The woman has been on the run for just over eight days.
Clad in the threadbare cloak she'd stolen, with pants and shirt found through similar means, and faring little better, she threads her way through the crowded streets. Occasional glances over her shoulder continue to show that, for the moment, at least, she is not being followed.
A temporary respite, to be sure, the woman does not allow it to lull her into complacency. To let her guard down now would be to give in to what the one who hunts her desires so fiercely. It would be playing right into his hands.
As soon as the thought sinks in, an invisible knife seems to strike at her heart, twisting until she can feel the muscle throb in protest while she rounds yet another corner. While she tries to continue drawing on the willpower that is clearly required to keep placing one foot in front of the other. By some miracle, she remains capable of drawing breath after ragged breath inside of her lungs, regardless of the tightening of her jaw as anger mingles with sadness and guilt, and something not all that far from vicious longing.
It is a longing that no longer serves her. Perhaps it never had, but she can feel it twisting through her, either way. Snaking its way through her blood, until it finds a home lodged inside of her heart.
Her eyes begin to sting with the burn of unshed tears, her mind seemingly desperate to stray back to what is now lost. Desperate to take an inventory of it all, no matter how the woman knows without a doubt that to do so will only bring her more pain.
If she has learned anything from this—from the events that forced her to run from the only home and family she has ever known—it is that the majority of her life has been centered around a lie. Many lies, truth be told, that she had been too blind to see.
Her world still feels as though it is crumbling apart at the seams, even now, each crack in the facade that keeps her standing only seeming to grow the more she considers the weight of everything she has learned. Everything that has become clear to her in the matter of a few hours. And though she can practically hear her mother's voice in her head, berating her—admonishing her, for falling prey to the one thing the older woman had spent ages trying to teach her to ward against—she knows.
There is very little that could have spared her from the foolish mistakes now belonging to her, and her alone.
Bitterness burns alongside her grief at the thought. It is a bitterness born largely from her own regret and self-recrimination, yet she knows that it will do nothing but slow her down in her efforts to put some distance between herself, and the truth she now knows, without a doubt, to be real. Between herself, and the likelihood of oncoming death.
And no matter how a part of her might wish for some manner of relief from the despair and the pain that hold sway over her, now, some lingering instinct for self-preservation is still fighting tooth and nail, preventing her from giving in.
It is an instinct learned from him. From the very person the woman is now trying to outrun, the reality of how easily he has always been capable of predicting her moves only adding to the flare of panic that drives her forward. The panic that keeps her moving, when all she truly wants is to spare a moment for catching her breath.
A few more steps are all it takes to plant her firmly between the brick and mortar of the buildings she'd managed to weave around, and the familiarity of the darkness resting before her. A darkness that seems to steal the very breath from her lungs.
Struggling to reorient herself as best she can, the woman pauses. She stares at the billowing shadows before her while ice-cold terror snakes its way through her veins.
The woman knows that this is foolish. She is fully aware of the death sentence the Fold brings with it, but her mind never once stops screaming at her, all but demanding that she needs to keep moving. That she needs to make a choice, now, or risk never being able to do such a thing again.
Even so, she cannot seem to persuade suddenly leaden limbs to continue moving. The task of placing one foot in front of the other is now insurmountable.
Her lungs begin to burn, chest heaving as memories she'd spent years trying to suppress surge to the forefront of her mind, once again, and it is then that she hears it. Footsteps approaching at her back, followed not long after by a voice that belongs to a man she had been hoping to outrun.
She had failed.
"There is nowhere left for you to run, Irina."
Terror seizes the woman's heart in a vice as the words sink in. As she realizes that her best efforts to escape have clearly been in vain. And although she hardly wishes to, she forces herself to turn toward the one who now stands behind her, her expression a carefully practiced picture of neutrality, even as she can feel the rapid-fire pounding of her heart against the cage of her ribs.
"If you truly believed that, would you have come to find me, yourself?"
"Trust is a weakness very few can afford. You know that."
Silence is the woman's only response to the words, despite knowing such a thing will only provoke the man standing before her. Despite having years of experience at knowing him, inside and out. Knowing that he has always seen even the smallest of betrayals as something that must be punished with nothing held back. True to form, he takes a slow step toward her, while her chin lifts in a show of defiance, and she can pinpoint the precise moment when any lingering civility in the man's gaze disappears.
The act of remaining where she stands is far more taxing than the woman prefers to admit, a reality that has her fingers curling inward, until she can feel the scrape of her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. But even so, as the man approaching her draws still nearer, she forces herself to hold her ground. To stand tall, even when the glint in her would-be captor's once-familiar dark eyes threatens to chill her blood inside her veins.
It is a glint she has seen a handful of times before. The very same glint that is present when preparing to destroy anyone who betrays him.
And now it is being directed toward her.
"When have you ever trusted anyone other than yourself, Aleksander?" The woman demands, surprised at the sudden defiance that is recognizable behind the words, no matter how softly they are spoken, "Can you tell me that?"
"There was a time when I believed that I trusted you."
Inhaling sharply as the weight of the words strike home, Irina blinks against the sudden stinging sensation of unshed tears that prick against the corners of her eyes. She risks a step back, to put some space between them, swallowing hard as the act brings a thin ghost of a smile to Aleksander's lips as a result.
Though she keeps her eyes firmly fixed on him, she is not blind to the shadows that begin to curl behind him. A veiled threat that she had never once dreamed would be used against her. And although every last instinct she possesses is all but demanding that she make yet another attempt to run, Irina steels her spine and resolves to remain precisely where she is.
At least for now.
"You lied, Leksi."
"Was it a lie, Irina? Or was I simply attempting to protect you as I always have?"
"I never asked for your protection—"
"And yet you have always needed it," Aleksander hisses, the shadows that rest behind him darkening—surging forward in response to his anger—whether he seems to be aware of such an occurrence, or not, "You have always needed it, and I have always provided."
"Until now?"
"It is not my intention to harm you."
"No. No, you would just have me stand idly by while you wage war on innocents."
Aleksander seems to stall in response to the declaration, expression shifting from its previous cool indifference into something else, entirely. Something darker. Something deadly, and Irina would be a fool to pretend she cannot feel the flare of panic that revives itself, squeezing at her heart, and clawing at her lungs to steal her breath. Whether she can stomach the realization, or not, it is now more than clear that harming her is no longer a thing that is out of the question, regardless of any assurances he might provide that claim otherwise.
As she stands there, waiting for Aleksander to speak, Irina notices the shadows that trail him drawing nearer. Growing more substantial in a way she can hardly begin to explain. And when he finally does manage a reply to her accusation, the decision she had so fiercely hoped to avoid is now a reality that she can no longer escape.
"The people you speak of are hardly innocent, Irina."
"Neither are you. Not anymore."
The words escape before she can even consider stopping them, her regret over the loss of a bond that she had once valued more than life itself spurring her to anger, whether or not such a thing is truly wise. She can feel that anger, coursing through her, now. Igniting her blood, where before, Aleksander's words, along with the unspoken threat of what she would face were she to resist him had frozen it into sluggish immobility.
It is that anger that propels her to act in her own defense, when before, despair might have allowed her to simply back down. To give up, and allow her fate to be chosen for her.
Though Aleksander's hands barely twitch, Irina does not miss the precise moment when the shadows at his command surge forward once more. She is hardly blind to how the darkness coalesces into the shape of a blade the likes of which she had seen cut down any number of perceived enemies in the seemingly endless stretch of time she'd spent standing at his side.
Everything in her goes taut, then, instinct taking over, and effectively pushing out any chance of emotion eating away at her newly formed resolve. Her hands seem to move of their own accord, matching Aleksander's movements inch by inch, until her own frame is surrounded by a familiar darkness. Until the metallic clang of her own hastily formed blade striking Aleksander's out of its intended path echoes around them.
Hardly blind to the flare of surprise that crosses Aleksander's expression, Irina does not waste any time debating with herself over whether or not that surprise should cut her any more deeply than his actions thus far have, already. She does not spare a second to determine if he will redouble his efforts, choosing to retaliate against the clearly unexpected use of her power against him without remorse.
Heart pounding with the realization that she has, in fact, attacked him, self-defense notwithstanding, the woman takes one step back and then another. Another. Her breath comes in sharp gusts, as she steels herself against what it is that she must do, now, to survive.
Sick at the thought of turning her back on Ravka—at the thought of leaving her home behind, with no hope to ever return—she takes one final look at Aleksander. Her brother. Her blood. And although she truly does not know if what she plans to do is a thing she can survive, she allows herself one final, steadying breath before she acts.
Before she turns her back on Aleksander, and plunges, head-first, into the darkness of the Fold.
…
Darlings! Hello! And welcome to...well...the beginning of another new plot bunny that, no matter what I tried, would not simmer down? I am still very much in the plotting stages, for this one, but I hope that there are at least some of you out there interested in coming along for the ride? Like with my other WIPs, I'm beyond excited to really get things rolling, here, and I'd love to share in the fun, if anyone is so inclined!
As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to anyone who decides to give this little introductory chapter a chance! I appreciate your time and support so much more than you know, and I hope I'm not the only one excited to see where the story goes, from here!
Much love...
permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88