My days began to blur together, each one following a rhythm I was slowly growing accustomed to. I spent my mornings in intense training sessions with the Darkling, working to master my control over the shadows he summoned. He was strict, and his critiques were sharp but never cruel. And though I once thought it was impossible, I was beginning to see results. The shadows bent more easily to my will, and with each day, they felt more and more like they were mine.
Afternoons were mostly quiet, I spent them buried in books and study materials the Darkling wouldn't stop throwing at me. The reading had shifted from ominous tales like Alvor's Story to the standard Grisha curriculum—texts on elemental theory, the principles of the Small Science, and the history of the Second Army. Even though I had already known a lot of it, I was still learning new things every day and I found it strangely satisfying to learn more and more about the world that was now mine.
In the evenings, I finally reclaimed moments of freedom with Alisa and Eskil. Alisa had taken it upon herself to introduce me to the banya on the premises. The first time we visited it, it took all of my inner strength and a lot of me biting my tongue to avoid mentioning the private luxury I was free to enjoy in Darkling's quarters. The communal banya was not as luxurious as the one I had next to my room, but it was warm and welcoming, and most importantly, I could enjoy it in the company of my friends.
Its steamy atmosphere was filled with the laughter of Grisha unwinding from their duties, and I found myself growing more at ease in their presence. Over time, they seemed to grow accustomed to me—the strange Fjerdan who lived in a separate building suspiciously close to the Darkling, always guarded by oprichniki. Their gossip waned as their interest dwindled, and eventually, they moved on.
Alisa's chatter was relentless even in the steamybanya, but her excitement was infectious, and I found myself genuinely enjoying our time together. Eskil, meanwhile, had once again become my near-daily horseback companion. We explored the grounds within the base's secure perimeter, weaving through narrow trails and open fields. The oprichniki trailed us at a respectful distance, but Eskil's humor made it easier to ignore them. The rides gave me a chance to feel the wind against my face and imagine, if only for a moment, that things were simpler.
The Darkling, meanwhile, seemed to exist in a world of his own. Our mornings together were intense, his unwavering focus guiding me through the complexities of my power. But once the sessions ended, he disappeared into the war room, often working late into the night. Occasionally, I caught glimpses of him in passing, but we rarely spoke. He seemed to be far away, his expression unreadable, his steps brisk and he looked as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
But tonight was different.
I had just returned from an evening ride with Eskil, my cheeks still flushed from the cool night air and the exhilaration of galloping across open fields. The house was quiet, its dimly lit corridors bathed in a soft, golden glow that flickered with the movement of distant lanterns. Grigor nodded to me as I passed, his gaze flicking over my muddied boots and windblown hair. Without a word, he hurried off, likely to prepare a bath in my room, as was becoming his routine.
I paused outside the sitting room, drawn by the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint clink of glass. Pushing the door open, I stopped short. The Darkling was there, seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. A glass of red wine rested in his hand, the deep burgundy caught the flickering firelight, swirling with every subtle tilt of his wrist. His kefta, draped lazily over the armrest, left him once again dressed only in a black shirt. It clung just enough to his frame to remind me of everything I was trying not to notice.
His gaze lifted as I entered, his dark eyes meeting mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire, each pop and hiss filling the stillness between us.
"You're back later than usual," he said finally, his gaze returning to the flames.
I cleared my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the mud on my boots and the disheveled state of my hair. "I lost track of time. Eskil can be quite persuasive when it comes to one more lap."
"Did you enjoy yourself?" His voice was measured, neither warm nor cold, as he took a sip of his wine.
"Yes," I replied softly. "It's nice to feel free, even if only for a little while."
His brow lifted slightly, though his eyes stayed fixed on the fire. "Free like you felt in Fjerda?"
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to respond, but he waved a hand, silencing me.
"Don't," he said, his voice quieter now. "Forgive me. It's been a long day." He rose, his movements fluid as he crossed to a nearby cabinet. Taking out another glass, he glanced back at me. "Care for a drink?"
"Yes, please," I said, setting my boots aside. The feel of the thick rug beneath my feet was a welcome change from the cold leather of my riding boots. I shed my kefta as well, its weight slipping from my shoulders, leaving me in the same black shirt and breeches he wore.
When he handed me the glass, his eyes swept over me—briefly, but enough to leave a lingering heat in their wake. "Sit," he said, a faint smile softening the command. "You look like you've been racing the wind itself."
I sank into the chair opposite him, letting the fire's warmth seep into my skin and chase away the lingering chill from the night air. The wine was rich and heavy, its sharp dryness settling comfortably on my tongue. I took a generous sip and let out a small, unintentional sigh of contentment as I settled deeper into the chair. Each drop unfurled warmth through my chest, loosening the tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"You don't usually stop working this early," I ventured, watching him over the rim of my glass.
He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes catching the firelight. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Even I have my limits."
"You're saying you're mortal after all?" I teased, raising an eyebrow.
His smile deepened, the flicker of mischief in his eyes making my chest tighten. "Hardly. But even shadows need to rest—or so I'm told."
"Who tells you that? Grigor?" I asked, feigning innocence as I swirled the wine in my glass.
He let out a soft chuckle. "Occasionally. But he's learned not to press his luck with unsolicited advice."
"Smart of him. But that begs the question—who keeps you in check?"
Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees, the firelight casting sharp lines across his face. His gaze locked onto mine, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. "Do you volunteer, Klara?"
Heat rose to my cheeks, but I refused to break eye contact, I loved this playful banter too much to let it go. "I think you'd find me a terrible influence."
"Oh, I am certain of it."
"And what's next?" I asked after a beat, my voice more steady than I felt. "You'll tell me you sometimes sleep?"
"Once upon a time," he replied smoothly, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. The flames reflected in his eyes made him look almost devilish. "When I have nothing more… gratifying to do."
The pause was deliberate, the words dipping just enough to blur the line between teasing and something sharper. His gaze lingered on mine, firelight catching faintly in the dark pools of his eyes.
The crimson heat crept up my neck, but I refused to falter. I raised my glass, hoping the movement might steady me. "Careful," I managed, "you almost sound like you're enjoying my company."
"Don't push your luck," he murmured, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed the shadow of a smile.
I laughed softly, noticing his now-empty glass. Without a word, I rose and took it from him, crossing to the cabinet to refill it. The quiet clink of glass filled the room, underscored by the crackle of the fire. It struck me how oddly normal this felt. How am I so relaxed with him?
When I returned and handed him the glass, our fingers brushed briefly, and I caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes before it vanished. Settling back into my chair, I let out a soft sigh.
"How are you getting used to your new home?" he asked, his voice breaking the companionable silence.
"Oh, this?" I said, gesturing around me, "this is dangerously easy to get used to. "I don't think you'll ever be able to get rid of me."
He chuckled softly, the sound low and unguarded. "I'll keep that in mind. And beyond these walls? How are you finding the rest of the base?"
"It's...different," I admitted, choosing my words carefully. "But not bad. There's a rhythm to life here that's somehow... calming."
"Calming," he repeated, his brow lifting slightly. "That's not a word often associated with the Second Army. Do you still find the others so intimidating?"
I hesitated, taking a sip of my wine to stall for time. "I'm getting used to them. But honestly, even if they tried their hardest, they wouldn't be half as intimidating as the person I share a house with. That's definitely taking the edge off."
For a second, something like surprise flickered across his face, followed by a soft laugh—low and dark. "Oh? And here I thought you were getting friendly with Grigor," he replied, feigning innocence.
I laughed, watching as his expression darkened, though his tone remained light. "You seem oddly at ease for someone who claims to find me intimidating," he said after a pause.
"Well, I'll have you know I'm very, very brave," I said, shrugging dramatically. "But you're still winning the 'most menacing presence' award. By a landslide."
"Good," he said, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of teeth. "I'd hate to lose my edge."
The fire crackled softly as we fell into a companionable silence, the kind that didn't beg to be filled. For a while, we simply sat, letting the quiet settle around us.
"Can I ask you something?" I said at last, my voice tentative.
He inclined his head, wordlessly giving me permission to continue.
"Why did you want me to read Alvor's story? I doubt you'd have me read Fjerdan folklore just because it might resonate with me."
"Is that not reason enough?" He smiled but the faint curve of his lips didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze dropped, lingering on the glass in his hand before returning to mine. "I gave you the book because you need to understand what it means to be Grisha in a world that despises us. You made a different choice than Alvor did—the right choice. But it is not without consequences, and I want to ensure those consequences don't make you question your decision."
I frowned, uneasy with the weight of his words. "I already know what it's like to be hated for what I am. I'd argue I know that better than most."
"You know part of it," he said, leaning forward, his tone even but edged with intent. "But you have been hiding. Suppressing your power because you had no other choice. Now, you are stepping into a world where hiding is not an option. A world where hatred doesn't always wear its face openly. Here, it is masked by plots and politics. And you are not like the others. You will be feared. Distrusted. Some might even come to see you as an enemy—just as they see me. I wanted you to understand what happens when power is met with fear, and what becomes of those who let that fear destroy them."
"Like Alvor destroyed himself?" I asked softly.
"He let the world decide what he could be," he replied, his voice sharp with conviction. "And in doing so, he became exactly what they wanted him to be—a monster to frighten children, rather than the leader he could have been."
I hesitated, unsure how to respond. The firelight flickered in his eyes, making them seem impossibly deep, as though they concealed truths I could never fully grasp.
"Is that what you want from me?" I asked finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "To be a leader?"
"I want you to be strong," he said simply. "Whatever that means for you."
The honesty in his answer caught me off guard. I had expected something calculated, something wrapped in his usual cryptic authority. But this felt… real.
"And if I don't want to lead?"
"Then don't." He shrugged, the motion casual, though his gaze remained piercing. "But never let anyone convince you that you are less than what you are."
His conviction stirred something in me—a mix of defiance and something softer, something I wasn't ready to name.
"I had hoped that among other Grisha, I'd finally be understood. Accepted. But it's harder than I imagined." I looked away, my eyes drawn to the fire. "It's hard to see myself as anything but less," I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"I know, Klara. But you will learn, if you let yourself," he said, his voice softer now, patient in a way that made my chest ache. "And I will be by your side."
When I looked back at him, his expression had shifted. There was a gentleness there, fleeting but enough to unsettle me. Something unspoken lingered in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, or maybe something more—but it was gone before I could name it.
He set his glass of wine down, the motion quiet and deliberate, then stood with his usual smooth grace.
"I think it's time we resumed your sparring lessons," he said, his tone suddenly changing.
Sparring. My heart sank and raced at the same time. He doesn't mean… with him, does he? The thought alone was enough to make my skin flush. I bit the inside of my cheek, willing my face to remain neutral. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my face neutral. But my mind couldn't help it—his sharp gaze on me, the way he moved so deliberately in a fight. I could barely stay composed when we were talking. The idea of him being that close, his full attention on me, his hands on me in a fight—just the thought of it was almost enough to make me lose my mind.
"Every afternoon," he continued, his dark eyes flicking up to meet mine, as if he could see the storm of thoughts swirling in my head. His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement shadowing his expression.
I cleared my throat, scrambling to gather my composure. "Every afternoon," I echoed, my voice as steady as I could manage.
"Yes." His hands clasped behind his back with a grace that made it look almost incidental. "But you'll be sparring with Fedyor. My duties in the war room will keep me occupied for the foreseeable future."
The wave of relief that swept over me was so strong it left me momentarily lightheaded. Embarrassment followed swiftly. I hated how obvious it must have been, and his knowing eyes caught the subtle shift in my expression.
"Disappointed?" he asked smoothly, his head tilting just enough to make the question feel more pointed.
"Not at all," I blurted too quickly, then winced at the eagerness in my voice. "I mean… Fedyor's an excellent fighter. I'll learn a lot from him."
His amusement deepened, curling the corner of his lips ever so slightly. "That he is," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I'm curious to hear if Botkin's praise for you holds up. Fedyor won't go easy on you."
I scoffed, crossing my arms. "Unlike Botkin?"
His smile widened slightly, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned toward the door.
"We shall see," he said over his shoulder, leaving me standing there with my slightly bruised pride. "Rest well, Klara."
The following day, Fedyor found me at lunch, grinning as he leaned across the table. "I heard you're my new training partner," he said with a conspiratorial wink. "Meet me in the communal training room in an hour?"
Unfortunately, Eskil and Alisa weren't the only ones to hear him. By the time I arrived, a small cluster of Grisha had gathered in the room, whispering amongst themselves. My stomach churned as I stepped onto the training floor, trying to ignore the glances and murmurs. Come on, you're a good fighter. You won't let them scare you.
Fedyor was already waiting in the center of the room, stretching casually as if he were about to take a morning stroll. His expression brightened as I approached.
"Ready?" he asked, rolling his shoulders.
"As I'll ever be," I said, forcing a steady breath.
"Good," he said, gesturing for me to join him."We'll start light. Get you back into the rhythm."
The onlookers edged closer, their whispers growing louder. I caught a few snippets—things about my being the Darkling's pet project, untested, unworthy of the attention I'd been given.
Focus. I took a deep breath and stepped into the circle with Fedyor.
Fedyor shifted into position, his stance loose but precise, like a coiled spring waiting to snap. I mirrored him, my muscles taut, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. His sharp gaze tracked my every move as we began circling each other. I kept my eyes on his center, trying to stay ahead of whatever he'd throw at me.
I jabbed first, aiming for his ribs. He deflected it easily, the sharp motion of his arm brushing mine aside. Before I could pull back, he stepped forward, crowding my space. I twisted, using the momentum to swing a low kick toward his legs. He sidestepped smoothly, barely a flicker of effort, and countered with a quick palm strike aimed at my shoulder.
The hit came fast—I barely got my arm up in time to block it. Pain jolted down to my elbow, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. He swept a leg toward my knee, and though I staggered back, I stayed upright.
He didn't press forward immediately, he just held his ground and waited, a faint smile tugging at his lips like he was daring me to try again. Fine. I feinted to the left, drawing his attention, before lunging low and aiming a strike at his side. My fist grazed him, not nearly hard enough to make him flinch, and in one smooth move, he caught my wrist.
"Not bad," he said, almost cheerfully, before yanking me forward, using my own momentum against me. My legs buckled as he swept them out from under me, and I hit the mat hard.
I didn't stay down. Twisting beneath him, I lashed out with my free hand, aiming for his face. He caught my arm with startling speed, pinning it to the mat. I growled in frustration, bringing my knee up sharply, but he pressed his weight down, immobilizing me completely.
"Yield?" he asked, barely winded.
"Yield," I spat, glaring at the mat. He released me immediately, stepping back and offering a hand to pull me up. Around us, a few chuckles rippled through the crowd, and my cheeks burned as I caught the mocking glances from a pair of squabbling Inferni.
"You're so quick!" Fedyor said, his tone bright. "Really well done."
I wiped a strand of hair out of my face, narrowing my eyes at the smug looks in the crowd. "Again," I said sharply.
He arched a brow but didn't argue. As soon as he gave the signal, I surged forward. This time, there was no hesitating, no second-guessing. Fedyor's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he adjusted fast, sidestepping my opening strike. I didn't pull back. Instead, I pivoted sharply, aiming a low kick at his shin. He blocked it with his knee, but the impact forced him to shift his weight.
Taking advantage, I feigned another kick, higher this time, drawing his guard up. Then I darted in, driving an elbow toward his ribs. He twisted away, grabbing for my arm to unbalance me again.
Not this time. I stomped down hard on his foot. He hissed softly, his grip slackening just enough for me to twist free and ram my shoulder into his chest.
"Really?" he muttered, somewhere between amused and annoyed, as he stumbled back.
I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed the lapel of his kefta and yanked. The move wasn't exactly elegant, but it worked. Off balance, he stumbled forward, and I dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him.
He hit the mat with a grunt, and I scrambled on top of him, pinning his arms beneath my knees. Pressing my forearm lightly to his throat, I smirked.
"Yield?" I asked, panting but grinning.
Fedyor laughed, shaking his head. "Yield," he said, tapping the mat with exaggerated flair.
I climbed off him, brushing my hands together as I glanced at the crowd. The whispers had shifted—less mocking, more intrigued. A few nods of approval even. I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile.
Fedyor got to his feet, rolling his shoulders with a wry grin. "Not bad," he said. "But you're going to have to try harder if you want to beat me again."
"Oh, don't worry," I replied, my pulse still hammering from the exertion. "I plan to."
I did beat him again that day—three times, in fact. By the time the final match ended, both of us were drenched in sweat and breathing hard, though I couldn't help the small surge of pride that flared as Fedyor grudgingly admitted defeat.
When I stumbled back to the dining hall for dinner, every muscle in my body ached. My arms felt like lead, my legs wobbled with each step, and even the Healers' attentions hadn't fully erased the fatigue settling into my bones.
"I won," I announced to Alisa and Eskil as I sank into my seat, groaning as my legs protested the movement. "Four to three."
Eskil raised an eyebrow, his fork paused mid-air. "You're kidding."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I asked, gesturing to the faint shadows of bruises still lingering on my arms, even after Svetlana's best efforts to heal them.
Alisa beamed, clapping her hands together. "That's incredible!"
"Barely," I muttered, cutting into my food. "It wasn't all matches. We spent most of the afternoon on basic punches and dodges. And endurance training," I added, shuddering at the memory of Fedyor's relentless commands to keep moving. "I think he's secretly trying to kill me."
Eskil snorted, thoroughly amused. "I can't believe you beat him at all. Did you bribe him?"
I tossed a piece of bread crust at him. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Eskil."
But my retort faltered as the doors to the dining hall opened, and the Darkling entered. It was rare for him to join the ranks for dinner, and the change sent a ripple of whispers through the room. He moved with his usual ease, his black kefta catching the low light as he strode to his seat at the head of the table.
Fedyor, who had dragged himself into the hall shortly after me and looked just as exhausted, took the opportunity to approach him.
"…an impressive first session," Fedyor said, loud enough to be heard despite the low hum of conversation in the hall. His tone was even, though the faint flush on his face hadn't entirely faded. "Though I think she enjoyed winning a bit too much."
The Darkling's gaze shifted. It didn't take him long to find me across the room.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced by something unreadable. I held his gaze, letting a slow, self-satisfied smile curve my lips. If he'd doubted me, I was going to make sure he knew just how wrong he'd been.
He didn't look away. Instead, the barest hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to Fedyor, who was watching the exchange with poorly hidden curiosity.
Eskil leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "What's that about?"
Still watching the Darkling, I leaned back in my chair, deliberately relaxed. "I don't think he believed I could do it. Let's just say I'm enjoying watching him realize how wrong he was."
"You're insufferable," Eskil said, shaking his head, though the grin on his face undermined the insult.
Alisa nudged my shoulder, giggling. "I like this version of you. Bold. Confident."
"Just don't let it go to your head," Eskil warned, his grin widening.
"Too late," I shot back, popping a potato into my mouth with exaggerated nonchalance. For the first time all day, I felt entirely satisfied—not just with dinner, but with myself.