A/N High everyone, I hope you're enjoying the story. We're entering the endgame now - only a few more chapters left (Yay!). This is the first of three parts. They were originally meant to be one chapter, but the flow wasn't right and as it was super long (20,000 words near enough), I divided it into three, which I think works much better.

Thank you to everyone who has commented so far. It means a lot as a writer to have people review with their thoughts and reactions - and I love reading them, so please keep them coming :).

For a long moment all Aleksander feels is numbness. The torn garment in his hands might as well be made of lead with how heavy it feels. Above him, the moon casts her cool light upon the terrace, but it no longer looks romantic and idyllic. Instead, it's like his heart and mind – monochrome and cold, all the warmth and colour of life sucked out of it.

Alina is gone.

His precious girl is gone.

Someone has taken her. Stolen her. Taken her from beneath his very nose, in a place he had been repeatedly assured would be safe.

Safe? Ha! What a cosmic joke the illusion of safety had turned out to be: first an assassin and now a kidnapper.

He should have known better.

He had known better – had he not counselled against this? Had he not fought to have the Oprinichki stationed within and around the Imperial Palace, but he had been overruled by the Lantsovs, and for what? The sake of a party? The need to maintain the illusion of solidarity between grisha and government until their plans were ready?

Nothing is worth Alina's loss. A loss so great it feels like a giant, yawning chasm has reopened inside him. Not since the creation of the Fold has he felt like this.

With a roar of impotent rage, the protective numbness disappears and his emotions come screeching back to life, shadows erupting around him like a vengeful cloud. One of the ridiculous cupid statues decorating the terrace loses a head, another is bisected with devastating precision by the shades lashing around him, his anger growing by the second.

His heart and soul are screaming, the inner peace of the last few days shattered like glass. With steely determination, he lifts the torn and bloodied wrap to his lips, pressing a kiss to it as he vows that he will find her, he will bring her home and then he will make whoever dared to do this pay with blood and tears.

Pandemonium. That's the only word for the hellish situation Aleksander now finds himself in. The world of the Imperial Palace is more akin to the first circle of hell than a ballroom right now, but he suspects even the devil would likely balk at having so many perfumed, screeching harpies around on a constant basis… and that's just the men.

Since returning to the ballroom with the blood stained wrap, the Imperial Court has descended into chaos - such as to make it difficult to think let alone actually do anything.

His first instinct had been to quietly slip away from the party and return to his own base from where he could organise search parties. What prevents him is the sour knowledge that Alina's disappearance isn't something he and the Second Army could conceal for long – especially as Nikolai is already looking for her as well. More than that though is the risk if he does. Ravka is a large country, her kidnappers could be anywhere. It's folly of the highest degree to cut himself off from much needed help - like it or not, they stand a much better chance of finding and rescuing their missing saint if the First and Second armies work together on this… and that means the Tsar has to be informed.

It's a decision he rues now. The plan had been simple: find Nikolai, brief the Tsar in quiet and then head back to the Little Palace to mobilise a rescue party. It had been simple, efficient … and of course it had gone wrong.

As he pauses by the doors, deliberating on how best to approach the Tsar, one of the bewigged idiots from the Tsarina's circle spots him - or more accurately spots the torn and bloody wrap - and promptly starts screaming bloody murder.

In seconds the entire ballroom it seems has stopped what they're doing to gawp at the spectacle of a woman with an outrageously tall wig descend into hysterics. It takes several moments for the watchers to understand the significance and content of the screaming, but once they do pandemonium quickly follows.

So much for The Plan. Time for plan b; improvise. Elbowing his way through the hysterical guests, Aleksander finally reaches the royal dais.

"What the deuce is going on, Kirigan?" The Tsar demands when Aleksander reaches him, dark eyes flashing murder and more than a bit dishevelled. The tableau before him is less than reassuring. Vasily is slumped in his chair asleep, the Tsarina po faced and more interested in watching the light reflect off the diamonds covering her heavily braceleted wrists, while their illustrious leader looks half cut and like he's barely following events.

It's at this point the only semi competent Lantsov returns. Nikolai appears, out of breath and no longer pristine. Behind him are several high-ranking officers from First Army and Imperial Guard.

"Have you found her," the boy bleats out, only to pale when his gaze lands on the cloth clenched in Aleksander's hands. "Oh, saints preserve us," he murmurs, making the sign against evil, "that's Alina's."

Eyes fixed on the most useful member of their ruling family, Alexander nods. "I found it on the terrace…" he starts only to trail off, unable to finish the sentence. There's no need for him to though. Unlike his brother and parents, Nikolai, it appears, has more than a modicum of intelligence and sense, and he quickly pieces together the evidence to arrive at the same conclusion Aleksander had reached only a few minutes before.

"She's been taken then?"

"Yes."

"Saints," Nikolai murmurs. "Tell me what you need. The First Army awaits your command."

It's at this point that the Tsar interrupts, his already ruddy face turning almost puce with annoyance. "What the devil is going on here," he explodes. "Why are people screaming and why the deuce would the First Army be helping Kirigan?"

Patience wearing thin, Aleksander turns to the Tsar, his shadows now starting to manifest around him, as he offers the torn garment to Ravka's ruler. It's only through force of will that his voice remains steady and detached as he replies coolly, "Moi Tsar, I regret to inform you that Miss Starkov has been abducted."

"Abducted?" The Tsar queries, his chins wobbling. "Don't be ridiculous man. People – especially Saints – don't get abducted from my Palace. She probably just left it somewhere and forgot about it."

The Tsar looks again at the cloth ass he turns it over in his hands, eyes squinting with the effort of trying to focus, "how did it come to be in this state?" he asks suddenly, "Does the Sun Summoner not have decent clothes. You should have said, Kirigan. We'd have been pleased to dress her for the occasion."

For a moment there's only incredulous silence while Nikolai and Aleksander share a commiserating glance, and Aleksander can only be thankful that Nikolai answers this time. His patience is perilously thin right now and if he has to deal with much more of this idiocy instead of searching for his Alinochka Ravka will likely be in need of a new ruler before dawn.

"You're missing the point, Father." The prince says with a bluntness only another Lantsov would be able to get away with. "The wrap was in perfect condition when Miss Starkov joined the festivities."

"Then how did it come to be in this state?" The Tsarina interjects, still not looking up from her bracelets.

"She's been taken!" Aleksander snaps in response, his patience now well and truly exhausted. They're wasting time. Who knows how much of a head start Alina's kidnappers have, and here they are giving them yet more. With each minute that passes it will be harder to track them, and the odds of finding Alina will quickly worsen.

"Taken?" The Tsar queries, sounding perplexed, as if the concept is not one that makes sense to him.

"Yes," Aleksander snaps. "Taken. Kidnapped. Abducted. Choose which verb you like; it comes down to same thing. We need to call out the armies and the Imperial guard, and we need to do it now!"

It takes a further ten minutes for the sozzled Tsar to finally grasp the extent the problem and the need for a rapid response.

Never the quickest thinker in the room, his Imperial Uselessness' already limited grey matter appears to be taxed to the extreme by the combination of crisis and his blood alcohol level.

Each second that passes, though, feels like an eternity as he waits for the royal walrus to find and engage both remaining brain cells in order to make his decision. At last the tsar gives the nod, and then almost as one they spring into action.

Within moments, the less useless Lantsov, Major Mertzov and General Molkovich have left to assemble their respective divisions. For Aleksander, it's the sign he's been waiting for, and without even taking the time to take his leave, he exits the ballroom at speed.

Time, which seemed to drag interminably in the ballroom, speeds up once he is back within the confines of his home. The Oprinichki on guard are clearly taken aback when he throws open the front doors with more force that necessary, causing them to clang loudly against the stone walls of the vestibule. The four guards have that vacant startled look speaking of a hours of inactivity and boredom that comes with being stationed in one location, and Aleksander thinks the Tsar could have waltzed through the room naked and they would have still shown the same reaction.

Two are dispatched to rouse Ivan and Fedyor, while the remaining pair are sent to the stables to wake the head groom, with instructions to ready his horse and prepare provisions.

Ivan, needless to say, is neither impressed nor particularly happy at being summoned from his bed at 2 in the morning on what had been his night off. He's even less pleased to discover the reason why. Though the Oprinichki have few details to pass on, the harried nature of the General's entrance and the glaring absence of the Sun Summoner very quickly have the Heartrender putting two and two together.

"It's that girl, again," he mutters to his partner as they hastily dress, "I knew she wouldn't be able to stay out of trouble for one night!"

"Come now," Fedyor says cajolingly, "we don't know that Alina is the reasons for our midnight summons. She might be an entirely innocent party and something else has happened to get Kirigan in a snit."

"Bah," Ivan replies grumpily, "and there will be a squadron of the Tsarina's pugs flying over the palace tomorrow."

Fedyor stops and frowns at his partner, "I think you mean pigs."

Ivan shrugs and stares balefully at the other Heartrender, "pigs, pugs, what different does it make? Either are far more likely than that girl not being in some way to blame."

"Well," Fedyor says, as they resume their fast walk through the corridors of the Little Palace, "quite a bit, I'd think. For a start, you'd need a much bigger hat if it was pigs."

A few minutes later and Ivan is once again proved correct. The pair have barely made it through the door to the General's study when they come face to face with what their possessed leader.

"She's been taken," Kirigan snaps, shuffling and throwing the formerly neat piles of papers on his desk around as he searches for something. Ivan winces. His filing system! His baby! It's this carnage he later blames for the distraction which makes him slower than usual.

"Who has been taken, Moi Soverenyi?" He asks, mind very much not on the words coming out of his mouth but on the wanton destruction of the perfect filing system.

The glare Kirigan levels at him is black enough he takes an automatic step back, hands raised in the universally recognised gesture of peace. "Alina, of course," the General grunts, returning to his frenzied search. "Where is it, I know it's here somewhere. Why must people tidy up!" the latter is muttered under his breath, but Ivan hears it clearly, and winces again. He'd thought the General would be pleased. He'd perfected his new filing system and, having implemented it everywhere else, he had spent a fun evening bringing order to the chaotic eco-system that was the General's desk and surrounding area.

Evidently, Ivan could have picked a better time to do this. But in his defence, how could he have known that their Sun Summoner would go and choose this night to be kidnapped.

Next to him Fedyor draws in a sharp breath. "Alina?" he questions, straightening. "Who? How?"

"Sometime in the last one to two hours," he hisses, now moving on to the draws. "She's not been seen since just after midnight when she stepped out on to the terrace. As to who, your guess is as good as mine."

Ivan raises his eyes skyward, as if praying for patience. "What is it you are looking for, Moi Soverenyi?" he asks, suppressing another wince as minutes for the last supply committee go flying across the room.

"My travel map of Ravka," Kirigan answers distractedly, tipping the contents of another draw onto the floor and rummaging through the debris.

"You're going after her," Ivan states, glower firmly in place and arms crossed, beside him he feels Fedyor let out a low whistle.

"Alone?" Fedyor asks in tone which suggests he already knows the answer.

Kirigan looks up, eyes wild, "Yes! Mertzov and Molkovich are readying search parties from the First Army. I need you and Ivan to do the same with the officers stationed here. Conscript anyone you think could help – Orpinichki, grisha, servants, if you like."

With a shout of triumph, the Darkling stands, map clutched in his hands.

"But would it not be better to wait, Moi Soverenyi?" Fedyor asks, "We don't know who took Alina, nor how many men they have. It's too risky you going alone, we might not be able to reach you should you need assistance. We could be ready to leave within 90 minutes – wouldn't it be better to wait and travel with one of the teams."

It's sensible advice, but Aleksander merely shakes his head. There's no time. Alina had already been gone for well over an hour, there's no time to wait for the team his loyal Heartrenders' wants to accompany him. "She's been gone too long already, Fedyor," he says, shoving the map into a pack and readying himself to leave, "there's not a moment to lose – travelling with the search parties means too long a delay, not to mention I'll travel faster on my own."

Eyeing the recently closed door, Fedyor catches his partner's eye. "You know, I almost feel sorry for them," he comments conversationally.

Distinctly unimpressed, Ivan merely raises a brow and huffs, inured after many years exposure to his love's peculiar sense of humour. "Between an angry Sun Summoner and an incensed Darkling, I'd be surprised if there are any left standing at the end of this."

"Good!" is all Ivan has to say on the matter, a devilish glint in his eye.

For all his good intentions, however, Aleksander is still delayed.

It's Ivan who points out the folly in dashing off half cocked, with no plan and attempting to covertly track a group of marauding kidnappers while dressed in white through a dark forest. There's a good reason, after all, why his signature clothing colour is black - and it's not only because he summons shadows.

With Ivan assisting, changing clothes takes only a few minutes, time which Fedyor utilises to pack supplies into the saddle bag he has procured from somewhere.

Back in his habitual black, Aleksander feelers calmer and more in control. He is the Darkling, the most feared General in Ravka. Whole battalions have turned and run away just at the sight of him. He will find her. He will.

With that in mind he dismisses Ivan to prepare the officers he wants and order the groom to saddle another horse. On one matter his loyal second is correct - in the dark forest, at night, he will need an experienced tracker. Fortune has smiled on him in this matter though, and with malevolent glee he finds Alina's flirty friend where he has bedded down in the stable block along with the stable boys. It's a matter of moment to wake the boy, dark amusement rushing through him at the palpable horror on the Tracker's face as he realises who it is who's standing over him. A few more, and the horror has morphed into terror as the lad realises why he's been woken. In credit to the otkazat'sya, though clearly tired and half asleep, he grasps the issue quickly and is out of bed in short order, pulling on his boots and coat with military efficiency, but there he pauses.

"Well," he snaps, casting a glowering stare over his shoulder at the brunette. "If you're going to come, get a bloody move on, man! We haven't got all day."

Whatever the holdup, his command is enough to get the boy moving, and with a grip like iron, he corrals Oretsev into the saddle of the large bad-tempered bay, suppressing a smirk as the foolish boy nearly falls twice and looks distinctly uncomfortable atop the surly creature.

Next to the bay stands Beauty, his black coat gleaming in the candle light. The head groom has already saddled his favourite, and Aleksander is relieved to see the saddle bags have been attached as well. All that's left is for him to check the buckles and tac are secured properly, before swinging into the saddle.

In the weak pre-dawn light, two figures can be seen galloping away.

Finding Alina's abductors proves to be as challenging as Aleksander had first feared. With several hours head start, the kidnappers have had plenty of time to make their get-away. But then Alina's little tracker friend starts to come into his own. He's good. There's no denying that. The man might be a smug, pain-in-the-arse, and far too familiar with Alina for Aleksander's peace of mind, but he is undeniably good at tracking.

Within half an hour of leaving he has caught the first signs of their trail; his keen eyes picking things up that Aleksander - even if he hadn't been a panicked mess - wouldn't have spotted in the half gloom of the early dawn. At first the trail takes them along the Vy, heading in the direction of Balakirev. On a well paved road they make good time, and by mid-morning they are more than a third of the way to the other city. It seems strange to Aleksander that Alina's kidnappers would choose this route – it might make for a speedier escape, but it also makes it easy for a rescue party as well, and they must surely know that rescue will be on its way.

The trail goes cold shortly after midday, and it's an anxious time until the boy picks it up again heading off into the dense forest around the Petrazoi mountains. The irony is not lost on Aleksander, nor the parallels with Alina's desperate flight to the Little Palace. As the first day passes, one thing becomes clear – they're heading west. It sends a shiver down his spine. South would suggest Shu Han. But West means it could be anyone: Fjerda, Kerch, Novyi Zem, even Shu Han or the traitorous Zlatan could be behind this. It's an open field, and that makes it much more difficult to plan or pre-empt what this unknown enemy will do.

If it's Fjerda, then they will look to go north soon as they will wish to avoid Kribirsk and Adena.

Kerch and Novyi Zem will want to get to the port of Os Kervo as quickly as possible – they will also wish to avoid Kribisk, and would likely look to cross at one of the narrow points, such as Tsemna, using one of the smugglers routes. While Shu Han would head for the southern pass at Caryeva.

That left Zlatan. The most difficult one to predict. That he would wish to get back to West Ravka as quickly as possible is a given, but how he would do this is the question. He's brazen enough to commandeer a skiff and simply leave from Kribirsk. Thanks to his Imperial uselessness and his decision not to alert others to his General's earlier betrayal, no one in the First Army would question him either. Alternatively, he could choose to use one of the smugglers paths. It would be riskier – but then he has the Sun Summoner with him - he might well view it as lower risk than attempting to cross at Kribirsk in case they have been made aware of his treachery.

These are the thoughts that plague him throughout the day. Round and round they go, unceasing in the relentless circle of worry and fear. His own personal torment. One not helped either that by the fact they're moving slower now, their pace reduced to that of an arthritic ant, by the failing light rendering it difficult to follow the clues and marks of the abductors passage. This is compounded further by the need to leave a clear trail for Ivan and the other officers to follow, which slows them even more.

They continue though until all but the last vestiges of light have gone, when the tracker calls a halt, concerned they might wonder off course and not be able to find the trail again the next day. It's not the news Aleksander wants to hear, but desperate as he is, he can see the sense in Oretsev's caution. Annoyed, frustrated and increasingly worried, Aleksander finally falls asleep.

Unsurprisingly, he dreams of Alina.

He wakes suddenly the next morning, hand outstretched toward where Alina's ghostly form had been seconds before, her hand clasped within his own. The loss sits within him like a physical ache just beneath his heart. It steals his appetite and what's left of his patience, making him a surly and unpleasant companion for much of the next day.

The only good news that second day is the boy's announcement that if their pace has slowed, so to has their quarry's. The dense undergrowth and circuitous route – clearly chosen in order to avoid the main paths, is likely more of a hinderance to Alina's kidnappers than it is to Aleksander and the Tracker, who merely need to follow through the broken foliage and trodden down plants rather than forging the path in the first place. It's meagre reassurance, but it's the only comfort he has.

"You're Alina's friend, aren't you?" The boy asks during the third day, familiarity and a shared purpose having wiped away the deference and fear with which he had treated Aleksander, much to the older man's disappointment.

"You know," Oretsev continues, undaunted by Aleksander's determined silence, "the one she used to write to. She'd spend hours writing letters home. We used to tease her about her boy back home… or we did," he admits with a rueful smile, "until she put itching powder in Dubrov's trousers when he was having a bath."

"Alina is a friendly girl," Aleksander says, refusing to be drawn, "I'm sure she has many friends she keeps in touch with."

The Tracker nods, looking thoughtful - or constipated, it's hard to tell with his face, "yeah, that's true enough. She's got this way, hasn't she," he adds with a dreamy smile, "that just gets to you, gets under your skin, until you'd rather cut an arm off than lose her."

Its crudely put, but It's also a sentiment Aleksander understands only too well when it comes to his precious girl. Hadn't he spent much of the last 15 years feeling the same. It's a feeling that resonates.

He glances at the boy again, unsurprised to see the melancholy expression on his face. "Not that she ever really looked at me twice," he hears the boy mutter as he pulls gloomily on the reins, causing his horse to snort grumpily at the move.

It gives him a brief pang of camaraderie with the other; unrequited affection is a painful aliment, as he knows only too well.

"You care for her," it's a statement rather than a question.

The boy nods, head tilted down. Despite being over 20 years of age, a seasoned officer and a full-grown man, in that moment he looks so young to Aleksander.

"What makes you think I'm this friend?" He asks in an attempt to distract the Tracker from his dark thoughts.

Mal looks up, "'cos of how you are together," he says, showing an unexpected level of insight. "She's comfortable with you, trusts you. Even with us she always kept this bit of distance, like she was keeping something back, but she's not like that with you." It's a startling observation and it makes Aleksander more candid than normal.

"I first met when she was five," Aleksander confesses quietly. "Her caravan was under attack. Her father had already been killed, but Alina and her mother were among the survivors. I took an interest and kept in touch afterwards."

"'Cos she's the Sun Summoner?" Oretsev asks shrewdly.

"No!" Aleksander snaps, angered by the suggestion. "I found out the same time as everyone else. I…" he trails off, uncertain how to explain that which has always mystified him.

"Yeah?" The boy asks, eyes wide and alight with suspicion. It's this more than anything which forces the answer from him.

"Because she fascinated me," he admits. "This little girl - a tiny whisp of a thing with blocked powers - she should have been easy to say goodbye to and forget, but she wasn't. What called to me was her fearlessness. She was unafraid of me, of my shadows. She used to curl up in them like they were a blanket. Do you know, boy, how many people I've met over my life who aren't scared of me for being the Shadow Summoner, even if they pretend they're not?" It's his turn to look down now, patting Beauty's neck in a poor attempt to hide his discomfort. "A handful at best. Children tend to run screaming when they see shadows, but Alina ran towards mine. Such trust was - is - priceless. It drew me to her, and so I stayed in her life, visiting her whenever I could. It's been the single greatest privilege of my life to call Alina my friend."

Clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and how far they've veered into the forbidden territory of feelings, the Tracker slides from his horse muttering that the trail is getting more difficult to see.

Blessed silence returns.

The fourth day dawns overcast and cold, the icy air heralding fresh snow.

"It's going to snow in a couple of hours," Oretsev announces, squinting at the clouds, unknowingly echoing Aleksander's own thoughts.

It's another worry to add to his growing list. Four days. It's been four days since Alina was taken. Four very long days. With each day that passes his worry grows. Is she well? Are they taking care of her? The cold will mean little to her, but without food or water even the strongest grisha will soon struggle and become ill.

It's a concern the Tracker clearly shares as his shivers increase from a gust of wind. Their only comfort so far is that there has been so sign of violence along the trail. They've found each of the makeshift camp sites, but apart from the typical debris and mess left from camping there has been no blood or evidence of a fight.

His hope is that Alina is awake and playing for time by cooperating. The alternative - that she has not awoken – is too hard to bear and brings a lump to his throat.

She must be okay, she must be. He feels it in his heart that he would know if she weren't, but it's a paltry comfort in the midst of so much uncertainty.

They find them just as dusk is falling, almost 100 leagues north-west of the Little Palace, near the town of Adena. They group have camped for the night in a large glade with rotating patrols moving about the perimeter.

Leaving the horses a safe distance away, Aleksander and the Tracker creep closer, keeping low to the ground and making use of the abundant ferns to provide cover as they sneak towards the edge of the glade.

The clearing itself is much like the one he first met Alina in all those years ago, but it's the layout of the tents that catch his attention – these are not the makeshift shelters of a ragtag group but uniform structures, carefully laid out in a clear grid pattern, and in a very familiar shade of green grey. This is a military camp – that is obvious from the setup – but more than that, however, is that it's a First Army camp.

That can mean only one thing. Zlatan.

As if to prove him right, at that precise moment the man in question ducks out from the largest tent, moving towards the centre of the clearing where there are perhaps thirty odd soldiers in various states of dress and battle readiness milling about the central fire.

For several moments everything seems calm, but then chaos erupts. The men and women clustered in groups start shouting and waving their weapons angrily.

Aleksander can see Alina now, standing there, clad once more in a First Army uniform, her hands shackled and kept apart by what looks like a thick bar of wood. This far away he can't hear what's being said, but then it quickly becomes apparent he doesn't need too – Alina's actions shout louder than any words. She's squaring up to the other General, her body language screaming defiance. There's a flash of bright white light, and then her hands are free.

Illuminated by the flickering fire, Alina looks resplendent, goddess like, as she takes control of the situation.

Around the clearing, Zlatan's supporters draw back in fear, some stumbling in their haste to escape. It might have ended then, but Zlatan has never lacked courage, and Aleksander knows with a sinking feeling that things are about to take a turn for the worst.

It does.

In hushed whispers he sends the boy away, instructing him to find Ivan and warn him. Oretsev argues, a belligerent glint in his eye as he tells the General he won't leave Alina. It's a feeling Aleksander knows only too well, but someone has to go and alert the search party that will be hot on their tail, and that someone can't be him. He needs to be here, close to Alina, in case she needs him.

At last, after several minutes of futile arguing, he carries the day and the boy leaves - grudgingly and ill tempered - but he does obey, and Aleksander is once more alone.

It's as he's changing positions sometime later, in an attempt to get a better view of the showdown between Alina and Zlatan, that he realises his mistake. His only warning is the rustle of a bush and then he feels the unmistakable point of a sword prod his shoulder.

"Well now," a cold voice states from behind him, "what do we have here."

The sword prods him again, this time on the arm. Taking the hint, Aleksander turns over, and comes face to face with six unimpressed faces.

"Looks like the General was right, boys," another man replies with a sneer, "we was being followed, and lookie what we've caught," the sword tip moves to hover over his heart, "General Kirigan himself. The boss will be pleased."

Alone, in a compromised position, and facing six armed and hostile enemies, Aleksander realises he's committed an amateur's mistake – one there will be a very steep price for – he'd forgotten about the patrols. He can't kill or subdue all these men, not with five swords and an axe inches away from his skin; and even if he could, this close to the encampment there's no way the other members of Zlatan's merry band of marauding murderers won't be alerted to the scuffle – and then what of Alina? The distraction might buy her time to escape, but it might also push her captors into rash behaviour which could lead to her being injured… or worse.

There's also the Tracker to consider. It's essential that Oretsev finds Ivan and the rescue party. With him as their prize its unlikely that the scouts will think to look for anyone else, giving the boy precious time to get away.

Beneath his skin, his shadows roil, itching to destroy those who would threaten him. It's a supreme act of will to supress the urge to unleash the power at his command but he does so, the risk of doing otherwise is too high.

There is only one thing he can he do now, and that is lay down his sword and surrender.

A/N So what did you all think? Anyone guess it was Zlatan behind the kidnap?