All things considered, Alina muses as she bounces around in the back of what feels like a poorly sprung cart, kidnapping is rather dull. Oh, it's probably more exciting for the kidnappers, but so far her experience as a kidnappee had been both underwhelming and rather boring. The hood over her head is an irritating inconvenience, the manacles around her wrists keeping her hands separated and ropes tying her legs an irritation, but she isn't feeling particularly threatened or worried.

Not yet, anyway. Not since her surprising chat with Zoya. They needed her to get them back across the Fold. Her presence and health are essential if they want a quick and uninterrupted crossing back to the safety of Novokribirsk. If they have any hope of escaping the furious vengeance of a seriously upset Darkling, then they needed to get the Fold between them as soon as possible. For that they need both her alive and cooperative.

What was going to happen once they got to their destination, however, that is a cause for concern. Her use would be over and the risk of her escaping or acting against them would likely be too high for them to consider letting her live. The alternative, however, is worse – that reaching Novokribirsk isn't the end but merely the prelude to another act, one she has no idea about. It's a worrying thought.

Alina groans as the cart hits a particularly bumpy bit of the road. The men who had taken her the previous night had not been careful or conscientious kidnappers and had taken little care with her recumbent form while they made good their escape. As a result, she feels like one big bruise and her ribs in particular ache fiercely whenever jolted.

Alone in the darkness of the hessian sack, her mind replays the events of the past few hours and the startling revelations that came after she awoke.

Someone has a headache. No, wait - scratch that. Someone has the mother, father and grandfather of all headaches. It's as if an irritable and poorly trained band has taken up residence nearby and are diligently practicing a particularly energetic piece on bits of her skull.

Groaning at the unrelenting onslaught, Alina slowly prises open an eye in the vague hope that this will, if not improve matters, at least explain why it feels like she had downed an entire bottle of kavas and then wrestled a bear. It doesn't. The world around her is still black and unknown, and to add to her general enjoyment of the situation, with every breath the sickly smell of oats invades her nostrils, making her nauseous.

Her bones ache, particularly her ribs, the throbbing sensation joining in a discordant rhythm with the pounding in her head, so that it feels like a wave of pain travelling up and down her abused body.

In a bizarre way though, the darkness helps, giving her head time to recover and for the memories to start inching their way back to her conscious mind.

What she remembers is not good news. She recalls snippets of the party, of the exhilarating dance with Aleksander, of laughing with Nikolai, and of drinking more glasses of the intoxicating fizzy wine then she probably ought to have. She remembers stepping out on to the terrace, burning hot and filled with joy and excitement.

Then comes her last memory, one of the unsettled sky and suddenly feeling afraid, of deciding to return indoors and then a sudden sharp pain to the back of her head.

A phantom pain shoots through her head, as if in sympathy with her recollection, and unconsciously her hand moves to touch the place only to be stopped by the sharp pain and rattle of chains making her aware for the first time that it's not just her head that is covered.

Around her wrists are heavy metal cuffs, attached to a strange heavy bar, designed to keep her hands separated. She doesn't need her eyes though to know what the device is – Genya had showed her a picture of one months ago: the summoner's harness. It had been designed several hundred years ago by Count Razimova to subdue grisha by keeping their hands apart, and therefore unable to summon. It's a horrible item, with an even more horrible history. Grisha awaiting executing merely for the crime of being born grisha would be forced to wear them for days or weeks until their eventual execution. It's a cruel device – one made crueller still by the addition in some sets of tiny metal barbs set into the manacles so that even slight movement was torture to the poor person wearing it.

Hers, fortunately, appear not to have that particular adaptation, but it's a pale comfort to the panic now starting to fester within her.

She knows she's been taken, but not by whom. Nor does she know why she's been kidnapped. She remembers overhearing Fedyor briefing Ivan about the number of threats made against her: from those who worship her as a living saint and want her for themselves, to those who believe she's a demon that must be destroyed, but perhaps the most terrifying are those who would look to use her as leverage against Ravka in some way. The Shu and Fjerdan delegations had both made overtures during the festivities to try and entice her away from Ravka. Were they behind this?

Around and around her thoughts go, swirling on and on, as she travels further away from the safety of her home.

At last, though, she feels the world start to slow down, and it's with surprise that she realises she's been in some sort of cart or conveyance all this time. A shouted order is relayed and then the world stops completely and she feels herself lifted and moved as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes.

The first thing Alina sees once she's blinked the sunspots from her vision, is Zoya's scowling visage, her dark brows beetled together in evident displeasure.

"Zoya?" She breathes, startled and unsure.

"Well, you've done it this time, princess." Zoya hisses through clenched teeth.

"What are you doing here? And more to the point, Where am I?" Alina asks instead of replying to the barb. "The last thing I remember is going out for a breath of air on the terrace."

Zoya's frown deepens and she darts a worried look over her shoulder toward the flap of the tent Alina has been left in.

"You're in Zlatan's camp," she murmurs so softly Alina has to strain to catch the words. "His men grabbed you over a day ago, drugged you and brought to the rendezvous point… which is here."

Alina pales, her eyes drawn to the gap between the flaps through which she can see men moving around.

"And you're here because you just happened to be passing?" She queries, her tone sardonic.

Zoya's frown deepens to an outright scowl. "Right now I'm checking to make sure the dunderheads who saint-napped you haven't irreparably damaged Zlatan's prize and our ticket for a safe voyage across the Fold." The words might be acerbic, but Alina can almost taste the message hidden with them and it makes her pause, the cutting response she's prepared dying on her lips as she considers the Squaller's words and the intent way the other girl is watching her.

She must be on the right path though as a thin, approving smile breaks through the glower. "Not going to shout at me, Sankta," Zoya says mockingly, her voice raised.

Outside a man shifts, drawing Alina's attention to the shadowy shape she hadn't noticed that's just visible through the canvas prison.

"Why bother," Alina replies loudly in a scathing tone. "It's quite evident what you are - a traitor. I'm sure even someone of your intelligence would be self-aware enough to know that."

"Why you!" Zoya growls, bringing her hand down onto a nearby sack, a meaningful look in her eye. Taking the hint Alina shrieks and jerks as far away from the former Squaller as possible.

As if satisfied by the show, the shadow moves then, growing smaller and his footsteps growing fainter as he walks away. Another surreptitious look around has Zoya relaxing, switching from her previous position kneeling to sitting cross legged next to her former nemesis.

"Good," she breathes, clearly relieved. "He's bought it. Johan will go report to Zlatan now. We don't have long, so I need you to listen." Alina nods warily.

"Zlatan's plan was originally to kill you, but seeing the reaction to the assassination attempt he's changed his mind - he knows he governs west Ravka only by popularity, and he knows now that the west will revolt if he is seen as having harmed you. You might not be the saint I'd have picked, but there's no denying that you're the one we need." Her head drops here, shame making her avert her eyes. "You don't know how sorry I am for what happened that day," she says, close to pleading as Alina has ever seen the proud grisha.

"I was wrong, Sankta. Wrong and jealous and so very foolish - and I did something unforgivable. I was angry at first and I blamed you for the loss of my powers. Botkin showed me how wrong I was - that I was the only one to blame - it's been a hard lesson to learn."

"But why are you here?" Alina questions softly, more moved than she wants to admit by the squaller's words.

"Atonement," Zoya replies with a wry smile. "I hurt a great many people over the years. This is my atonement. Botkin knew Zlatan was planning something, and he offered me the choice. I could go my own way, or I could join the Soldat Sol and fix my mistakes."

Her eyes meet Alina's then, fierce and determined. "I'm many things, Alina, but I'm not a coward and when I do wrong, I fix it. So I agreed. Botkin sent me home with the instruction I was to ingratiate myself into Zlatan's inner circle and watch. It was my report which alerted the Little Palace to the threat of Zlatan in the first place."

Here her voice becomes mournful and raw with pain. "It wasn't enough though. I didn't do enough. I didn't like Marie, but I'm truly sorry she's dead." There's such remorse in Zoya's voice that Alina itches to clasp her hand in solidarity and comfort in the shared pain of the loss that has cut them both so deeply, but her hands remain bound and useless in her lap. Instead, she catches the other's eye, her own full of compassion and tears. "As did I," she says softly. "It was my face she was wearing, my risk she took on herself… and ultimately my responsibility for the price she paid for it."

There's an odd look on Zoya's face, as if she's seeing Alina clearly for the first time. "Sankta," she breathes, bowing her head in an unmistakable mark of respect. When she raises it though the sorrow is gone, replaced with a fervent light - "I don't know exactly what Zlatan has planned," she says, her voice low but full of promise, "but I vow to you I will do all in my power to make sure you live and that his plan fails. My loyalty and life are yours." It's an oath that shocks Alina to her core, but before she can do more than blink in surprise there is the sound of voices getting closer.

Hurriedly Zoya replaces the hood, bending low to whisper in Alina's ear. "Now that he knows you're awake, Zlatan will call for you soon. Whatever you do, don't be pathetic. He respects strength. Think apex predator, not food chain prey. Be the person you were that day in the training yard and get yourself off the menu!"

With that the other grisha stands, collecting the provisions she had placed nearby, and Alina is left alone once more in the hazy darkness of the hessian sack.

Outside she hears muttered greetings and the sound of someone yawning.

She doesn't have to wait long, as only a few minutes later two burly men dressed in First Army green arrive to escort her to their general.

The tent she is led to is dark compared to the bright glare of the outside, and it takes several moments for her eyes to adjust and allow her to see more than vague shapes half shrouded in gloom.

General Zlatan stands and crosses the space between them, bowing sharply when he reaches her. Head up and back straight, Alina takes note of her captor. The man before her is tall with dark brown hair and a close-cropped beard. This, then, is Marie's murderer - oh, Arken Visser may have wielded the knife, but he was little more than a stooge, a patsy, an extension of the man now standing in front of her with an ingratiating smile.

Zlatan her looks nothing like the shadowy figure of her nightmares. He isn't the sinister monster her imagination has conjured with an evil countenance and exuding malevolent intent. Instead, this is an ordinary looking man. So very ordinary. There's nothing about his round, boyish face and open countenance that screams evil, and yet the fine hairs on the back of Alina's neck are standing on end, sending a chill racing down her spine. It's a strange thing, but somehow her kidnapper is all the more terrifying for his ordinariness.

"Ahh, Miss Starkov. Come in, come in," he says pleasantly as he attempts to usher her into the tent. The inviting tone and welcoming manner are at such odds with her experience so far that for a moment Alina stands there in perplexed stillness. She isn't given long to get over her surprise, however, as a forceful nudge in the small of her back reminds her of the two armed officers escorting her. Unlike Alina, they aren't confused by the strange reception, and instead seem rather annoyed by her continued insistence on standing in the doorway like a poorly positioned statue. Another nudge, this one more pointed and forceful than the first, gets her moving, and she steps hesitantly into the dingy confines of a standard issue First Army command tent.

"Tea, Miss Starkov?" Zlatan asks, leading her by the arm to one of two large pillows set off to the side, in what has clearly been set up as a more social area. Between the cushions there is a low table, made from a repurposed crate, with a tea set balanced on top. The makeshift seats are common in the First Army where chairs are often viewed as a cumbersome and unnecessary extravagance for all but the most senior of officers, and Alina isn't surprised to see them here. Aleksander has described Zlatan – with grudging approval, it must be said – as ruthlessly efficient and pragmatic. In fact, if he hadn't been set on destroying the country Aleks is trying desperately to save and reunite, he would probably have quite liked the other General, otkazat'sya, or not. What is surprising though is the actual tea set balanced on top of the crate. Given the minimalistic, shabby chic aesthetic of the rest of the camp, the tea set is an out of place oddity.

However, after hours of travel (whether conscious or not), Alina is parched and not too inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, and she sits with little fuss on the cushion indicated. Zoya's reassurance warms her more than the tea she lifts hesitantly to her lips. She's needed to get them safely back across the Fold. No General, unless they were mad, would go to all this trouble to acquire her only to poison her now.

She grimaces as the hot liquid slides down her throat. First Army tea. Disgusting! On this point she is wholly and completely in agreement with Ivan. Army tea is an affront to the taste buds. Having grown up with her Mama's tea and Shu tea etiquette firmly drilled into her, it had been a shock to the system the first time she had tasted the regurgitated muck served in the First Army. It's no better now, and the only thing that stops her spitting it out is that regardless of the taste it is hydrating her, replacing much needed fluids.

For a few minutes the only sound in the tent is that of two people drinking. Finally, however, Zlatan replaces his cup, an amused grin lighting his face and making him appear almost boyish as he observes, "not to your taste?"

Alina blushes slightly and puts her cup carefully on the crate. "What gave me away," she asks wryly.

Zlatan laughs, his head thrown back, "only someone devoid of tastebuds would," he answers, eyes dancing devilishly.

Alina relaxes slightly and smiles back, remembering the lessons Botkin had drilled into her if she were to find herself alone and away from the Second Army. Build rapport, make friends, do what's needed to survive.

Inwardly she might be full of nerves and anxiety, but outwardly she appears calm and friendly. She needs to understand more of why she's been taken. She needs to know the risks facing her. She needs to get a lay of the land.

The only way to do this is to build rapport… and Zlatan is making it easy for her. Still smiling, the General picks up the tea tray, depositing it on his desk, just as Zoya and another officer arrive bearing two steaming bowls.

"Ahh, perfect timing," Zlatan says as he accepts his bowl and spoon. Alina's hands are still imprisoned in the custom manacles, and she watches with annoyance as a bowl clearly intended for her is left just out of her reach by the unnamed man. Her host nods at Zoya, who steps forward with a key to undo her right hand from the heavy iron cuff.

"A demonstration of trust," the General says, between mouthfuls, but Alina can read between the lines. If she behaves, she can eat, if she looks – even for an instant – like she might be about to summon the man behind her will no doubt act… and it won't be pleasant.

Quietly she eats, the hot stew much more palatable than the revolting tea had been.

It might fill her with dread to sit and break bread with the monster who killed Marie, but needs must, and no good will come from tipping her hand too early. Behind her the man assigned to watch her shifts, clearly unsettled.

All too soon her bowl is empty, as is the mug of spiced wine offered to her along with her meal. Full and no longer thirsty, Alina settles herself more comfortably on the pillow. It's an act Zlatan clearly takes as a cue for he suddenly starts talking about the majesty and beauty of West Ravka – the long golden beaches of Os Kervo, the innovation and modernity of Novokribirsk, the spa town of Ivets, with its long history of wine growing and health resorts. He tells her about the variety of merchants, the wealth generated by trade with Novyi Zem, and the rich independent history of his adopted homeland.

Zlatan speaks eloquently, his devotion and love for West Ravka clear. Along with the idyl he paints though is a darker side – one of a country subjugated to and by the whims of a dangerous incompetent autocrat, who used the land as a piggy bank, viewing it as asset to strip of resources rather than valuing it for its rich culture and diversity.

It's a passionately delivered defence, and if Alina were of a more suggestable nature she might buy it. Tobias Zlatan is charismatic and charming; he oozes self-confidence and magnetism. It's no longer a wonder to her that this man has attracted the following he has – he's like her Aleks, handsome, charismatic and charming, and that's a dangerous combination. He's also completely convinced of his own rightness and blinkered to the ethics of the decisions he's making.

Marie's murder is a misstep to him – one he apologises for and waves away in the same breath. He doesn't care about the young life snuffed out on his orders. He doesn't care as to the brutal, painful death he inflicted on an innocent, nor the pain he will cause to countless others if he succeeds in his revolutionary plans. No, Zlatan only sees the glory and righteousness of his self-appointed mission. The freedom of West Ravka.

It makes Alina feel sick. Her mama used to say that the first thing a principle does is kill someone. Certainty is even worse. Certainty pushed her to spurn Aleksander's offer of safety and board the skiff that fateful day. It nearly killed the 200 people on board. Certainty is what drove Aleksander away from her – certainty of her fear and revulsion should she know the truth. Certainty is what caused Marie's death.

Certainty, in Alina's experience, leads only to trouble – and trouble is coming right at them. Its name is Zlatan.

Aleksander will be coming for her, this she knows with certainty. Just as certain is that civil war will only impoverish, exhaust and destroy their nation. United they are strong, divided both sides will fall; either to each other, or to their rivals; Shu Han and Fjerda.

The confident certainty in Zlatan's face fills Alina with dread. No good will come of it, she feels it in her bones.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to find you so reasonable," Zlatan says with another easy grin, reaching forward to press her free hand. "I worried that you had been corrupted by the Lantsov's, but I see now I needn't have worried. I was right, I knew if I could only speak to you away from the evil of that place, that you would soon understand and see things my way."

To this Alina can only nod, her mind too full of whirling thoughts for her to construct a compelling lie.

"You must be tired," the General comments, mistaking her quietness for exhaustion. He presses her hand again, making her skin crawl. "I will bid you goodnight." He stands and crosses to her, proffering a hand to help her rise. Once standing though Zlatan lifts her free hand to his mouth, pressing a courtly kiss on the back. The act distracts her and in her distraction her wrist is once more locked within the confines of the spreader bar, the manacles biting into her bruised skin.

"Forgive me," he says, pressing another kiss to her hand, "I know your heart and your goodness, but my officers' as yet do not. In time they will come to trust you, but for now this is necessary."

The lie lies heavy on the air like ash. Oh, it's finely couched in political doublespeak, but Alina is no longer the naïve girl who arrived at the Little Palace. Dealing with the Lantsovs and the political intrigue of the Imperial court has been a baptism of fire, but she's survived, and through it she's learnt and grown. She knows a politician's lie when she hears one, and this is a whopper.

Zlatan might be playing the charming revolutionary, but the side she's seen tonight is just that – an act. He's a careful and calculating man, and he using his men as cover for the fact he clearly doesn't trust her. It's a good plan. It's what Aleks would do if the situation were reversed.

Alina smiles. Although it makes her life in the meantime more inconvenient, she would have thought less of him if he had immediately trusted her. But then it's not as if this piece of metal separating her hands is much of an impediment to her should she wish to be free of it. It might hold a common summoner, but not the Sun Summoner.

It's a mistake.

Another to add to Zlatan's growing tally.

That night she dreams of Aleksander. They're standing by the well in the secret garden he showed her all those months ago. The bare trees are glistening with frost and their breath puffs from them in clouds of white mist.

"Alinochka," Aleksander whispers, his face pale and pained, as his image shimmers like a reflection in a pond. "How is this possible?" He asks, one ghostly hand reaching toward her beseechingly.

She grasps his fingers, lacing them with her own. "We're dreaming, Aleks," she replies softly.

"This can't be a dream," he says hoarsely, "I can touch you, feel you. I can hear your heartbeat."

Alina smiles, she knows this confusion, and she would probably share it if not for the familiarity months of these sorts of dreams have given her with this strange in-between world.

"It's not a normal dream, darling," she explains, pressing his hand against her heart as if to anchor them both. "It's a… I don't know how to describe it. It's like an in-between state, not a dream but not our waking reality either. Do you remember the battle at Caryeva?" she asks, staring intently at him. Aleksander nods, frowning.

"You were there," he says slowly, as if it's a struggle to locate those memories, "there on the battlefield. You held my hand as the Jurda Parem took hold."

"Yes. This is how I was able to help you." She explains, forcefully pushing away the potent tangle of anxiety and fear that swarms her whenever she remembers that horrid day.

"Then this is real," and Aleksander pulls her towards him, encasing her in a crushing hug that lifts her off the ground.

"Alina," he whispers, "my Alinochka. My precious girl."

The contact and endearments are a much-needed balm to her fraught nerves, and Alina feels tears start to well behind her closed lids as the emotions and uncertainty of her situation hit her all over again. Since waking in that tent, she has ruthlessly suppressed her reactions to appear as calm and controlled as possible Now, in this safe space, with the person she trusts most in the world, she feels the bravado that's been wrapped round her like armour crumble slightly.

In response Aleksander just holds her tighter, one hand buried in her hair, the other clasped firmly around her back. "Precious girl," he murmurs against her hair, brushing kiss after kiss against any part of her he can reach.

Wrapped in his embrace, Alina feels her nerves calm and her resolve steady.

Ever in tune with her, Aleksander clearly senses this as he steps back, releasing her from his arms in order to asks, "who took you?"

"Zlatan," Alina grimaces, and rubs her wrists as phantom pain flares where the manacles would be in the waking world.

It's the first sign she's waking up, and she looks up with panic as she sees Aleksander come to the same realisation.

"I'm coming for you, Alina," the spectral form of Aleksander says, gripping her dream hand tightly. "I'm coming." It's a vow that she feels in her bones, no matter the distance between them. She can feel the sincerity and power of his oath.

The comfort is a pyrrhic one though.

With a cry of distress, she's wrenched out of Aleksander arms and out of the dream world. When she opens her eyes it's to a hooded figure shaking her roughly awake.

"Up you get, princess," the man grunts as he shakes her shoulder again. This time his fingers digging into her arm to the point of pain. "The General says we're to be movin' on, and that means you too."

With the hood over her head time passes slowly for Alina. Her only awareness of the passing days, the changing position of the sun during the infrequent breaks she's allowed to relieve herself and be given food. Through it all she remains stubbornly calm and unconcerned by the blatant hostility directed her way. She knows it frustrates her kidnappers; she can hear them complaining about her refusal to behave as the stereotypical kidnapped woman should – at least in their minds. Apparently, she should be crying, submissive and prone to fainting fits. How any of these three things would help the situation, Alina has no idea, but then in her experience men's ideas of 'proper female behaviour' is seldom sensible or realistic.

It's difficult though to feel truly afraid when you have the sun in your veins and you know rescue is coming – is likely hot footing its way across Ravka as she thinks. It's not arrogance that makes her suspect that half the Second army and a large proportion of the First will already be enroute, but more than that, Aleksander is coming. She can feel it like a second heartbeat, a constant thrumming inside her chest reassuring her with every breath. He is coming. He is coming. It's knowledge that makes the sun burn fiercely within her and brings a secret smile to her lips, because she knows in the same way that the sun rises in the east that no mere Otkazat'sya can stand between her and Aleksander.

While for her the experience has to this point been more inconvenient than terrifying it's also been useful. With a sack over her head, it's like the morons around her have forgotten it's only her sight she has lost - her hearing is still as good as ever, and now she knows far more about their identities and plans than she thinks her kidnappers would really like her too. For instance, she now knows that there are around thirty people in this rag-tag group, and that they're not all First Army. Perhaps two-thirds of Zlatan's loyal followers might be, but he also has several grisha in his service. From her count there are three Squallers (not including Zoya), three Inferni and a single Tidemaker. Two of this number are deserters from the Second Army, but the remaining three are grisha who had been smuggled to Novokribirsk before they could be tested. It's a small comfort that there are no Heartrenders present, as that would make escape much more challenging.

The quiet is also useful as it gives her time to think and plan. Though she could free herself easily, it makes sense to stay with the group; she lacks experience fighting over twenty seasoned officers – which makes it a high-risk strategy - but more than that, were she to succeed where would she go. Aleksander would be hunting for a large party. Lost and alone, and with few provisions, in an unknown part of Ravka likely poses more of a threat to her well-being than these dunderheads do. So no, it makes little sense to free herself now only to die of starvation or exposure before the rescue party can find her. With every day that passes though, Alina can feel the tension and fear in Zoya rise.

Until now they have stuck to the woodland tracks, moving only so fast as people can walk. It's a very different experience to her last one travelling in the opposite direction. That took just over two days at breakneck speed. This is more of a Sunday afternoon amble by comparison. It's for good reason though as the circuitous route they're taking will make tracking and finding them much more difficult.

It's when they turn direction on the fourth day that Alina knows she's made a minor miscalculation - they aren't heading for Kribirsk. Instead, they are heading further north, to a part of Ravka that consists of large, sparsely populated arable land, that's dotted with tiny unnamed villages. This is not good news.

Kribirsk may be the official army port, but there are jetties – both official and unofficial - dotted along the banks of the Unsea, used by traders, travellers and those who would prefer to avoid the attention of the army. It's to one of these nameless places that Alina realises they are heading.

It poses a problem. At Kribirsk, Alina would be assured of support should she need it. Another dock, one where there isn't a First and Second army camp, is much higher risk and much less likelihood of her being able to call for help. More than that though is the new concern that Aleksander and the others will have made the same miscalculation she has, and will make for Kribirsk in the hope of cutting the kidnappers off.

This knowledge changes things, and Alina knows that she has to escape – and escape soon if she wants to avoid whatever fate awaits her in Novokribirsk.

It's a long eight hour wait before the opportunity arises for Alina to leave. She's had a long time to think in the back of this benighted cart. There are two options that she can see: one – she tries to slip off at a convenient moment and hope that she can get to a sufficient distance away before they realise that she's gone; two – that she breaks free with a show of strength in order to cow her kidnappers into letting her leave.

The first plan, she knows with a leaden weight in her stomach, is more sensible, but far less likely to succeed. The guards are too punctual with checking on her and the breaks between them too short for her to get far enough away. Even without a Heartrender, the risk of being caught is uncomfortably high. The second option is ballsy, but far more likely to pay off in the long run. She knows she can break her manacles with just a thought, the next step will be to put on enough of a show that Zlatan and his goons will feel sufficiently scared – read terrified– to let her walk out of the camp unhindered. From there it will be a simple task of finding Aleksander so that they can deal with the traitors.

The sun is low in the sky when the General finally calls for camp to be made. It's Yosef who pulls the bag off her head this time, and Alina looks around with interest in the gloomy light at the clearing they have stopped in. Around her, men are bustling setting up the tents and cookpots with typical military efficiency. Though the sun is low – and getting lower by the minute – she guesses the time to be no later than half three, or four o'clock. The temperature is dropping rapidly now, and Alina is thankful yet again for the sun warming her and keeping her from freezing. Though Zoya has tried to ensure she has blankets and has helped her change from the flimsy ballgown into the more substantial white shirt and green trousers of the First Army, without her powers she would likely have been seriously ill from exposure by now.

Patience has never been one of Alina's virtues, and it's even worse now when her heart is hammering away in anxious anticipation, as she waits for the perfect moment to make her escape.

At last, the moment comes though.

As Zlatan strides across the camp, she stands and calls out.

"My thanks for your hospitality, General, but I think it's time for me to leave."

As one, the men and women in the camp stop and stare at her – some confused, some hostile and some simply curious.

Zoya, standing by the supply tent, slaps her hand to her forehead and shakes her head, before ducking inside as if intending to hide from the insanity Alina is about to unleash.

In any other context, the ex-Squaller's behaviour would annoy Alina, but this time she can't be anything but relieved. She needs Zoya out of the way if it comes to a fight. She doesn't want to harm her fellow grisha, but if Zoya is present and unharmed after she flees, it might arouse Zlatan's suspicion – and that would never do. For one thing, she might need her help again in the not-so-distant future if her more than a little bit crazy plan fails.

The effect of her words is instantaneous, Zlatan stops dead, his air of affability morphing into one of contempt. There's nothing of the passionate revolutionary now. This man is cold, dispassionate and removed - a far cry from the man who argued so persuasively for West Ravka's independence and the pivotal part she could play if only she understood the truth.

His eyes slide over her, making her shiver under his icy gaze. "What do you think you're doing?" He asks in a derisive tone.

"I'm leaving," Alina says firmly, "and you're going to let me."

"Oh, Miss Starkov," he says, a mocking lilt to his voice that has Alina bristling, "you do disappointment me."

"My apologies," Alina snaps, drawing her shoulders back and glaring at the General, "but I'm sure you'll understand why the opinion of a traitor means little to me."

Around them his officers scowl and glower at Alina, many fingering their weapons with ominous intent as they understand her insult. Zlatan, though, merely lets out a dark chuckle.

"I thought you were too quiet, too… amenable," he says, head tilted slightly to one side, like an owl watching a mouse.

Another shiver runs through her, but Alina merely meets his cold gaze, her own implacable and calm, "and there was me thinking I'd missed my calling on the stage."

Zlatan smiles, shark like and severe, "indeed. Perhaps the saints knew what they were doing after-all when they made you the Sun Summoner."

It was a subtle insult, but an insult nonetheless, but all Alina feels is a sense of vague amusement.

"Now, enough of this nonsense. You will sit back down, eat your dinner and cooperate." The General says calmly, as if it's a given that of course she will do as he commands.

"And what will you do if I don't?" Alina asks, eyebrow raised and an obstinate look in her eyes. "Whack me on the hand with a spoon? Lecture me?" She looks at the men and women gathered in a circle around them and sniffs derisively, "torture me?" She looks back at Zlatan challengingly. "Forgive me, but I think not."

"I think you will do as you are told, little Saint," the General replies, expression glacial. "I grow tired of this… disobedience".

"Good," Alina says, "Let me go and it'll save you from more of it. Because I promise you this, try and keep me and I'll make life as difficult as I possibly can, and believe me when I say it's not wise to anger a saint." Her eyes sweep around the glade, making sure to meet the gaze of each and every one of Zlatan's officers.

While her words visibly unnerve most of her captors, they have no such impact on their General. "Such fire," he comments silkily, "such misplaced confidence. I'm almost impressed."

"You think I'm bluffing?" Alina asks, voice level but dangerously soft.

"I know you are," Zlatan smirks. "You're bluffing with an empty hand, Miss Starkov."

"I know that the First and Second Armies will be out looking for me," she points out bluntly. "I know that the Tsar has a put a bounty on your head, I know that General Kirigan scares you and I know that if you have any hope of surviving then you need to cross the Fold before he finds you."

"Is that meant to scare me?" He merely asks, sounding almost bored with the exchange. "You think you can win, but you can't," he continues in that calm, patronising way of important men everywhere. "It doesn't matter if the entirety of the First and Second Armies on our trail. You are our prisoner and that is why I will be the last one standing in this battle, little miss." This is delivered in an ice cold voice, devoid of emotion or humanity, and for a moment Alina wonders if the man before her is human at all.

"You think so, do you!" Alina snaps. Her hands glow and the shackles flare and bend, snapping off her wrists to clunk on the ground.

As one, Zlatan's troops make the sign of evil against her, stumbling backwards in their haste to put more space between her and them, as if it would save them. Even the turncoat grisha appear shocked and frightened. She steps forward, hands still glowing.

"You think a lot of yourself, don't you, little girl. What's to stop us from taking you by force again. There's more than thirty of us, after all," the General mutters, watching her with distaste, his hand held out in a clear sign to halt his officers.

The nickname irritates her. What is it with men and calling her little girl, as if it's a slur that will somehow shame or diminish her. She's not little - is very much average height, in point of fact - and being female doesn't make her lesser, though it clearly does in the eyes of some men. It's galling and frustrating. She, at least, is according Zlatan the respect of being a traitorous, diabolical villain of reasonable intelligence, but he insists on talking to her as though she's a small and rather stupid child.

She shakes her head and laughs dismissively.

"You need me too much to risk harming me," Alina counters coolly, ignoring the armed man behind her who has clearly recovered enough to point his sword in her direction. He is of no consequence – no threat to her - and it takes only a quick thought to start heating the metal to a painful temperature. "And that's why you're going to let me walk out of here."

Zlatan raises an eyebrow, "and why would we do that when we've gone to such lengths to acquire you?"

Alina smiles, it's not a nice smile, and she glories in the sight of her kidnappers crossing themselves again. "Because, General, I'm asking nicely." She picks up the broken chains that had so recently been biting into her wrists. "You can't hold me," she says simply, turning the melted steel over and over in her hands, "and you need me too much to be able to make me obey you. We're at an impasse."

Zlatan scowls, his dark eyes burning furiously into her own, trying to stare her down. As if to prove the point, the man who had been creeping up behind her howls and drops the sword. Screaming about witchcraft, he rushes past her towards the water barrel, his hand a bright vivid red and covered in blistering welts. Whispers breakout like wildfire, racing round the clearing. A grisha summoning without using their hands?... She can practically taste the fear.

Alina's gaze is unwavering and fierce as she stands her ground. "You can't afford to hurt me and I don't want to hurt you – but that will change if you try to stop me leaving, and we both know, don't we, who would win in that scenario." For a moment the threat hangs in the air, and Alina can feel the watchers collectively holding their breath as they wait for their leader's decision.

It's at this moment when she can feel the power balance shifting in the air that the call goes up and her heart sinks. Distracted, Alina breaks the staring match as she tries to understand the coded whistles flying around the camp.

Someone has been found by the scouts. Less than 30 seconds later the tall black clad figure of Aleksander is roughly pushed into the clearing.

Oh, fuck.

"General Kirigan," Zlatan purrs, a small smile stretching his thin lips, "what an unexpected pleasure."

"Zlatan." Aleksander replies dryly. "You seem to have my missing Sun Summoner. I'd have thought a man of your… intelligence, would have expected me."

For a long moment Alina just holds her breath, her eyes darting between the two remarkably similar men. Standing on opposite sides of the campfire, the flames illuminating the clearing, the two Generals could be siblings they are so alike. Both are tall, with dark hair and grey-blue eyes, both have strong jaws and heavy brows. But that's where the similarities stop. Where Aleksander's eyes are kind and warm, Zlatan's are cold and calculating. Where Aleksander's mouth is generous and inviting, Zlatan's is thin and unfriendly. Where Aleksander exudes protective fury, Zlatan is like ice. They are opposites and equals, and it sends an ominous chill down her spine.

The game has changed, and Alina is very much afraid it's just changed for the worst.

"Ahh, yes," Zlatan continues, cold eyes assessing, "the Sun Summoner. I've heard much about our long awaited Saint. So far, I have to confess I'm impressed. She has courage," his gaze slides to her, "or should that be stupidity, in abundance. Why, just before you arrived she was amusing us all with a little demonstration of her powers in an attempt to leave."

His eyes lock with Aleksander, who glowers at his fellow General. "You will let Alina and I go, Zlatan. You're hopelessly outmatched. If you wish to live, let us go now and in return I will allow you to walk away with your life and what remains of your pride." Around Aleksander's shoulders, his shadows start to swirl and Alina wonders why he hasn't yet acted. She's seen him fight. She knows that even thirty opponents are no match for the infamous Darkling, and it makes anxiety start to churn in her stomach. Why did he surrender – for surrender he must have. Why didn't he storm the camp, shadows blazing? Why stand and try to negotiate. It doesn't make sense. Everything she knows of Aleksander declares that this is the antithesis of his normal behaviour, and yet here he is.

Similar thoughts are clearly running through Zlatan's mind as well, though, for his cold stare keeps switching between them, a thoughtful expression on his face.

For a moment, Alina thinks they are back at an impasse, that a stalemate has been reached, but then Zlatan smiles. It's a dark smile full of foreboding and promise. It sends a shiver through her, the burning sun in her mind turning cold with fear.

The General's eyes meet Aleksander as he murmurs, "bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"Alina is many things, but stupid isn't one of them!" Aleksander rebuts immediately, his tone as dark as his shadows. Around them the ring of men are shifting restlessly, uncertain and clearly afraid of the shades writhing around the captive man before them.

"Oh," Zlatan laughs, his tone just as ominous, "I wasn't talking about her. The little Saint has played her hand of cards very well, she almost had us in checkmate, but then you arrived – a brave black knight to save her. What a stupid thing to do, Kirigan. I should thank you. You're not a man prone to making mistakes, but here you have just handed me the answer to my prayer." He grins, shark like and sword point sharp.

"West Ravka will honour you, once we're free. Who would have thought our salvation would be delivered by the only man who could have prevented it. Irony indeed," Zlatan's smile widens, showing the yellow of his teeth and with a nod Alina suddenly finds herself held firmly by three sets of hands; two around her wrists, spreading her arms and holding her like she has been pinned to a board, and one around her neck, the elbow digging into her throat with painful force.

With a cry, Aleksander wrenches forward out of the grasp of men holding him, shadows spirally outwards as he tries to reach her. He makes it only a handful of steps, however, before Zlatan's men have captured him, kicking his legs to bring him to his knees and wrenching his arms behind him with agonising force.

Zlatan's dark gaze slides to where Alexander is now kneeling, quiet but not subdued, his shadows writhing with intent yet strangely restrained. There's a thoughtful look on his face, like he's worked something out and he's relishing the newfound knowledge. A sharp gesture signals another man to step forward, instead of a sword he has in his hands a cat o'nine tails. With a dark grin he swings his arm and the cat slashes through the air, the sound it makes as it lands is awful, but it's nothing compared to the cry of pain that erupts from Alina. "No," she shouts hoarsely, straining against the hands holding her, wriggling and pulling as she tries to escape their grip.

There's a look of gleeful delight on Zlatan's face when Alina at last wrenches her eyes from Aleksander's battered and now bleeding form to that of his tormentor.

The General nods again at the man, who bows and backs off, the cat dangling limply by his side. It's dripping blood, Alina realises with sickening horror, Aleksander's blood.

Her eyes meet Zlatan's, his dark gaze appraising and cold. "I think we at last understand each other," he says, gesturing to his fellow General with cruel apathy. It makes Alina shiver as she stands under his gaze, her chin held high by will power alone.

For the first time she feels just how much danger they are in. Alone, she was safe in saying no. After all, what could they do to her? Nothing, not if they wished to have a safe return to their home. They had little they could use as either carrot or whip, but she's just handed them the only leverage they need.

Her stomach is in knots as she realises with sickening clarity that Aleksander's restraint had told Zlatan all he needed to know. With anyone else, Aleks would have used his shadows to devastating effect, but not with her. Just as she couldn't risk him, he wouldn't risk her – and Zlatan knew it. That's what he had discovered while watching them.

Zlatan knew within moments of Aleksander's arrival that he wouldn't act if there was a threat to her – such as the men behind her. It had been her that General Zlatan had been trying to figure out, she realises. Aleksander might be temporarily neutralised, but she had been a wild card, one that could still have scuppered their plans.

Her reaction had blown that. It had shown her abductors that she valued the General of the Second Army. They might not know just how close they really are, but they don't need to - it's enough to know that she does.

She can't - won't - risk Aleksander, and that gives Zlatan all the power he needs.

A/N Dun dun duuuun! Anyone expect that little twist? I'm so excited for the next chapter, which is probably one of my all time favourites to have written. What did everyone think? Reviews feed the writer and mean you get quicker updates :)