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.

2. Chapter 2

Two

"Hold still unless you want a scar," the Healer at my arm instructed as she examined my injury.

I flinched at the unfamiliar calmness of her voice beneath the uproar that raged within the Grisha pavilion. After the Darkling left, the silence he had ordered immediately disintegrated. The cacophony of overlapping conversations that exploded in the vacuum created by his sudden absence was deafening. Staring down at the stranger's hands as they flitted this way and over on my arm, I tried to remain still despite the sudden weakness in my legs. "What are you doing?" I asked, tensing with uncertainty as the Healer finally ceased her fussing and hovered her right hand directly over my wound. I'd never been mended by a Grisha before, so I didn't know what to expect next.

"Concentrating on healing you, unless you'd rather keep bleeding all over the place," she muttered briskly, prompting me to fall silent as she very slowly and carefully began to pass her hand along the gash. As she did so, the flesh and skin of my arm began to burn and itch tremendously. It took everything in me to keep from slapping the Healer's hand away to scratch at the irritation she was causing. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to remain motionless so she could finish.

As I watched the Corporalki Healer work her craft, I had to stifle a gasp as the two sides of my wound miraculously reached for each other and knit seamlessly closed. In the space of a minute, the mark the Darkling had slashed into my flesh disappeared without a trace. When the Healer finally released me, the burning and itching on my arm abruptly stopped.

"There," she beamed, taking a moment to observe her work, "good as new. Now to clean you up." Pulling a grey handkerchief from her pocket, she quickly wiped up the thick, ruby-red stream of blood that ran all the way down to my wrist. After I was cleaned to her satisfaction, the Healer promptly grabbed the cuff of my blouse and pulled my sleeve back into place. I heard a small sigh of dismay from the four other Grisha who were crowded around us before they dispersed to add their voices to the commotion that abounded.

"Thanks," I muttered, absently rubbing my arm where the cut had been.

"Of course," the Healer smiled proudly as she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear; it must have fallen into her eyes as she had bent to her work. "Here," she then offered as she held out her ruined handkerchief to me, "use this to clean your face."

At that moment, I realised I could feel something cold and viscous dribbling along the border of my upper lip. Out of habit (I've been in more back-alley fistfights than I can count), I dabbed my nose on my hand and felt the distinct stickiness of old blood. Looking down, I found my skin marred by a dense, dark-red smear—the leavings of Ivan's attempt to kill me. I'll have to properly thank him for that, I growled inwardly, my dislike for him mounting. When the Healer cleared her throat to grab my attention, I met her disapproving stare with a sheepish chuckle and took the cloth offered to me. "Sorry," I said as I cleaned away the grime on my face and then my hand, "I'm not used to having one of these things."

"I can tell," the Healer sighed with a sort of backhanded indulgence.

Normally I would have taken offence to that, but I let it slide. After all, she had literally just erased a gash that, in any other circumstance, I would have had to stitch closed myself. It behoved me to try and be grateful. "So," I fumbled, my lack of manners continuing to show as I tried to figure out what to do with the handkerchief, "do you want this back… ?"

"No, keep it. Please," she smiled somewhat disparagingly. "I have a feeling you're going to need it."

"Right," I said tersely, my patience running thinner by the second.

"You," someone suddenly barked from behind me, the harshness of their voice cutting through the clamour of mixed conversations that raged all around. Looking up, I found a charcoal-clad oprichnik glaring at the Healer next to me from the entrance of the Grisha pavilion. "Get her moving," he demanded brusquely before disappearing outside, leaving another heavy silence behind him.

"Let's go," the young woman at my side said gently, her hand now hovering at my shoulder as if to herd me like a child. Looking around the tent, I saw all manner of Grisha craning their necks to gawk. Instantly, the horrible and unusual feeling of being very small under such obvious scrutiny returned with a vengeance. "Come on," the Healer encouraged when I didn't move. Instead, I took a careful look around the room, silently hurling accusations at each face that shamefully skirted my gaze. When the young woman at my arm finally realised I wouldn't be moving on my own, she physically began directing me out of the pavilion.

Stiffly, I followed her lead, the cloth I held crushed in my fist as I bristled beneath the returning weight of the stares at my back. Although I could sense that, generally, the Grisha were regarding me with unabashed amazement and curiosity, I could feel that there was fear there, too. Every one of them tried to hide it, but I could hear it in the way they whispered as I passed, their voices tense and hurried, and I could see it in the way they avoided meeting my gaze. Where I had been the subject of their thinly-veiled disdain not moments ago, now they regarded me in exactly the same way as they did the Darkling.

And I hated it.

As I stepped back into the bright openness of the First Army encampment, I noticed that, although the Grisha were buzzing around me like bees to a flower, the soldiers were no longer affected by my presence. Instead, they seemed to be whipped into a frenzy, running this way and that to complete all manner of work. I vaguely wondered what their rush was, but I couldn't hold onto the thought for long. Instead, my mind kept drifting back to the Darkling, oscillating between contempt for what he had done to me and… Something else. Between moments of cursing him and everything he stood for, I found myself remembering the strength of his hand around my wrist and the closeness of his body against mine. But, most of all, I kept thinking about how, in the brief moment our eyes met amidst the shadows, the absolute sense of his certainty had inexplicably coursed through me. Next to the Darkling, looking into his piercing grey eyes, I had felt more sure and powerful and right than I ever had before in my life. And now that he was gone, I felt somehow lost.

Which is absurd, I chastised myself again and again, only to immediately circle back and agonise over on the emptiness which lingered where he had touched me.

"—Vassek is going to be so jealous when he hears about this," I heard the Healer at my left mutter excitedly as we walked onward through the undistinguishable rows of First Army tents.

"What's there to be jealous of?" I asked, not sure if she was speaking to me or herself. When she blushed crimson, I knew I had overheard something not meant for my ears.

"Well," the young woman hedged, her voice somewhere between embarrassed and perplexed, "it's not every day that someone only a year out of school is afforded such an opportunity."

"Which was what, exactly?"

"That I was able to tend to you, of course."

"You say that like I should understand what you mean," I said blandly.

The Healer laughed awkwardly at first, but when she saw my questioning expression she quickly stopped. "You're a Shadow Summoner," she said pointedly as if that fact should have been obvious.

Was that what the Darkling had wanted to hear me say? I thought to myself as I recalled his last words to me in the pavilion. 'What are you?' He had asked, the question made doubly perplexing by the pleasant and almost hopeful tone of his voice. "No, that's not possible," I denied firmly as panic thrummed anew in my chest. I couldn't be Grisha. I wasn't. "There's only one Shadow Summoner and I'm not—"

"—You are Grisha," a familiarly scornful and unwelcome voice interrupted, drawing my attention. Ivan was standing just ahead of the Healer and me, hovering outside what must have been the Darkling's personal coach. It was an ebon monstrosity drawn by four equally gigantic Percherons, their immaculate coats gleaming like burnished black velvet. Next to the whip-wielding driver perched two rifle-bearing oprichniki who were stoically observing the scene that bustled around them. Looking back to the open coach door, I could just make out through the glare of the sun the Darkling's symbol—the sun in eclipse—etched crisply into the window panes. Four mounted Grisha—an Inferni, a Squaller, a Tidemaker, and a Healer—were posted at the four corners of the coach, staring intently at the horizon as if they were desperate to get moving.

"You," I hissed at Ivan, forgetting my panic for a moment.

"Get in," the Heartrender demanded curtly, motioning to the open door.

I hesitated before Ivan and the coach, looking at the yawning black behemoth as if I might figure out some way to keep myself from being forced inside. "And what if I refuse?" I asked, meeting the Corporalnik's baleful stare.

He grinned wickedly as if he hoped I was going to ask such a question. "Then I've been ordered to kill you," he taunted.

Glad to see the Darkling and I are on such friendly terms, I grumbled inwardly. Even though I felt I could have run through to Fold and to Novokribirsk without stopping, I knew my odds of leaving the encampment borne by my own feet were nonexistent. As fast as I was, I couldn't outrun a horse, never mind evade being set on fire or blown over by a gale before I could hide. I could also tell by the threat of violence in Ivan's eyes that he would jump on the chance to end me if I so much as put one foot wrong in his presence. So, since the very last things I currently wanted to do were to be set on fire or to give Ivan the satisfaction of crushing my heart, I wasn't really left with much of a choice but to get in the Darkling's coach.

That didn't mean I had to hurry, though.

Turning to the Healer on my left, I smiled as politely at her as I could even though I felt like hitting something (namely a certain Heartrender). "I don't think I ever caught your name," I said, purposely dawdling. It wasn't hard to see that Ivan was instantly fuming and it was very pleasing to know I was worming under his skin so easily.

"Tasya Sobol," she answered proudly. "Yours?"

"Esfir."

"No la—"

"—Just 'Esfir'," I interrupted, already hating that question. Sheesh, what is it with Grisha and last names? "Anyway. Thanks again, Tasya," I said by way of apology when she bridled, even though I wasn't really sorry at all to have slighted her.

"It was my pleasure. Besides, Grisha look out for each other," she said with a hint of earnestness. I couldn't help but flinch at that.

"Right," I murmured half-heartedly before turning away and, ignoring Ivan's pointed glare, striding confidently towards the Darkling's coach.

Ascending the narrow steps as gracefully as I could, I ducked through the open door and sunk into the heavily cushioned black velvet seat on my right. The inside of the coach was entirely panelled with luscious silk upholstery and glossy black wood. Thick satin curtains lingered in the four corners of the space, bunched neatly away from the crystal-clear windows and tied back by thick, tasselled straps. I'd never had a problem with small spaces before but, looking up at the crystal constellations studded into the ceiling, I found myself feeling suddenly claustrophobic. Like my experience with the Healer, I had never been in a coach before and I suddenly felt as if I had been forced into a coffin.

As soon as I sat down, a broad-shouldered Corporalnik with side-swept dark hair and a strong, angular face entered the coach. Tucked under the arm of his black-on-red kefta was another blood-red bundle of material which he unceremoniously placed in my lap. When I picked it up to see what it was, I realised it was a grey-on-red Healer's kefta. "Put that on," the strange Heartrender said before sitting down immediately opposite me.

"Red's not my colour," I said wryly, holding it back to him. He made no move to take it.

"Put it on," Ivan growled as he entered the coach and sat down on the left of the other Heartrender. Together, they made quite a formidable pair.

All the better to crush my heart when I stray a foot too far from where I'm supposed to be, I observed privately. Taking the kefta back into my lap, I ran the material through my fingers: it was as soft as silk but felt as durable as leather. The grey embroidery on the cuffs was exquisitely done and, on top of it all, the fur lining was luxuriously soft and shockingly warm as if someone else had been wearing it. On a whim, I cast a glance out of the coach to see Tasya walking back towards the Grisha pavilion in a simple linen shirt tied with a red sash, her kefta conspicuously missing. As the realisation of what I was holding dawned on me, I protested. "But, this is—"

"—Just put it on," Ivan snapped again. "Or would you rather not be able to take a bullet?"

"It's made from Materialki corecloth," the other Heartrender offered in answer to my bewildered expression. "Just don't get shot in the head," he winked as an unfamiliar and heavily armed oprichnik clambered into the coach, slamming the door behind himself. He sat down on my right without a word.

"Worry about yourself," I muttered blackly as I awkwardly slipped the kefta on. Luckily, Tasya was just about my size and it fit rather well.

Without hesitation, Ivan forcefully tapped twice on the roof of the coach and we lurched forward. Although we moved slowly as we exited the First Army encampment, as soon as the forest of tents was well in the distance the coach picked up considerable speed. I watched dejectedly out the window, sitting in my borrowed kefta, as Kribirsk and the Fold faded farther and farther away, the only true home I had ever known now well beyond my reach.

"You look like you're about to cry," the unfamiliar Corporalnik observed calmly—kindly. Ripping my eyes away from the shrinking skyline of familiar buildings and the bleak wall of the Unsea's border, I met the gaze of the Heartrender sitting directly across from me.

Fighting against the unexpected tightness in my throat, I shook my head firmly. "Only because I'm stuck in this glorified wooden casket with him," I quipped, tossing my head dismissively at Ivan.

Although Ivan glowered at me in return, the other Heartrender barked a laugh. "Don't mind him: he's an ass to everyone."

"Glad to know I'm not special," I drawled.

"Not even close," Ivan grumbled.

"Shut up," the other Heartrender chastised with a hint of playfulness. I had the feeling they were very close friends or perhaps even lovers—if Ivan's withered black heart was capable of feeling anything other than spite. "I'm Fedyor Kaminsky," Ivan's companion said as he held out his hand to me.

Returning Ivan's sullen glare for a split second, I shifted my full attention to Fedyor and shook his hand. He had a solid but friendly grip, which I appreciated. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they shake your hand. "I'm Esfir," I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"No last name?" Fedyor asked before I could stop him, much to my dismay.

"Just 'Esfir'," Ivan and I said tersely at the same time. If I didn't already dislike the (admittedly) handsome brute so much, I would have laughed.

Fedyor took care of that for me by letting out another chuckle. "See?" He grinned, relaxing back against the cushioned seat of the coach. "You two will be friends in no time."

"For some reason, I doubt that," I grumbled as Ivan harrumphed and turned to look broodingly out the window on his left.

"Eh, don't be so sure," Fedyor said. "I hated Ivan when I first met him, too." If I'd blinked at the wrong moment, I would have missed the small sideways glance and tender smile Fedyor flashed at the back of Ivan's head. They were definitely lovers.

"Really? I can't imagine why," I snipped, casting another baleful glare at the man in question for good measure. "Did he try to kill you, too?"

"Did he what?"

"No? Just me? Well, I guess I am special, then…"

"Only because you're an unbearable pain in the ass," Ivan growled, never looking away from the window.

Takes one to know one, I thought childishly, but otherwise let the jab go unanswered. As a long-drawn-out and uncomfortable silence settled over the inside of the Darkling's coach, I had the sinking feeling I was in for a very, very long trip to Os Alta.

"So," Fedyor said hesitantly, breaking the tension with a question he had obviously been burning to ask, "you really are a Shadow Summoner, hm?" I couldn't help but notice the hint of reverence that coloured his voice and, once again, I felt uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"So it would seem," I said, the words still utterly ridiculous to me. Sinking a little deeper behind the tall collar of the kefta I wore as if to hide, I turned my attention back out the window. We had been travelling for a while now and Kribirsk had been reduced to barely a speck on the horizon, but not the Shadow Fold. Its miasmic border still stained the distance, looming high overhead in all its terrifying magnificence.

I'd always held a certain fascination with the Unsea, but I was never stupid enough to get too near. I had no business messing about with volcra, especially considering the horrific stories of failed crossings that served as regular gossip for the townsfolk of Kribirsk. It wasn't a proper conversation if someone wasn't trying to one-up another person's gory description of some poor bastard getting ripped in two or having their limbs pulled off one by one. Even so, I couldn't help but listen whenever someone mentioned the Fold. But instead of focusing on the appallingly specific details about entrails and decapitations, I would drift off, trying to imagine what it was really like beyond the Unsea's shifting veil. Because I wasn't afraid of the shadows of the Fold like everyone else. Darkness was where I thrived. Darkness was safe. Darkness was familiar. Perhaps that's why, out of all of the places I could have called 'home', I had stayed in Kribirsk: I relished the nearness and familiarity—or, rather, the sameness—of the Shadow Fold's darkness. 'Like calls to like,' I had once heard someone's babya say. At the time, I didn't understand what that meant. I did now.

"You must be relieved to know you're Grisha," Fedyor said. When I turned my head to look at him once again, I found him smiling encouragingly.

"'Relieved' is not the word I would use," I answered tepidly. Ever since I could remember, I had been otkazat'sya: 'the abandoned'. Any Ravkan without Gisha powers technically falls under that label, but it's mostly used by certain kefta-wearing toffs who hurl it around like an insult to make themselves feel important. When I was small, I admit I hated being called out as otkazat'sya, mostly because it reminded me of everything I didn't have—both as a foundling and as a non-Grisha. It took time (and a scant bit of growing up) but eventually, I learned to wear the title with a rebellious sort of pride rather than shame. Because the more I saw of the disdain Grisha seemed to feel for those weaker than themselves, the more relieved I became to be separate from them. In my opinion, being called 'Grisha' seemed far more insulting than being simply 'orphaned' or 'abandoned'.

Fedyor's face fell instantly. "But… You'd have been hanged otherwise," he stressed.

"I know," I replied with a cynical half-smile as I went back to staring out the coach window, my eyes trained on the ever-shrinking stain of the Fold on the horizon, "but it's like I told the Darkling: there are worse fates than dying."

o-o-o-o

Even though we kept a brisk pace, it still took well over a week to get to Os Alta from Kribirsk. To pass the time, I had, for the most part, slept (however uneasily) and watched the scenery go by. Although Fedyor was a pleasant enough person, I didn't really have much to talk about with him, never mind Ivan or the very silent and very stoic oprichnik who rounded out our group. So for nine horrible and seemingly never-ending days, the four of us had sat in relative silence until, mid-morning on the tenth day, Fedyor unexpectedly perked up with excitement.

"There it is! We're here!" He enthused, reaching over to grab Ivan's shoulder and roughly shake the napping Heartrender awake.

Although he initially looked upset to be roused, once Fedyor's words sunk in, Ivan's face flashed briefly with a hint of relief. "Saints, I never thought we'd get here," he grumbled, his tone slightly less dour than usual as he took a long look out the window.

"Have you ever been to Os Alta?" Fedyor asked me after he quickly stole an excited glance at what I could only imagine was Ravka's capital city off in the distance.

I thought about trying to crane my neck to face the front of the coach but I decided against it. Although the double walls of Os Alta were famous and apparently a sight to behold, I had a feeling I would become intimately familiar with them in short order. "No," I said with a subtle shake of my head, "I've never left Kribirsk."

"Well, then you're in for a shock," Fedyor grinned before going back to looking out the window.

"First thing I'm doing when we get back to the Little Palace is having a long, hot bath," Ivan sighed, making sure to look right at me before he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. I bristled at the silent insinuation. Unlike Fedyor had predicted, being trapped in a coach with Ivan for days on end hadn't done any wonders for our 'friendship'.

"I was thinking the same thing, but I might just head straight for a nap in a real bed," Fedyor sighed, exhausted. "What about you, Esfir?"

Well, first, I'll probably scope out an escape route. Then after that, I think I'll stuff my pockets with whatever goodies I can carry and see where the day takes me. "That all sounds great, but—"

"—No 'buts'," Ivan interjected flatly, his eyes popping open to glare at me for what must have been the millionth time since I met him. "You need a bath more than any of us. You stink of Kribirsk."

I forced myself to resist the overwhelming urge to lash out and pummel him. "Hate to break it to you," I smiled venomously, "but you don't smell as pretty as Sankta Lizabeta either. I can happily arrange that for that to change, though: there are more than enough horses present to do the job."

"Is that a threat?" Ivan barked.

"I'd call it more of a promise," I sneered, goading him.

"Cut it out," Fedyor hissed before elbowing his worse half heavily in the ribs. "And you as well," he said pointedly at me when I, quite juvenilely, stuck my tongue out at Ivan. "We're all sick and tired of travelling. It won't be long before we can get out of this saintsforsaken coach: we're coming up on the main city gate now."

The moment the words left his lips, the green landscape outside of the coach was replaced briefly by walls of stone as we passed through Os Alta's battlements and into the city proper. As the coach careened through the streets, I watched intently as we passed all manner of shops, a wide-open marketplace bustling with people and overflowing stalls, and row after crowded row of narrow, drab houses. It was common knowledge that Os Alta was also called 'the dream city', though, having finally seen it, I wasn't sure why. For being the capital Ravka and home to both the King's Grand Palace and the Grisha's Little Palace, it struck me as nothing more than a dirty, over-glorified merchant hub. Surprisingly, I found myself mildly disappointed.

"This is Os Alta?" I asked Fedyor. "We came all that way for this?"

Fedyor, Ivan, and (shockingly) the long-silent oprichnik on my right all burst out in raucous laughter. I couldn't stop myself from blushing, embarrassed. Apparently, I had missed something. "Come, sit here," Fedyor said once the three men had calmed themselves. Before I could decline, he slid himself closer to Ivan to make room for me. As I suspected, Ivan didn't seem to mind being cuddled so close to the fair-haired Heartrender. I even though I saw a hint of a smile grace his lips.

"If this is another excuse to laugh at my expense…" I threatened open-endedly to Fedyor as I moved to the opposite side of the coach and squished in beside him.

"Hold that thought," he grinned before pointing out the window. Following his direction, I looked back outside and my eyes went wide.

Ahead of us sprawled the real 'dream city' of Os Alta. On the other side of a massive canal wide enough to fit at least four of the Darkling's coaches side-by-each stretched a glorious cityscape the likes of which I could never have pictured even in my wildest imagination. Burbling fountains, pristine plazas, and lush parks seemed to be everywhere I looked. Boulevards at least twice as wide as the streets in Kribirsk snaked out in every direction, the immaculately paved and clean walks on their edges politely crowded by men and women in beautiful clothes. Perfectly spaced and crisply trimmed trees stood in rows along every roadway, casting a pattern of shadows over the strolling passersby. Grand, multi-storey houses bigger than anything I'd ever seen in my life towered on either side of us and, as we continued onwards up the sloping streets, I was amazed to find they were becoming even larger and more opulent.

"I said you were in for a shock, didn't I?" Fedyor whispered into my ear with an audible smile. For once, I couldn't find the words to argue with him.

At the pinnacle of the city, we passed through another set of gates which I saw, as I watched them close forebodingly behind our coach, were plated in polished gold and proudly displaying the King's symbol: the double eagle. The tree-lined path the coach followed now was paved in gravel that seemed to sparkle like so many gems in the sunlight. Beyond the road, stretching on almost interminably, were rich, manicured gardens which overflowed with flowers and plants of every colour. As we curved around the border of an enormous fountain, the double eagle statue at its centre spewing forth a fantastic display of water, I finally caught sight of the King's Grand Palace looming in the distance. Sat atop a cascade of marble terraces studded with smaller fountains and countless alabaster statues was the gaudiest building I had ever seen. Constructed from white stone and embellished with sky-blue stucco, the building was a three-storey monstrosity. Every inch of the ostentatious façade was veritably shining with row upon row of gilded windows, columns, and intricate scrollwork. The crowning tawdriness, however, was the massive double eagle crest that was perched centrally atop the building, high above the main entryway. It looked to be made of solid gold.

Continuing to follow the glittering path, the coach eventually curved around and beyond the Grand Palace, heading ever deeper into the magnificent grounds. First, we passed what I could only assume was an immaculately trimmed hedge maze, then came a gently sprawling lawn with some sort of austere, columned temple at its nexus, and finally a monumental greenhouse, its foggy windows obscuring the oasis contained within. I found myself wondering what kind of plants might be kept inside and what they were used for until, quite unexpectedly, the inside of the coach was cast into deep shadow as we entered a dense stand of trees. A cleared path ran through the wood, the branches of the closely-knit foliage joining overhead in a braided canopy to form a sort of tunnel. When we finally emerged from the dark and began to make our way down a small hill, I let out a hushed gasp.

Where the Grande Palace had a certain sort of… garish beauty about it, the Little Palace was, without a doubt, the most exquisite building I had ever—or would ever—lay eyes on. Rising out of the forest that surrounded it like something from a fairy tale, the Little Palace was an elegant melding of warm, dark wood, uncompromising stone, glass, and radiant, golden domes. Compared to the Grand Palace, it was much more reserved in its design, but it was by no means modest. Even from a distance, Little Palace exuded a sense of majesty and power far greater than excessive gilding or an overabundance of statues ever could. The only thing I couldn't figure out was why it was called the 'Little' Palace: while it was in fact smaller than the Grand Palace, it was by no means 'little'. The great domes atop the three-storey building seemed to tower overhead, reaching for the sky as if they might eventually touch it and the double doors of the main entrance seemed so tall and heavy that I was sure it would take at least four men to open them. Even the granite steps that swept gracefully up from the road we travelled on seem to exude a sense of magnitude, making the group of charcoal-clad servants that waited atop them to receive us seem insignificant.

As the coach drew up to the front steps, Fedyor slipped across the narrow aisle to sit in my empty seat, leaving me a little too close to Ivan for my liking. When the Heartrener in question tensed at my relative nearness, I knew we felt the same. Thankfully, we didn't have to suffer each other for long: almost as soon as Fedyor sat down, the coach rolled to a stop for the last time. After the briefest of hesitations, the door beside me opened with a sharp snap.

"Ladies first," Fedyor said, motioning for me to exit.

"Yes, because I'm such a lady," I grumbled at him to hide the fact that I took a small breath to steady myself. Although the trip to Os Alta had been long and exhausting and generally awful, I had somehow gotten used to the silent presence of my travelling companions. The uncertainty of what was going to happen once I stepped outside was unnerving in a way that made my stomach clench.

In an effort to save face, I balled up my courage and exited the coach, ignoring the gloved hand that was waiting for me just outside the door. The footman gave me an odd look as I passed, but I couldn't be bothered to take more than passing notice of him: I was too busy gaping up at the true and astounding magnificence of the Little Palace. While I had thought the building beautiful from afar, up close I realised just how much of a masterpiece it was. Every inch of the Little Palace's otherwise dark and reserved façade was covered with intricate carvings, each carefully inlaid with glimmering mother of pearl. All manner of real and imagined birds, flowers, vines, and beasts raced out in every direction, their glittering forms flowing with the architecture that supported them as if they were alive.

I was awestruck.

In the brief moment I took to pause and wonder at the splendour before me, I heard Fedyor, Ivan, and the stoic oprichnik pile out of the coach. Ripping my eyes away from the glittering outer walls of the Little Palace, I waited as the only 'friendly' (and I use the term loosely) faces I knew approached… And then walked immediately past me. Without so much as a backwards glance or a heartfelt 'fuck you', the two Corporalki and the oprichnik strolled up the steps towards the main doors and then disappeared inside the Little Palace, leaving me completely alone.

Yeah, sure: go on ahead; I can handle myself, I snarked inwardly.

"Come here, girl," a strange and very nasally voice demanded from the remaining crowd of servants at the top of the steps. Wincing, however slightly, at the sound, I looked over to find a stern woman in a prim grey dress staring disapprovingly at me. Her salt-and-pepper hair was piled atop her head in a tight and perfect bun which painfully exaggerated the already severe features of her gaunt face. It wasn't hard to guess that she was probably the head of the household staff. "If it pleases you, Miss," the gargoyle added snidely when I didn't jump to obey.

With nowhere else to go (I was not getting back into the Darkling's coach), I rolled my eyes and begrudgingly ascended the short flight of steps to the main doors. As I stopped next to the severe woman with the bun, she let out a harsh tsk and shook her head in disgust. Apparently, I didn't meet her standards.

"Yelena," the horrid manageress barked, causing a much younger woman nearer to the entrance to snap to attention, "go up to the Vezda Suite and run a bath. Today, child!" She ordered when the young maid didn't start moving quickly enough.

"Right away, Ms Orlov," the girl said with a hurried curtsey before running off into the palace to do as she was told.

Casting me another sideways look down her nose, the witch—Ms. Orlov, apparently—bobbed her head curtly towards the doors. "Come with me," she said before sticking her chin in the air and walking away.

Saints help me, I should have stayed in the coach…

I had to hurry to catch up but, in a few quick strides, I fell into a brisk step behind Ms Orlov as she scuttled away. After passing through the main doors, we next went through a long entrance chamber, and then finally an enormous hexagonal room, our footsteps echoing off the polished stone floor. At the middle of this strange space were four long, dark tables arranged in a perfect square; directly above them, floating on high, was an enormous dome, wrought in gold. I briefly wondered what the purpose of such a space was, but didn't have time to form the question before Ms Orlov led me away. Going through another set of double doors (these ones much more average in size), we entered one of the Little Palace's towers. A wide staircase, carpeted by a runner the same colour as the building's dark exterior, switchbacked repeatedly on itself, leading to the floors above. As we began to climb the stairs, I noticed that the railing was etched with carvings just as exquisitely detailed as the ones on the palace's façade, though these simply depicted a never-ending tangle of leafy vines.

Six ridiculously long flights of stairs later, we finally reached the top floor. Crossing the wide landing, we entered into a long hallway and continued onward. Marching along, Ms Orlov led me past door after door, the spaces between them occupied by small, conservative tables showcasing a wide array of curious artefacts. My thieving brain couldn't help but register that most of them looked very valuable and highly portable. But, again, I didn't have much time to think about that as Ms Orlov abruptly (and without warning) halted before a final set of closed double doors. Stopping short of running directly into the harpy, I busied myself with glaring at the back of her head as she immediately chewed into the poor maid standing before her. I recognised the young woman as a (slightly winded) Yelena.

"Is the bath ready?" Ms Orlov asked curtly.

"Yes, Ms Orlov," the young maid nodded, never once looking the stern older woman in the eye.

"Good. Go back to your other duties."

"Of course, Ms Orlov." Young Yelena gave us both a quick curtsey before she walked off down the hall.

"And don't dawdle!" Ms Orlov snapped, her stare highly critical as she watched the maid leave. "The silverware isn't going to polish itself!" Yelena immediately broke into a scurry, rushing away and around the corner to the staircase I had just climbed. Once she was out of sight, Ms Orlov turned to look at me. "The Darkling has decided that the Vesna Suite will become your personal quarters whenever you are residing at the Little Palace," she said with a sniff. Clearly, she didn't think I was worthy of whatever honour had been afforded to me.

"How very generous of him," I cheeked. "And here I thought he'd throw me in irons again."

Ms Orlov's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched, and her lips pursed so tightly I thought they might disappear into her shrivelled face. It wasn't hard to read that she agreed prison was definitely a better place for me than whatever room awaited beyond the door. "If you require anything, day or night," she continued rigidly, "please use the bell pull next to the bed and someone will arrive promptly to see to your needs."

"Right," I chuckled quietly under my breath, the idea of me being served by anyone other than a barmaid or Zdisek (the bastard) preposterous. Without another word, Ms Orlov opened one of the double doors to her right and, stepping into the room beyond, waited for me to follow. It was a little too late to sprint back out the main doors now, so I entered after her.

My first thought was that there had to be some sort of mistake as the space was absolutely gigantic. The Vesda Suite was at least ten or fifteen times bigger than the tiny hovel I had called home on the outskirts of Kribirsk. The walls were an immaculate bright white, the furniture was finely crafted from wood the colour of burnt umber, and weighty gold curtains framed the two towering windows. There was a sitting space with a low oval table, loveseat, and two chairs just a short way before me, followed by a dressing table with a mirror, and a canopied four-poster bed. Beyond that was yet another room, the door to which was ajar revealing a spacious bathroom.

"Close your mouth, girl: you look like a fish," Ms Orlov said snidely.

I couldn't stop myself from glaring at her… After closing my mouth and pressing it into a thin, angry line.

"Do you require anything before I leave you—perhaps something to eat?" The wrinkly old hag asked with an overly false air of concern.

If you could go throw yourself off of the roof, that would be great—if it's not too much trouble, of course. "No, thanks," I said coolly.

Ms Orlov ducked in the slightest of stiff curtsies before leaving the suite and closing the door behind her with a heavy click.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the strange space before me. Until just a little while ago, the only way I would have ever found my way into a room like this would be if I had snuck in, uninvited, through a window. And now… Now I was supposed to live here? What was one person supposed to even do with so much space to themselves?

Locking the doors behind me, I took a few tentative steps beyond the cushy sitting area. Running my fingertips gently along the exquisitely carved top of the loveseat as I passed it, I took a look at all of the things that had been laid out, apparently, for my convenience. On the dressing table alone sat a gilded hand mirror and matching brush, an ornate oil lamp, and silver candelabrum next to a gleaming golden letter-opener, inkwell, fresh raven's-feather quill, and stack of parchment. Combined, those few trinkets were probably worth more money than the combined value of every possession I'd ever had in my life. In the far corner was a full-length standing mirror and, on the wall facing the foot of the bed, was a lovely little fireplace, currently aglow. Looking over at the bed, it was easy to see that it was ridiculously soft: the plush, embroidered comforter looked like a cream-coloured cloud, the pillows were large and plump, and the mattress was tall, lump-free, and wide enough to sleep two people easily.

Continuing on into the bathroom, I found myself even more bewildered. The floor was tiled with slate, the walls in shining bronze. A huge oval copper tub was sunk into the floor and, currently, it was full of steaming hot, crystal-clear water. Several large, fluffy towels were folded neatly by the basin next to a chubby bar of soap, a natural sponge, and a sturdy bone comb. The wall immediately behind the tub was covered in an intricate mosaic backsplash of dainty white shells, mother of pearl, and bone-white pebbles. The single window was draped with layers of translucent cream and gold curtains that let in the light of the day but still afforded privacy. Lush plants and ferns I didn't know the names of were sitting here and there on tiny, clawfoot pot stands, making the whole space feel like an oasis.

Although I bathed as often as I could afford, I had never once had a hot bath. Looking down at my hands, I found them dirtier than I'd like and quickly decided that, since the tub had already been filled, it was stupid to let all that water go to waste. Stripping off my borrowed kefta, I undressed, making sure to stash away the broken hairpin hidden in the laces of my corset for safekeeping (you never know when something like that will come in handy). Unsure of what to do with my clothes, I folded them as neatly as I could and draped them over top of the dressing screen just outside the bathroom. Slipping into the tub, I found the water was screaming hot, but I didn't care: after being stuck in a coach, nearly killed, interrogated, shackled to a post, and knocked out, my entire body was sore as if I'd been in a brawl. The heat did wonders for my aches and pains. Dunking my head under the water, I came up for air already feeling cleaner and more refreshed than I had in a very, very long time.

As I relaxed in the warmth and scrubbed myself from head to toe, I finally found time to think back on something that the wretched Ms Orlov had said. I didn't realise it had bothered me at the time, probably because I was so overwhelmed with everything going on around me, but now that I was a little calmer it struck me. The old bat had specifically said that the Darkling had decided I was to be staying in these rooms as if she had been told so ahead of my arrival. For all I knew, the Darkling was still back in Kribirsk, orchestrating a crossing of the Fold or some other perfectly useless endeavour… Unless he had managed to get back to the Little Palace ahead of me. I mean, it was entirely possible: a single rider on horseback, lightly burdened, could travel faster than a coach laden with people. But, then again, that was the whole point of messengers. Why would he bother coming all this way (and I knew firsthand exactly how long of a trip it was) when he could just send instructions ahead? Although I knew that was the most likely explanation for how the General's wishes had been made clear, I still felt a twinge of something close to disappointment that I might not see him again for quite some time. Because for as arrogant and cold as he was, I had to admit that he fascinated me somewhat. I didn't know if it was because of his general aloofness or the way he, in the same breath, was able to hold the attention of a room with his mere presence, but something about him had drawn me in despite the lack of regard he held for me in return.

I thought about that until my bathwater began to cool.

When I emerged from the tub, I found myself absolutely exhausted, my legs and arms feeble with weariness. Although it had eased the snarls and bruises in my muscles, after not sleeping well for so many nights on end, the hot water from the bath must have sapped me of whatever energy I had left. Dry once again, I wrapped myself in a fresh, plush towel and shuffled into the main room. In a daze, I flopped down, spent, on the bed. As I had guessed, it was wonderfully soft and extremely comfortable—a far cry from the straw mattress I had back in Kribirsk. After staring through heavy-lidded eyes up at the canopy over my head for so long that I lost track of time, I decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to shimmy farther up onto the mattress. With some effort, I nestled myself in amongst the equally fluffy pillows and closed my eyes—just for a moment to gather my strength. But one moment turned into two, and two into four, and four into eight, and so on until I fell fast into a restful, dreamless sleep.

o-o-o-o

The next morning, I awoke with a start to someone knocking politely (if not loudly) at the doors to the Vesda Suite.

"Miss?" A muffled voice asked from out in the hall. "Are you awake?"

Scrambling out from under the covers of the bed, I tried to find something better to cover my nakedness with than a bath towel. "Uh," I stalled loudly, panicking, "yes, just… Just hold on—just for a moment." Although I didn't hope to find anything, I cast open the doors to the enormous armoire that sat in between the dressing screen and the bathroom door. Surprisingly, a thick, black velvet robe and a modest, sashed sleeping gown that looked as if they just might fit me were hanging there, waiting.

Ripping the robe off its hanger without a second thought, I hurriedly put it on and rushed to the suite doors.

"Miss?" The timid, muffled voice asked again.

"Yeah, just… One more second," I muttered as I fumbled with the deadbolts. When I finally managed to slide them free, I quickly pulled open the door nearest to the sound of the voice which had addressed me. Peering out into the hall, I saw the young maid from the day previous—Yelena—standing with a large slate grey box tied with a black silk ribbon in her arms. "Hi," I sighed, the frenzy that had overtaken me passing.

"Good morning, Miss," Yelena curtsied, the overly large box she held making the act clumsy but endearing. "May I come in?"

"Sure, I suppose," I said, uncertain, as I stepped back and opened the door wider. Yelena entered immediately and walked over to the squat table at the centre of the suite's sitting area. Placing her burden down on the lacquered and highly polished surface, she curtsied to me again before turning to leave.

"Wait," I exclaimed, reaching out to grab her forearm. The young woman stopped, looking down at my hand as if she was shocked I would deem her worthy of being touched.

"Yes, Miss?" She asked timidly when she looked back up to my face, a light blush taking to her cheeks.

Releasing her when I was sure she wouldn't leave, I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder at the grift-wrapped box on the tea table. "You can't just leave without telling me what this is," I said, motioning to the preposterous box.

"Oh, right," Yelena winced as if I had reminded her of something she'd forgotten. Clearing her throat, she stood up nice and straight, her hands clasped politely overtop her white apron, and recited something she'd obviously been made to memorize. "To celebrate your arrival at the Little Palace, The Darkling presents you with this gift. It would please him greatly if you would wear it and join him for breakfast in the main hall."

I gaped at Yelena, making her blush again. "The Darkling what?"

"It's… It's as I said, Miss."

"He's here—in the Little Palace? Now?"

"Y-yes, of course, Miss," Yelena stammered, confused. "Where else would he be?"

At least a week's ride away in Kribirsk, I thought somewhat anxiously. "I just… But he… And I… Oh, never mind," I floundered tersely, waving away Yelena's question and my inability to answer it as if they were annoying flies.

"And… And What should I tell him is your response, Miss?" The doe-eyed maid asked, rattled by my unconventional reaction.

I blanked at that. What was my response? First, the Darkling had clapped me in irons for thievery, then he'd locked me in a cell seemingly just for the fun of it, and finally, he'd exposed me by testing me before more Grisha than I'd ever seen gathered in one place. Not to mention all of that was topped off by being forcibly confined in a miserable coach for ten days with a man who'd tried to kill me… "Tell him," I began hesitantly, unsure of what I was going to say until a devilish thought popped into my head. "Tell him: I accept his apology and I'll join him for breakfast, but only because I'm starving."

"Miss?" Yelena baulked. "Are you quite sure?"

"Repeat it to me," I said with an impish grin.

She paled. "Miss, you can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious."

"But…"

"Repeat it to me," I winked. "And please believe me when I say I'll suffer the consequences of my own words. You can tell the Darkling as much if he gets upset with you."

Yelena swallowed hard before seeming to gather her courage. "Your response, Miss, is: 'Miss Esfir accepts your apology and says she'll join you for breakfast, but only because she's starving'."

Although I wanted to tell her not to call me 'Miss Esfir', I let it slide. She looked anxious enough to vomit already. "Perfect on the first try," I beamed. Although Yelena smiled at the compliment, I could tell she was still frightened at the prospect of lipping off the Darkling on my behalf. I felt badly for her but felt worse still that I couldn't deliver my own words directly to the General. What I'd pay to see the look on his face…

"And when should I tell the Darkling to expect you, Miss?" Yelena asked in conclusion.

Casting a brief glance back at the box on the sitting area table, I sighed heavily. "I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed. So, maybe twenty minutes?" I half asked, half answered.

"Of course, Miss," Yelena curtsied. "Can I be of any other service?"

If you could scrounge up a full bottle of kvas and a shot glass, I'd be eternally grateful. "No, but thanks," I said quietly with as kind a smile as I could muster.

"Of course," Yelena said with yet another curtsey. "Excuse me, Miss," she murmured before hurrying back out into the hall and closing the door quietly behind her.

Alone again, I turned to stare down the box on the tea table. Twiddling my fingers as if I were warming them up to work on a particularly tricky lock, I pulled simultaneously on the two ends of the thick, black ribbon and let them fall. Gripping the edges of the box's lid, I quickly pulled it open to reveal the last thing I could have possibly expected.

Placed carefully amongst a nest of delicate, semi-opaque silver paper sat a black-on-black kefta. Hesitantly, I reached out to grab the garment and, holding it up, examined it. Although it looked heavy, it was in fact incredibly light. Unlike the knee-length kefta I had borrowed on leaving Kribirsk, this one was long enough to almost reach my feet when worn. The sleeves were wide, the cuffs embroidered with glossy black silk thread in an intricate, shadowy design. Hidden, silk-capped buttons ran down the front so the closure was virtually seamless.

It was perfectly my size and it was stunning.

Folding the remarkable garment over my arm, I looked back at the gift box. Inside, beneath where the kefta had been proudly displayed, sat a flowing, linen blouse, a black silk sash for my waist, black breeches, and a new pair of black leather boots amidst the packing paper.

I bit the thumb of my free hand as I stared down at the clothing. Did I put it on and play dress-up, or did I shrug back into my old and very dirty outfit draped over the privacy screen? After the hot bath I'd 'reluctantly' taken the day previous, it seemed a real shame to put grime immediately back onto myself—especially considering I was the cleanest I had probably ever been in my life… But, even if they were dirty, those clothes were familiar and the only ones I'd had for a very long time. And, besides, there was only one Shadow Summoner—only one Grisha who was permitted to wear black—and it most definitely wasn't me.

Reaching out to feel the shirt, I found it surprisingly soft and the sash that accompanied it flowed like water between my fingers. The calf-high boots, too, were of amazing quality: the leather was supple but durable and polished to a delicate shine. Finally, the breeches were lighter than I anticipated and made from what I could only imagine was an unknown, form-fitting fabric. The longer I stood and debated wearing the clothes gifted to me, the more I noticed that the outfit, overall, resembled the typical dress of male peasants and farmers.

Unlike a Grisha's kefta, I could wear peasant clothes—right? There was nothing pretentious about that…

Placing the kefta carefully back into the box, I picked up the whole lot and ducked behind the privacy screen near the armoire. Although I was nervous none of the clothes would fit, they all seemed to be tailored to me. The breeches fit like a second skin. The boots seemed to be moulded to my calves. The shirt sat gracefully across my shoulders and chest. All that was left now was the jet-black kefta which hung unassumingly over the top of the dressing screen, far opposite my old outfit.

Pulling the garment down once again, I held it between my hands and stared at it. The very thought of me being Grisha still felt like some abstract fanciful notion, just like the idea of there being more than one Shadow Summoner in all of Ravka. If I were to get into technicalities, the Darkling was Etherialki, just like Tidemakers, Inferni, and Squallers. He could have easily sent a blue Etherialki kefta instead of one in his colour… And perhaps I would have been less daunted by that. But if the Darkling himself had made the decision to give a black kefta to me, that must have meant that, even if I didn't really yet believe I was Grisha or a Shadow Summoner, he did.

Letting out a small sigh, I gave my familiar clothes one last glance before slipping the kefta on. It fit more perfectly than I ever could have hoped.

Although it was a lot like a coat, it felt different on my body than any jacket ever had. It was elegant and almost regal, like a ball gown or an ecclesiastical vestment. Hurrying out from behind the privacy screen, I placed myself before the full-length mirror across the suite and studied my reflection as I did up the many hidden buttons. Even if I still considered myself just a common thief (but a very good one at that), I had to admit that the look of being Grisha somehow suited me.

Fully dressed, I took one last deep breath before exiting the Vesda Suite for the main hall. Following the path that Ms Orlov had taken me along upon my arrival, I made it downstairs in good time. Hesitating at the double doors that divided the tower from the hallway which led to the domed hall, I briefly considered what in the name of the Saints I was doing. What if this was all just some kind of elaborate scheme to humiliate me? I had heard once from someone that Grisha caught wearing the Darkling's colours without his permission were publicly flogged as punishment. And even though I was sure that story was more rumour than truth, I suddenly wasn't sure I wanted to find out for myself…

"There you are!" A horribly familiar and nasally voice hissed from behind me. I turned around to find Ms Orlov stalking towards me down the staircase, her face a mask of barely-contained fury. "You're late," she snapped as she grabbed my upper arm with the intention of dragging me onwards towards the main hall.

Wrenching my arm away, I held my ground and glared at her. "Not by much," I growled. By my estimation from the mantlepiece clock that was in the Vesda Suite, I wasn't more than a minute or so behind schedule.

"No one keeps the Darkling waiting," she fumed.

"Well, that's got to change," I said blandly. "And this is a good place to start."

Ms Orlov huffed, exasperated, before pointing authoritatively out the double doors before me. "Get moving, girl," she ordered with a glower.

Briefly, I considered walking back up the stairs to the Vesda Suite just to spite her. But, instead, I sighed heavily, rolled my eyes, and marched onward into the main hall. I didn't want to lose this chance to see the Darkling, even if I only meant to use it to irritate him in whatever way I could.

Although I had intended to waltz into the main hall without stopping, I faltered at the threshold. Dozens of Grisha in red, blue, and purple were spread throughout the room, clustered in different groups of similarly coloured kefta. Some were seated at the long tables, breakfasting below the central golden dome. Others were out in the corners of the hexagonal space, relaxing around samovars and beautifully tiled ovens in low chairs or on recamiers. Somewhere, a balalaika was once again being played, the nonsense melody it put forth enchanting in its simplicity. I had only a few seconds to scan the hall and gather my composure before all of the activity ground to a halt and the hum of friendly conversation that floated on the air died. What have I gotten myself into? I quailed inwardly, unable to prevent a flush of embarrassment from rising in my cheeks as so many sets of eyes fell on me. Unsure of where to look, I instinctively cast my eyes to the very back of the room and found the Darkling watching me intently.

Perched atop a dais, the Darkling sat alone, reclining on a high-backed ebony throne very similar, if not even more beautiful, than the ornately carved ones I had seen in Kribirsk. Leaning heavily on one arm, his chin was resting boredly on his pale hand as he observed me from across the room, his grey eyes piercing through me just as easily as ever. At this distance I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a small grin flicker across his sharp, beautiful face as I swallowed my fear (or at least some of it) and raised my chin just a little bit higher. Walking forward towards the Darkling, my focus trained on him like the light at the end of a dark tunnel, I tried to ignore the conspicuous whispers that followed me like a cloud. After what felt like miles of walking, I finally reached the dais that supported the Darkling's table. Climbing the steps without hesitation, I went behind the long, black table and paused before the simple, equally dark chair that was clearly waiting for me at the General's right hand.

Sitting up a little straighter, the Darkling looked me up and down approvingly despite the annoyance that clearly reigned in his narrowed stare. "I don't like to be kept waiting," he said coolly.

"And I don't like being roused before noon, but here we are," I replied pertly as a servant scurried forward to pull out my chair for me. I watched, slightly astonished that I was no longer expected to do something so simple for myself, but sat down anyway. Once I had done so, a normal buzz of conversation returned to the main hall, but I could tell by the furtive edge to the sound that the subject of every conversation had changed.

Immediately, plates of pickled herring, coarse rye bread, full sticks of rich butter, and ripe fruit were placed before us, along with steaming cups of tea, matching teapots, carafes of fresh milk, and little pots heaping with sugar. Even though it was, for the most part, 'humble peasant fare', I'd never seen such an overabundant spread of food before and my eyes went a little wide. Initially, I had been lying when I said I would grace the Darkling with my presence 'because I was starving'. In fact, at the time, I couldn't have been farther from it. Call it nervous energy from nearly being caught naked, but beyond coming up with a quick quip to poke the bear (as it were) I wasn't really thinking about eating. Now, however, I couldn't deny that I was, in fact, actually starving. It had been hours since my last real meal and, after all the excitement of the last twenty-four hours, I had worked up even more of an appetite than normal. Reaching immediately for a perfectly ripe peach—obviously a product of the greenhouse I had seen the day before—I held it in my hands for a moment, enjoying the felt-like quality of its unblemished skin. Without thinking, I brought the blushing fruit to my nose and subtly inhaled the intoxicating floral aroma that wafted off of its supple flesh. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I would be able to see—let alone hold—such a luxury.

"Please, eat," the Darkling said offhandedly, bringing me sharply out of my reverie. Looking over at him, I found him eyeing me with curious amusement as though he found me somehow refreshing.

"Don't mind if I do," I said confidently as I put the globus piece of fruit down on the empty porcelain plate before me and considered how best to attack it.

"How was your trip to Os Alta?" The Darkling asked pleasantly, using the same tone he had assumed so long ago when I had first awoken in his tent at Kribirsk. Momentarily distracted from plotting to dispatch the peach I had singled out, I watched as the Darkling, almost obligatorily, dished himself a piece of cured fish.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I looked away when I felt the Darkling shifting to glance at me again and busied myself with taking a sip of tea. Pausing to savour the complexity of the flavour as the full weight of his stare fell on me, I waited until he looked away again before glancing briefly back at him. The Darkling was, once again, picking at the fish before him, a slight hint of disgust clouding his perfect brow. "Honestly?" I asked as I finally set down the delicate cup I held and reached for my table knife.

"Of course," he said with another hint of a smile, his focus still trained on his plate.

"If you were aiming to punish me for something, you succeeded."

"Meaning?"

"It was horrible," I grumbled as I picked up the peach and sliced into it, its juices running over my left hand. In a matter of seconds, I had bisected the fruit around its pit and then quartered it into manageable pieces. Without thinking, I set down the knife and the fruit to suck at the sticky-sweet syrup that clung to the heel of my thumb. When I finally noticed the Darkling watching me pointedly, I cleared my throat and hurriedly picked up a nearby cloth napkin to finish wiping off my hand.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he answered somewhat sourly as he continued to use his fork to push the herring on his plate around without actually eating anything.

I watched him play with his food for a moment before picking up a section of the fruit I had carved for myself. Even looking out of the corner of my eye, it wasn't hard to notice the Darkling's focus shift from his plate, to my hand, and finally my lips as I took a careful bite of the delicate fruit. It was more sugary and delicious than I could have dreamed. "Yes, well," I muttered tersely after swallowing. "Not much to be done about it now."

An awkward moment of silence passed between us. Trying to ignore the tension which abounded both to my left and from the hall in general, I busied myself with eating the last half of the fruit segment I had started. When the Darkling didn't make any other attempts at conversation, I turned to look at him directly as I cleaned my hands again on my napkin. "If you just wanted to know how my trip was, I could have written a note."

"You can write?" He asked wryly, putting down his fork with a sharp click.

"Amazingly, yes. And I can read."

"Well, isn't that a surprise? First, you're an oxymoron and now you're literate."

"You'll find I'm full of surprises," I snapped before turning slightly to glare down towards the empty end of the table on my right. Saints, what I would give for a shot or five of kvas… "Why am I here?" I demanded, turning back to fix the Darkling with a heavy stare. In return, he observed me for a moment, his grey eyes unreadable, before he looked away and busied himself with his tea. I waited, annoyed, for him to finish before letting out a delicate but impatient sigh.

"I was told you were hungry," he said evenly around the rim of his cup, still not looking at me. "Is the food not to your satisfaction?"

"Oh, no, the food is fine. The company could be better, though," I shrugged cheekily. Instantly, the Darkling's eyes snapped to meet mine in a narrow, cold stare. I'd insulted him. "Why am I here at the Little Palace?" I clarified pointedly now that I had his full attention.

"All Grisha come to the Little Palace to train," he answered indifferently as he set down his cup and pushed away his barely-touched plate.

"I'm not Grisha," I muttered severely as I leaned back obstinately in my seat and crossed my arms, the remainder of the luscious fruit before me suddenly unappetizing.

"Is that so?" The Darkling asked with a hint of good humour, his mood shifting like quicksilver as he composed himself on his throne. "Why, then, does the kefta I had made for you suit you so well?" He wondered absently after a brief pause, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as if he were considering me like some sort of interesting artefact.

"Black's always been my colour," I answered stubbornly before turning my ire towards the golden dome that hovered far overhead. My hands desperate for something to play with, I pulled loose one of my many rings and twirled it absently around my finger.

"Well, isn't that fortunate?" The Darkling mused lightly.

I couldn't stop myself from looking back at him yet again. I found him passively watching my hand as I fidgeted. "How did you know my size?" I asked, my tone somewhere between accusing and appreciative as I pushed my ring emphatically back into place.

The Darkling finally allowed himself to show a small smile, the flicker of playfulness hidden in his clear, quartz eyes when he looked up at me enough to make my breath catch unexpectedly in my chest. "You'd be amazed at the things which can be deduced from a simple leather jacket," he answered elusively.

I couldn't stop my mouth from falling slightly agape as I stared at him. "That's where my coat went: you took it off me while I was unconscious," I realised, thinking back to the painful moment when I had first awoken, shackled to a post, in the Darkling's tent at Kribirsk. I had been wearing a knee-length leather jacket when I had been subdued in The Rended Volcra, but when I had come to the following morning, I was notably without it.

"I never said that," General Kirigan demurred before taking another sip of his tea.

"Right," I laughed disbelievingly, "and I'm a Saint."

"Saint Esfir of the Stolen Dagger," he said serenely. "I can see it now…"

"Please," I scoffed, "your dagger wasn't nearly the most valuable thing I've ever lifted. If anything, I'd be Saint Esfir of the Ten Bars of Gold Bullion."

When the Darkling turned to look at me directly, I instinctively met his gaze. "You only say that because you don't know what the dagger is really worth," he refuted without hesitation, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

Although the air of seriousness that coloured his voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I didn't let my face betray me. "Yes, well: one man's trash is another's treasure," I smirked, the nearly imperceptible frown that suddenly creased the Darkling's brow oh, so satisfying.

"You begin your training with Baghra today," he stated abruptly and without context, standing up in such a way that the entirety of the main hall went eerily silent. Apparently, he'd had enough of my company. "Tomorrow, I am to present you to the King. Do not disappoint me," he threatened before stalking away towards a set of embellished doubled doors behind the table we had shared. As he approached, the heavy barrier swung open so the Darkling could pass through, only to close immediately behind him with a resounding thud. Staring at the doors, I noticed the Darkling's symbol hidden beneath the intricate collage of carved vines and animals which covered them.

Acutely aware of the multitude of eyes that once again focused on me, I decidedly kept my head from falling into my hands. Instead, I took in a deep breath and straightened my spine before folding my arms sprucely atop the table.

"Miss?" An unfamiliar male voice said from behind me, drawing my attention. Looking over my left shoulder, I saw an older male servant in charcoal (as always) bending towards me as if to speak somewhat privately.

"Yes?" I asked a little too brusquely, my frustrations with the Darkling tainting my tone.

"If it pleases you, Miss, I'm to escort you to your lessons," the servant said neutrally with a small bow.

I'd be more pleased if you'd lead me off the nearest cliff, I bemoaned inwardly. "Of course," I acquiesced, pushing myself up from my seat. The whole hall seemed to hold its breath as I then followed the charcoal-clad servant out of a disguised exit just to the right of the embellished double doors that the Darkling had fled behind.

What a disaster, I thought as I followed blindly after the man who walked ahead of me, not paying attention to the maze of hallways he led me through. You should have just told the Darkling to right out and go fuck himself, I chided myself just as we passed from inside to outside and began to cross the grounds of the Little Palace. Following a gravel path, we eventually came upon a large, pristine lake. The far shore was dominated by a single, monumental building that resembled a temple of some sort except for the fact that it had two defined storeys and far too many windows. The nearer shore, conversely, was dotted with smaller white stone pavilions that seemed, to me at least, to be almost temporary—as if they were built with the express possibility that they might be destroyed, however by accident.

"What are those small structures?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"The Summoners' pavilions, Miss," the servant replied unemotionally, "where Etherialki—such as yourself—practice their craft."

"And the larger building across the lake?"

"The school, Miss."

"A school?"

"Yes, Miss, where young Grisha learn the Small Science," he answered matter-of-factly.

Whatever the hell the 'Small Science' is… "Right," I muttered as we continued away from the lakeshore and towards the forest. Abruptly, we stopped at the border made by the trees and the servant turned to face me.

"This is where I leave you, Miss," he said with a bow. "The hut up this path is where Madam Baghra resides; she is expecting you."

Peering into the dense wood, I could barely make out a small hut off in the distance. A thick billowing of smoke rose from the squat chimney jutting out of the thatched roof. It had no windows that I could see and was otherwise completely engulfed in shadow. "Uh, thanks," I said hesitantly, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest.

"My pleasure, Miss," the servant said with another quick bow before he turned and walked away, leaving me completely alone. I watched him retreat until he disappeared beyond a small rise in the earth.

Casting a cautious glance down the shaded path through the trees, I centred myself with a deep breath and pressed forward. When I finally arrived at the hut, I found it round in shape and made of stone. Ascending the few steps to the heavy wooden door, I hesitated before it. Did I knock? Or, since I was apparently expected, did I just enter? After briefly regarding the heavy wrought iron pull, I decided to knock first. Rapping my knuckles heavily on the door, I waited apprehensively for a response. None came.

Looking back up the path towards the grounds, I contemplated running. It would be so easy to just disappear: no servants were around, no Corporalki were in sight to kill me, and no oprichniki were around to shoot or restrain me… But where would I go—back to Kribirsk and the shores of the Fold? Back to my simple life as a very poor (but very good) thief? And, even if I was able to escape Os Alta, how long would it be before the Darkling sent someone to hunt me down? Even though I barely knew him, I could feel that he was the type of man who wouldn't easily let go of something that interested him. Perhaps I would be able to slip away now, but there was no way that the Darkling would allow me to remain free for long. As much as he might have detested me (as I did him), he wouldn't stop hunting me until I was brought back to the Little Palace and under his thumb.

It would be a completely useless endeavour.

Sighing deeply, I reached for the door pull, lifted it open, and went inside the hut.

As soon as I stepped into the dark space, I was hit by a hellish blast of heat. Too committed to back away, I closed the door behind me despite the overwhelming need to flee that thrilled in my chest. Almost immediately, I began to sweat as I shrunk against the thick door at my back. Although it was very dimly lit, I could still see as if bright daylight were flooding the hut's interior: a narrow but comfortable-looking bed was tucked on the farthest side of the room beside a washbasin. A stove with a beaten copper kettle was positioned closer to the door alongside a weathered wooden table that supported a long, thin platter overflowing with fresh herbs, flowers, and grasses. At the centre of the space sat two empty chairs, simple in design but weighty in their isolation before the hearth and the fire roaring within.

Flicking my eyes once again around the room, I finally noticed an old woman hovering on the far side of the stove, lingering in the harsh shadows cast by the fire. My first impression was that she'd been trying to hide, but I couldn't figure out why she would do such a thing. "You must be Baghra," I said tentatively, trying to be as polite as I knew how.

"Yes, and you, girl, are late," she barked, her voice guttural, as she stalked towards the centre of the hut, her weight buttressed by a cane made from pure, unmistakable greywood.

"Sorry?" I half-apologised, half-questioned, watching as the woman strode into the brightness of the firelight. Although she used a cane, her features weren't as ancient as I had assumed. Her face was severe, but her skin was strangely youthful in the way it stretched tautly over the angles of her cheekbones and brow. Her hair was as black as coal, unmarred by any traces of white or grey, and her back was ram-rod straight to match her lithe figure. The only thing truly 'old' about the woman who stood before me was the kefta she wore, its once vibrant colour long faded into a muddy, sorry grey.

"Well, stop hovering by the door and come closer," Baghra demanded, stopping at the back of the chair farthest from me. Swallowing my fear, I descended the few steps and stopped opposite the woman whose domain I had entered. Standing so much closer, I could finally see Baghra's eyes and had to suppress a shiver: her irises were the bleak grey colour of the Shadow Fold's desolate sands. "Hm," she sniffed, looking at me as the Darkling had done not so long ago in the main hall of the Little Palace—like I was some sort of remarkable thing on display. "Do you have a name, girl?"

"Esfir," I answered, dreading the question I was sure would follow.

"And who are you to wear black?" The woman accused, her empty eyes narrowing with curiosity in an all too familiar way.

"I… Well," I floundered, caught off guard by her directness and the unexpected turn of our conversion (if you could call it that). "I didn't—this was a gift—"

"Gift or no, only Shadow Summoners wear black," she barked. "Are you a Shadow Summoner?"

"I mean… "

"Are you Grisha?"

"Well—"

"—Or are you just some pretentious child playing dress-up?" Baghra accused, thumping her cane angrily on the stone floor for emphasis.

I flinched as her words maliciously poked at the sense of fraudulence that had been malingering in my chest since I left Kribirsk. It stung to admit it, but Baghra was right: I felt like an imposter. Because, even after what I had witnessed, how could I possibly be Grisha if I couldn't even summon anything? On the trip to Os Alta, whenever I managed to find a moment alone I had tried—and I mean really tried—to bring back the feeling of certainty and power I had felt under the Darkling's touch. But it wouldn't come, no matter what I did. Thankfully, I could still disappear into the shadows at will, but I was no more able to manipulate the darkness than I was able to fly. "How can I be Grisha if I can't—"

Baghra cut me off with a dry, rattling laugh. "If you what? Can't use your power right at this very moment? Nonsense," she dismissed with a wave of her bony hand before sitting herself down in one of the chairs before the fire. "Is a bird with a broken wing still a bird, or does it become something else until it can fly again?" She asked pointedly as she stared up at me, her desolate grey eyes piercing. When I didn't answer, she grunted smugly. "As I thought. Sit," she ordered, rapping the leg of the before me with her cane.

I did what I was told, lest I too get smacked. Even though I sat taller than Baghra, I felt entirely small and green in her presence.

"How long have you known you are Grisha?" She asked, her thin hands stacked almost regally atop the flat head of her cane.

"A little more than ten days," I answered quickly, but as soon as the words left my lips, I knew they were false. In my heart of hearts, I now realised I had known I was Grisha ever since I was a child. I had known it every time I had hidden from being tested or stolen food from the market square. I had known it every time I prowled Kribirsk at night, pulling off impossible thefts and narrowly avoiding being caught. I had known it when I had pled not to be paraded into the Grisha pavilion and I had known it when I had donned the Darkling's colours.

Baghra's eyes narrowed as if she sensed I was lying. "You look oddly hale for never having called on your power."

Was that a thing? I fretted inwardly. "I guess I just have a strong constitution," I said with a small smirk.

"Don't patronize me," Baghra snapped, lashing out to smack my calf with her cane with more speed and precision than I had given her credit for.

"Ouch!" I yelped, my hand instinctively reaching for the nonexistent dagger at my hip.

"Next time, I'll aim for your head," she threatened.

"Noted," I said flatly as I angrily crossed my arms.

A tense silence fell over Baghra's hut as she sat and surveyed me, her haunting eyes going over every inch of my face as if she were reading me like a book. I tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, but it was hard. "I've heard you fancy yourself some sort of cutpurse, hm?" She finally asked, her voice gravelly.

"Please. I haven't picked a pocket since I was ten," I countered, offended. "I deal mostly in second-storey work."

"A very pretty way to say that you're an honourless thief."

"I prefer the term 'morally flexible'. But, besides: I do have some standards."

"Such as?"

"I don't take from those who can't afford the loss," I answered resolutely, "and I don't kill unless I have to."

Baghra's eyes narrowed again with suspicion. "And have you killed before, girl?"

"Once," I said quietly as I, inwardly, stomped down the memories that tried to claw out of the hole I had buried them in long, long ago.

"Humph," Baghra grunted, unimpressed and almost disappointed. I had the distinct impression that she had been hoping to ridicule me over an answer of 'never'.

"Regardless, of what you think of me," I said firmly, my ego pricked at the snap judgements which had been made of my character, "I'm not ashamed to admit I'm excellent at what I do."

"Well, I suppose you would be, considering how you can vanish into darkness and gaze through shadow at will," Baghra observed pointedly, a wicked glint coming to her cold eyes. Before I could hide my shock, I felt it register on my face and heard it in the small, sharp inhale of breath I took. "How long have you been able to do these things?" She asked briskly, the seriousness in her tone a clear indication that it was in my best interest not to lie.

Slumping, slightly defeated, back into my chair, I nervously ran a hand through the long side of my hair and sighed. "Since I was little—maybe three or four," I shrugged, trying to play it off like the fact was irrelevant even though I knew it wasn't. "I used to hide from… From a lot of things," I explained ambiguously.

"'Hide'," Baghra scoffed. "But enough idle chit-chat: let's see what you're capable of."

"You're in for a disappointment," I muttered bleakly.

"Hold out your palm," she ordered, ignoring me.

"What? Why?" I baulked.

"Do as you're told, girl," Baghra snapped, her voice cracking like an icy whip.

"You'll find that's not one of my strong suits," I grumbled as I stuck out my hand, palm up, into the space between us. I felt immediately ridiculous, but the blush that burned in my cheeks was far more bearable than the pain of being smacked upside the head with a stick.

"Now, I want you to close your eyes—don't test me, girl," Baghra growled when I gave her a suspicious look. Again, I (reluctantly) did what I was told. "Now, think: you've been able to walk in shadow since you were very small," she continued, her tone suddenly softer and more encouraging beneath its perpetual severity. "How do the shadows feel to you?"

At first, I wanted to say that it felt absolutely stupid and like a complete waste of time, but I (wisely) held my tongue. Instead, I forced myself to focus on the fuzzy, shifting darkness that lives behind our eyelids. For a few long and awkward moments, nothing seemed to happen. But as I pushed a step further and really considered what Baghra had asked, I felt a subtle but significant shift in myself. Something deep inside my soul—a great slumbering and shadowy beast—had begun to wake, the foundations of me quaking with its slow rising. The strangest part, though, was that I knew this beast: I had felt its presence every time I had slipped unseen into a locked room, every time I had crept through the dark without the aid of a light, and every time I had told myself I was hidden if I didn't want to be found. "They feel… Familiar," I answered, my voice dreamy.

"Do the shadows know you?" Baghra asked from afar.

Intimately. "Yes."

"Are the shadows a part of you?"

Always. "Yes."

"Then call them."