turned, I could only clearly see the Darkling standing before me. Desperate for some sort of grounding point amidst the all-consuming darkness that spilt forth from my flesh, I finally returned the General's stare and, surprisingly, found myself calmed.

At that moment, he released me and the blackness that had enveloped the Grisha pavilion disappeared as if it had never been in the first place. Instantly, an uproar overtook the tent as Grisha of all the different orders shouted questions at their leader, demanding an explanation. He simply raised his hand and everything went quiet. "A Healer needs to see to her arm," the Darkling instructed offhandedly, his voice surprisingly cold. At that moment, I absently noticed that I could feel a thick stream of blood running down the inside of my arm from where I had been cut open. As if appearing out of nowhere, five different Grisha all clad in red kefta with grey embroidery at their cuffs came to my side, each scrambling (however politely) to tend to the three-inch-long gash on my upper arm. Ultimately, it was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair who won out amongst the group. "After she's healed," the Darkling continued as the young woman started fussing over me, "I want her taken immediately to the Little Palace. Use my coach. Ivan, come with me," General Kirigan ordered as he breezed past me and the cloud of Healers trying to mend me. I could only watch awkwardly over my should as the Darkling walked away, the stern Corporalnik who had now twice attacked me following close behind in his master's wake.

By the time I had blinked, they were both gone.