I still had an hour before our training, so I decided to explore. I walked out through Grigor's entrance, the heavy door creaking slightly as it swung open. Behind me, three oprichniki followed silently, their boots crunching against the gravel path. The air was crisp, carrying the faintest hint of pine from the nearby woods.

As I wandered the grounds, my thoughts flickered back to our arrival. From the outside, the base had been nothing like the Little Palace. There was no gold-leaf elegance, no sweeping arches, no sunlit spires. The walls were thick, unyielding stone—cold and functional—and the narrow windows had seemed more like watchful eyes than openings meant to let in light.

But here, within those walls, was something else entirely. The gardens were a quiet oasis, arranged with the kind of care that almost made you forget the base's purpose. They weren't as sprawling as those in Os Alta, but they were artfully designed to mimic the untamed wildness of nature. Stone paths wove through patches of soft moss and clusters of flowering shrubs. A brook trickled over smooth stones, its sound gentle and soothing. Ivy climbed the base of the walls, softening their severity and perfecting the illusion of freedom.

Then my gaze caught on the soldiers patrolling the edges of the garden. Their sharp movements and stiff postures shattered the illusion. Guards from both the First and Second Armies stood in rigid formation, revealing the true character of this place. Despite its beauty, it was still undeniably a military base.

I continued walking until I found a small hill near the edge of the gardens. A towering oak tree stretched its branches wide, its gnarled bark darkened by the morning dew. It had undoubtedly stood here long before the base was built, a quiet witness to all that had passed. I sat beneath it, letting the cool grass press against my palms as I looked down at the base below.

From this vantage point, I could see the orderly movements of soldiers, the glint of sunlight on metal, the occasional flicker of red or blue from a Grisha kefta. The oprichniki settled themselves a few feet away, their stern expressions unchanging as they kept their watch.

I reached into my satchel and pulled out my notebook and pen. Writing letters I'd never send had become a habit—a strange comfort I couldn't let go of. It made me feel less alone, as if the words could somehow bridge the distance between me and the person I was writing to. The only person in Fjerda I had ever considered a real friend.

The blank sheet stared back at me, and I stared at it, unsure where to begin. How do you start a letter to someone you haven't written to since your life had been turned upside down? My home in Fjerda felt like a distant memory, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

The sunlight filtering through the oak leaves dappled the page in shifting patches of gold. I tapped the nib of the pen against my thumb, thinking of him. I didn't even know if he was alive—if he had made it out.

The thought tightened something in my chest. I tried to push it away, lowering the pen to the page.

I began to write, describing the events of the past months as accurately as I could: my discovery, my escape, and the endless, aching uncertainty of my place here in Ravka. The words came slowly at first, halting and uncertain, but once I began, they spilled out faster than I expected, the pen scratching softly against the paper.

"I miss you," I wrote finally. "I will always be eternally grateful to you.

Your Klara."

I paused, reading the words back to myself. My fingers lingered on the edges of the page before I carefully folded the letter and tucked it into the notebook.

The sound of boots shifting on gravel broke my thoughts. One of the oprichniki cleared his throat softly, his stance unchanged. I glanced up at the sky, noting the sun's position. My hour was almost up.

With a sigh, I slipped the notebook and pen back into my satchel and stood, brushing stray blades of grass from my kefta. The oak's wide branches swayed gently in the breeze. I cast one last look at the tree before turning back toward the base.

The guards fell into step behind me as I made my way back to the Darkling's chambers. But even as I walked, my thoughts lingered on the letter—and the dear friend it was meant for.

…

"You are here," the Darkling said, glancing at the clock as he closed the door behind him with a soft click. It was 10 o'clock sharp. "Good. Let's not waste time."

His tone was brisk and matter-of-fact, and it caught me off guard, as it always did. The shift in his demeanor whenever it was time for us to train still felt like a splash of cold water. I was growing used to the softer version of him—the patient, understanding and almost gentle Darkling who had shown me and others kindness - however much he didn't like to admit it. But now, as we stepped into the space where power was the focus, that side of him disappeared.

Here stood the General of the Second Army, sharp and uncompromising, his focus entirely on the task ahead. It was as though a veil had dropped over him, and no matter how many times I saw it, the transformation always left me slightly unsteady.

He gestured for me to follow him.

We passed a handful of guards stationed near Grigor's entrance to the Darkling's quarters. "Moi soverenyi," they murmured, bowing their heads in unison as he strode past. I wanted to roll my eyes. I wonder if they practice to make sure they speak in unison.

He led me to a large door I hadn't noticed before. Its surface was smooth and unadorned, blending seamlessly into the dark stone of the walls. He pushed it open, and I stepped through, only to stop short as the space beyond unfolded before me.

The room was massive, at least three floors high, its sheer size almost overwhelming. But what truly took my breath away were the walls. They appeared to be made entirely of glass, flooding the space with natural light that spilled across the polished floors in shimmering, shifting patterns. The brightness was startling, almost blinding after the muted tones of his chambers.

I turned in a slow circle, unable to stop myself from taking it all in. Outside, the gardens stretched far and wide, their vibrant greens and soft blooms blending into the treetops that bordered the horizon. The sheer openness of it was staggering. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the room itself had dissolved into the air, leaving us entirely exposed to the world outside.

"It's a new material our Fabricators developed," the Darkling said, his voice breaking through my awe.

I turned to look at him, finding his expression calm, composed. But there was a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, a subtle shift that betrayed his awareness of my reaction. Though he didn't say it, I could tell he was pleased by my astonishment.

"Fortified glass," he continued, his tone even but deliberate. "No bullets can penetrate it, and it should even withstand a smaller Cut—if we ever decide to test that."

The casual remark made me shiver. I'd rather not, thank you very much!

"All the windows in my chambers are made of it," he added. "See-through only from the inside. To anyone outside, it looks like stone walls."

I glanced back at the glass, marveling at how it seemed to shimmer faintly in the light. "I thought we might need a lot of natural light for our training," he added, his voice softening ever so slightly. "So we can see just how dark you can make it."

His lips curved into the faintest smile, and for a moment, the veil seemed to lift again, revealing the warmth that lay beneath his composed exterior. That flicker of unexpected gentleness sent a ripple through me, enough to make me unsteady.

Concentrate.

"The sparring room is next door," he said, gesturing toward another door on the far wall. "But we won't need that now. Let's focus on your control."

His tone had shifted again, the momentary softness replaced with quiet authority. I nodded, my gaze flicking once more to the shimmering walls before I turned my attention back to him.

He extended a hand, palm up, and from it spilled shadows darker and denser than anything I could ever summon on my own. They slithered outward like living things, twisting and writhing with a slow, deliberate motion that sent a chill down my spine. The room seemed to grow colder, and despite the bright light flooding the space through the glass walls, the shadows seemed to drink it in, dimming the air around us as though they had swallowed the light whole.

My breath hitched. I had seen his shadows countless times, but up close, they always astounded me. They thicker than shadows I summoned, more substantial, as though they carried weight.

"Take them," he instructed, his tone calm but firm.

I extended my hand, hesitating only briefly before making contact. The moment my fingers touched the tendrils, I felt resistance. They pushed back against me, slipping through my grasp as though they had a will of their own. My brow furrowed as I tried to gather them, but they writhed free, scattering into chaotic spirals.

"You are hesitating," the Darkling said, his voice cutting clean through my focus.

"I'm not!" I shot back, though the sharpness in my voice only betrayed my frustration.

"You are," he stated, his words carrying a quiet finality that left no room for argument. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, measured, until he stood just behind me, getting a clear view of the mass of shadows in front of me. His voice dropped, almost intimate. "You're treating them as though they're separate from you. They're shadows, Klara. Yours. Mine. It doesn't matter. They'll obey strength, not doubt."

"How?" I asked, my frustration betraying itself in my tone. "They don't feel like mine. They're—"

"They're power," he interrupted. "That's all they are. Power responds to strength, Klara. And you are strong enough to control it. But…" his voice deepened, softening to a murmur. "If you hesitate…"

He stepped even closer into my space then, so close that I felt the heat of him. The shadows curled eagerly around his presence, as if drawn to him by instinct. His proximity wasn't just distracting; it was consuming. Every breath I took seemed to sync with his, the space between us charged with something unspoken. His breath was a whisper against my ear. I felt him lean in slightly, his voice lowering.

"It will devour you."

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus, but my mind and my treacherous body both worked against me. My pulse quickened, and my skin felt too hot, every nerve attuned to the scarce space between us. My thoughts circled obsessively around the double meaning in his words, one that was probably never there to begin with.

In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I thrust my hand toward the shadows again, this time with more force, willing them to bend to my will. For a moment, they responded, forming into a single, coiling strand. But as I tried to hold them, they slipped free once more, scattering into shapeless curls.

A sharp breath escaped me, and I clenched my fists, biting back my frustration.

"Stop fighting them," the Darkling said, his tone steady but edged with expectation. "You're trying to force them into submission. That won't work."

I opened my eyes and shot him a glare over my shoulder. His face was impossibly close to mine, his dark gaze fixed on me. He didn't move, didn't flinch, but the corner of his mouth curved into something that might have been amusement. The bastard's laughing at me. At least my frustration worked for my benefit—this time, I was too upset to let his closeness distract me more.

"Then what will?" I barked.

The Darkling studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Watch," he said quietly.

He extended a hand, guiding one of the tendrils toward me. His movements were slow and deliberate, the shadow hovering in front of us like it was waiting.

"Reach out," he instructed.

I did as he said, my fingers brushing against the tendril. It felt cold, smooth, and unyielding.

"Now don't force it," he murmured, his hand reaching toward mine.

The moment his palm covered the back of my hand, the air around us seemed to shift. That same electric jolt shot through me, and I felt my breath catch. His touch was firm but not overbearing, grounding me in a way I didn't know I needed.

"Now," he murmured, his voice so low it sent a shiver down my spine. "Focus. Let go of your doubts. They are yours—claim them."

He guided my hand with his, the touch steady and deliberate. I exhaled slowly, letting go of the tension in my shoulders. This time, instead of trying to seize the shadow, I reached for it with purpose, letting my will flow through me and into it. The tendril stilled, then began to move, curling around our wrists, tying us together in a smooth, fluid motion.

"There," he said, his voice softer now. "Do you feel the difference?"

"I do," I whispered back, though my voice wavered. "But it doesn't count. You're amplifying me."

He frowned slightly, stepping back. His hand dropped away, and I felt the sudden absence of its warmth like a loss. But the shadows remained firmly in my control, steady and obedient.

"See?" he said, his tone softening ever so slightly. "They are yours now. You're doing well. But don't let it go to your head," he added, the faintest trace of humor touching his voice. "We still have a long way to go."

Despite myself, a small spark of pride flickered in my chest.

"Again," he said, summoning new shadows with a flick of his hand.