Then, without warning, the door next to me swung open.

I froze, startled as a wave of warm, cedar-scented steam rolled into the hallway. And then he stepped out.

My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes dropped instinctively.

The towel hung low on his hips, slung so precariously it seemed almost criminal. The sharp lines of his abdomen formed a solid V that disappeared beneath the towel to another outline that I absolutely shouldn't have noticed. I swallowed hard, my breath hitching as heat flooded my face.

His pale skin glistened under the faint light, smooth in some places but interrupted by a tapestry of scars differing in size and intensity. The muscles of his torso were lean and defined, his shoulders broad but not bulky. Droplets of water clung to his pale skin, tracing maddening paths down his chest and over the curve of his shoulders. Another drop of water slid down the line of his jaw, disappearing into the shadowy hollow of his neck.

I was staring. Saints, I was staring.

"Something on your mind, Klara?"

His voice cut through my trance, smooth and tinged with amusement, and I realized with horror that his dark eyes were on me. He hadn't missed a thing—not the way my gaze had lingered, not the way I was now struggling to compose myself.

"I—" My voice cracked, and I quickly cleared my throat, willing it to sound calm. "I didn't expect you," I managed, though the words tumbled out far too quickly. "I mean… I didn't think you'd be here."

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced by my attempt at composure. "I didn't expect you here either," he admitted easily, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But perhaps I should have. These late nights of yours are starting to become a regular occurrence."

The casual way he leaned against the doorframe only made it worse, just as the fact that he was once again fully aware of the effect he had on me and clearly found it entertaining. My pulse was a traitor, thundering in my ears as I fought to keep my focus on his face. He was devastating, and he didn't even seem to care.

He's doing it again!

"You're one to talk," I said, willing my voice to stay steady. Do not give him the satisfaction.

For a moment, he said nothing, merely watching me with that piercing, unreadable gaze, as though weighing just how far he wished to push. The dim firelight flickered against the hard planes of his… ehm, face, FACE, we're only looking at his face… accentuating every sharp line, every shadowed contour.

"I suppose it is only natural that we are both creatures of the night," he said finally.

"Are you disappointed that you cannot lock me in earlier?" I shot back, regaining my footing, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his eyes and not... anywhere else.

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "I was wondering when you would bring that up."

Of course, he knows. He always knew.

A few nights ago, unable to sleep, I had wandered through the sitting room and found it—the entrance to Grigor's wing was blocked by the same impenetrable wall of darkness as the war room door. A seamless, obsidian void, impossible to cross. In the morning, it was gone. I checked twice more after that, sneaking through the sitting room in the dead of night. Every time, the shadows were there.

I lifted my chin. "Are you worried I am going to elope with someone, or is there another reason you are keeping me from leaving at night?"

"Do you intend to elope with someone?" he countered smoothly.

A low chuckle slipped from his lips, dark amusement threading through his voice. But then, as if something had shifted, his expression grew more serious.

"We already know there is someone in Os Alta who wants you dead, Klara. We cannot be certain they have no spies here. And while I am close by, I am not willing to risk coming too late." His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but there was something beneath it—something colder.

"You could have just said that," I muttered.

"Of course," he continued, undeterred, "soon enough, you will learn to pass through it at will, and it will not limit you at all. You have my word."

As he spoke, he casually tossed his head to shake away a damp strand of hair that had fallen into his face.

Saints give me strength.

"Now," he said lightly, as if the conversation had not just dipped into life and death, "did you spend some time with your long-lost friends?"

I latched onto the shift, eager to escape the heavy undercurrent of his words. "Yes. We were also… in the banya. It was really nice."

"I'm glad to hear you managed to rest after all the sparring lessons."

"It was nice, but the effects will not last," I shrugged. "Tomorrow I am training with Ivan, so I expect every bone in my body to break."

That drew a low chuckle from him. "If you're so frightened of Ivan," he said nonchalantly, "Perhaps you would rather spar with me," he said, his dark eyes boring into me.

Thinking was becoming progressively more difficult with a half-naked, devastatingly beautiful man standing so infuriatingly close to me. Most of the blood in my body was decidedly not in my brain. The sight of his sculpted chest was utterly ruinous to my coherence, and before I could stop myself, my gaze flickered downward—

No. Stop that. Look away. Look away.

My breath hitched audibly. Saints, I had been silent too long. Say something. Say something.

"N-no, that is…" I hesitated, my thoughts tangling into an irretrievable mess. I could practically feel the smirk tugging at his lips, the way he was watching me falter, waiting for me to dig my own grave. "I think Ivan is really…"

His eyebrow lifted slightly, he was enjoying this far too much.

"I mean… s-sure," I stammered.

Sure? SURE?! Oh, Djel, no. No, no, no, no!

The slight curve of his lips sent my pulse racing all over again. "I shall check my schedule, then," he said lightly, his voice smooth as silk, as though this entire exchange had cost him nothing.

As though he hadn't just utterly unraveled me.

Before I could regain even a shred of dignity, he stepped past me. The faint scent of cedar and oud lingered in his wake. As he passed, his shoulder brushed mine—just barely, just enough.

I swore my knees nearly gave out.

"Get some sleep, Klara," he said over his shoulder, smooth and unhurried. "Early morning tomorrow."

I turned just in time to see him disappear into his room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. My heart hammered against my ribs, the words I should have said caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

Bastard. That absolute bastard.

…

I ate my breakfast in the sitting room the next morning, as I always did when the Darkling declared an early morning.

That meant rising just before sunrise, when the halls were still wrapped in silence, the base barely stirring. It was too early for the dining hall—few Grisha had the misfortune of being awake at this hour—so instead, I took my meals here.

The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain as Grigor set down my teacup with practiced precision. He had taken to fussing over my meals lately, grumbling that I was not eating enough, so every morning he prepared entire feasts and made sure there was not a single thing I could possibly want for.

Today was no exception. Platters of fresh bread, eggs, and fruit rested between us, along with pickled herring, pirozhki, oatmeal, and a decadent-looking cowberry pie.

It had become something of an unspoken ritual—these quiet mornings spent in companionable silence, watching the first traces of dawn creep over the horizon while Grigor tried, with quiet determination, to feed me more than I could possibly eat before the Darkling arrived to collect me.

At some point, he had abandoned his usual habit of hovering and had instead resigned himself to simply sitting across from me, his own cup of coffee in hand. It was a truce of sorts. He still called me madam, but at least he no longer acted as though keeping me company was a chore. A small victory.

That being said, he still had his habits. No matter how relaxed he seemed, he always found an excuse to jump up and refill my cup before I could do it myself, or to place another piece of bread on my plate before I'd even finished the last.

"You know, sir, you really do not have to keep spoiling me like this," I said as he placed another bowl of fruit in front of me.

"I do not believe ensuring that you eat constitutes spoiling you, madam. I am simply doing my job."

"Your job? So this is not out of sheer affection? You wound me, sir."

He did not reply, merely sat back with the air of a man who had endured this exact conversation too many times.

When he swiftly refilled my cup yet again, beating me to the pot by mere seconds, I lifted it and peered at him over the rim. "You deserve recognition for your hard work. A medal, perhaps. Or a grand title. Grigor, Most Esteemed Overseer of My Breakfast."

He sighed through his nose, shaking his head. "Madam—"

"Or, if that is too formal—Defender of the Teapot? Commander of the Butter Dish?"

Grigor pinched the bridge of his nose, as if debating whether this was worth responding to. The way his mouth twitched, however, betrayed the fact that he was fighting off exasperated amusement.

Satisfied, I took a bite of the pie before glancing at him again, my tone turning more serious. "Grigor… How is Axel?"

His expression shifted, the lines of his face softening ever so slightly. "The same, mostly," he admitted. "But… Erik tried that calming technique you told me about, madam."

I perked up. "And?"

He nodded. "It helped. For a little while."

"I suppose that is something."

"Anything that helps to calm him down is very helpful, madam." He stirred his coffee, his movements slow and measured. "He still has his episodes," he said after a beat. "Still wakes in the night, struggling to breathe." His brow furrowed slightly. "Erik says he asks about his mother sometimes. But he barely remembers her."

My fingers curled around my cup. "Maybe that's a kindness."

Grigor exhaled through his nose. "Perhaps."

Silence stretched between us, comfortable at first, then heavier with something unspoken.

Then, after a long moment, his voice broke the quiet. Polite. Hesitant. "Forgive me, madam, but… did you and your husband ever have children of your own?"

The question caught me off guard.

For a split second, I was back in Fjerda. Back in that dimly lit house, where the air always smelled of damp wood and something burnt. Back where the walls were too thin and the silence before a blow was worse than the blow itself.

I set my cup down carefully, my fingers resting against the porcelain. "No," I said. Then, forcing a wry smile, I added, "Thanks to the Saints, no."

Grigor blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction. "You are… grateful for that, madam?"

II met his gaze, exhaling through my nose. "I did not want to give him more things to break."

A flicker of something passed over his face—discomfort, maybe.

I let my finger trace the rim of my cup, my voice quieter now.

"You know how things work in Fjerda," I murmured. "A wife is her husband's property. He could do what he liked." My throat tightened. "And he did."

Grigor's jaw clenched. "I am so sorry, madam."

"I got used to the bruises and broken bones, but I could never forgive myself if I brought another person into that misery."

Grigor nodded once, solemn. "I understand. I suppose that you were… truly exceptionally lucky, that you never—"

I tilted my head. "You can ask, Grigor. I know what you are implying."

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. Then, finally—"How did you…?"

"The usual ways," I said, my voice even. "Hellebore in the spring, tansy in the summer, pennyroyal or mugwort in the autumn." I traced the edge of my cup. "Winters were harder. I dried and stored my plants, of course, but when I ran out…" I shrugged. "I had to find another way. I ate juniper berries. Handfuls of them. Until I was too sick to stand. And then, when I could, I did it again the next day. And the next. Until I felt safe."

Grigor watched me intently, his expression grave.

"Madam… Klara," he said, his voice hoarse, "you were poisoning yourself."

I smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. "Yes, Grigor. That was the point."

His nostrils flared slightly, his whole body rigid. "With some of those plants… You could have died."

I let out a slow breath, smiling faintly. "I often hoped I would," I said quietly.

The silence that followed was thick. Grigor stared at me, sadness deep in his eyes. And then—

"I apologize."

The voice came from the doorway.

Grigor and I both turned.

The Darkling stood there, his silhouette sharp against the dim morning light.

"I did not mean to eavesdrop."

Something about the way he was looking at me made my stomach tighten. He might not have intended to, but he had heard. And that meant he was thinking.

I could see it—the way his mind turned over what he had just learned, assessing, cataloging, considering.

I did not want him to.

So I forced a smirk. "If I had known you were listening, General, I would have picked a story with a better punchline."

Neither of them laughed.

Grigor's fingers tightened around his cup, his usual stony expression clouded by something that looked dangerously close to concern. And the Darkling—he was still watching me. Studying me, as though trying to decipher something just out of reach.

Frustration flared in my chest. Saints, the last thing I need is their pity.

I shoved my chair back, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. "Well, on that cheerful note…" I turned to the Darkling, arching a brow. "Are we going to train, or did I wake up at this forsaken hour for nothing?"

The Darkling inclined his head slightly, then glanced at Grigor. "Thank you for keeping her company. We will be staying here today."

Grigor immediately rose and began gathering the dishes. "Of course, sir." He worked with his usual efficiency, stacking the plates and cups with practiced ease. But just before he reached the door, he hesitated.

He looked back at me, his usual formality softening just slightly.

Something like understanding. Something like respect.

He gave me the smallest nod before stepping out, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

I exhaled through my nose and turned to the Darkling. "And how exactly are we supposed to train here?"

He didn't answer. He was watching me again, calculating, considering. But this time, his expression was soft, the sadness palpable in his eyes.

I knew what he wanted to say. I could see it forming in his mind.

Absolutely not.

I arched an eyebrow. "Obstacle course? Jumping over chairs? Dodging teacups? Should I start stretching or…?"

Not even a flicker of amusement. Fine.

"Wait, no, I got it! You are finally going to teach me the deadly art of rearranging furniture." I crossed my arms, nodding sagely. "Excellent choice, General. It will be my greatest challenge yet."

Still nothing.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Look, you look like you are about to say something profound, and I am not interested. Can we skip to the part where I fight for my life against the endless darkness you conjure?"

His expression did not waver, but something flickered in his eyes—an acknowledgment, maybe. A knowing.

My stomach twisted.

"Klara, I—"

"Don't."

The word came out sharper than I intended.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he did not look away.

"I don't want your pity."

A shadow passed across his face—so quick I nearly missed it. Then, with a single step, he closed the distance between us just enough for the air to shift.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I wasn't offering it."

I swallowed, unsure why the answer made something in my chest tighten.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us like a string pulled too tight.

Then, finally—

"I do wish things had been different for you."

His voice was quiet but certain. He was not searching for the right words—he had already found them.

"I wish no one had tried to break you. I wish I had found you sooner."

I exhaled slowly, bracing myself for the sympathy I knew was coming.

But when I looked at him, there was none.

No sorrowful glances. No soft, useless apologies.

Only certainty.

"But you survived."

He said it as if it had never been in question. As if there had never been another possibility.

"Pitying you would be an insult to your resilience. You are a survivor."

The air between us felt charged, a current humming just beneath the surface. I realized suddenly that my hands had curled into fists at my sides. I forced my fingers to loosen, exhaling as I shook my head.

"And here I thought you were going to tell me to embrace my pain and let it make me stronger."

He tilted his head slightly. "I do not think you need anyone to tell you that."

I met his gaze, something unreadable passing between us.

No. I suppose I don't.

After a long moment, he finally stepped back, the tension in the room easing just slightly.

"Now," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "I think it is time you visited my war room again."

"Oh," I said as realization sank in. "The wall."

"The wall," he echoed. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, "Disappointed?"

"Well, considering it is still absurdly early and we are in the sitting room, I was hoping you would have the decency to think of a training exercise I could do while relaxing. Preferably lying down. But I suppose I overestimated you."

I knew I had made a mistake the moment I saw the flicker in his expression—the way his gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, like he was weighing possibilities I had not meant to offer.

"I am sure we could figure something out," he said smoothly, his voice dropping just enough to make my stomach twist.

My face warmed instantly. The heat of my own reaction only made it worse, and when I saw the smug curve of his lips, I knew he knew.

"Perhaps later," he added, as though he had not just set my entire bloodstream on fire.

I clenched my jaw as he turned away, clearly pleased with himself, and gestured toward the blackened wall sealing off the war room.

I had almost forgotten about it these past few months, but now it loomed before me, dark and impenetrable, a void carved into the space where a doorway should be. Looking at it directly felt like staring into something that should not exist. I had learned to manipulate the shadows the Darkling summoned, I had learned to see through them, but I couldn't see through this.

It was impossibly smooth, eerily still. Like polished stone, like something that had never been touched by light. If I hadn't watched him walk through it a dozen times—if I hadn't done it myself, once—I wouldn't believe it was anything but solid.

The Darkling motioned toward the barrier. "After you."

I blinked at him. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"No guidance? No instructions?"

"It's simple, Klara. You've already manipulated my shadows. This is no different."

"No different," I echoed dryly. "Except for the part where it's a solid wall."

"Maybe." He stepped closer, extending a hand. Instantly, the shadows responded, rippling toward him like silk drawn to flame. "But still one made of shadows."

"Your shadows."

"You know they are not mine. But even if they were, what makes you think they wouldn't recognize their kin?"

I reached out tentatively, my fingers brushing against the surface.

Cold. Unyielding.

I pressed harder, but nothing happened.

"You are not thinking like a shadow summoner," he said calmly. "This is a solid wall for everyone else. But for us, it is not real. It does not have to be."

I pressed my palm flat against the icy surface, a shiver running through me. "It feels real enough."

"Because you are making it real," he countered.

I exhaled sharply. "Oh, well, if it is that simple—"

"You cannot move through something if you refuse to let it move through you," he cut in, stepping close enough that I could feel the faint pull of his presence. "Stop thinking of it as a wall. Imagine it as smoke—visible, but intangible. Something you can pass through effortlessly."

I turned back to the wall.

It still looked very much like a wall.

Doubt curled tight in my chest. "And if my mind doesn't believe it?"

"Then we will be here a while," he said with maddening calmness.

…

For what felt like an eternity, I tried.

Each time I stepped forward, my body braced instinctively, my hands reaching out as if touching the shadows would somehow help me understand them. Each time, the wall remained as impassable as ever.

"You are hesitating," the Darkling observed from behind me. "Every time you reach for it, you expect resistance. Stop expecting."

I turned sharply. "That is easier said than done."

He raised a brow, unimpressed. "Everything worth mastering is."

I sighed, the fight draining from me as I turned back to the wall. This time, I closed my eyes before stepping forward. If I could not see the wall, perhaps I could convince myself it was not there. I forced my hands to stay at my sides, my fingers trembling slightly as I moved forward.

The cold surface pressed against my forehead, solid as stone. Well that works great.

"Again," the Darkling said, his voice sharp but even.

I tried. Again. And again.

Each attempt felt more futile than the last. My body refused to accept that this was not a real wall. Each failure chipped away at my patience, leaving frustration and exhaustion in its place.

"Calm down," the Darkling said. "Do not overthink it. Just breathe."

Something in his tone steadied the chaos in my chest.

It carried the weight of certainty. As if he believed in me even when I could not.

"Breathe," he repeated.

I closed my eyes again. This time, I focused not on the wall, but on the space around it. On the way shadows moved, the way they could be present without truly existing.

I imagined what he said—a barrier of smoke, its edges shifting and yielding. Air, fluid and waiting to part.

I stepped forward.

For a brief moment, I felt it. The resistance softened, the shadows shifting around me, letting me in. The void wavered and for a split second, I thought—

But then it snapped back, and I was thrown to the floor. The force of it threw me backward, and I hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping, sprawled on the floor. My chest heaved as I tried to contain the urge to scream.

Before I could pull myself up, the Darkling was already there. His hands slipped under my arms, lifting me to my feet with effortless strength. His touch was steadying, grounding—but it only made my failure sting more.

"This was very good," he said, his voice unexpectedly warm. "You're closer than you think."

"It doesn't feel like it," I retorted sharply.

"Mastery doesn't come from feeling successful," he replied. "It comes from trying until failure no longer holds you back."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he stepped away, turning toward the wall. With infuriating ease, he passed through it, the shadows rippling around him like water.

Just as I was about to assume our session was over, his hand emerged from the darkness, reaching for me.

"Are you coming?"