In Defense of Alina Starkov (Yes, She's a Teenage Girl, Just Not the One You Wanted)
So we can all read the minds of teenage girls now? We expect them to be passionate, curious, rebellious, and socially conscious, but only in the ways we find palatable. Apparently, if a girl is orphaned, ostracized, and raised in a war-torn country with no family, no stability, and no guarantee of tomorrow, she should still be able to shake off all her trauma responses and become a flawless war heroine overnight. No fear, no resistance, no hesitation, just instant savior mode.
But Alina Starkov doesnât exist to meet your modern-day generalizations of how a teenage girl should behave. Personality isnât one-size-fits-all. Itâs shaped by lived experience. Alina grew up in survival mode...small, quiet, and inconspicuous, because drawing attention could get her hurt or killed. Her so-called passivity isnât laziness, itâs trauma doing its job. And the point of her arc is that she learns to grow beyond it.
What really annoys me is how quickly people dismiss her as âthat whiny girl obsessed with Mal,â as if her emotional dependence is petty or immature. Mal isnât just her childhood friendâheâs the only tether to a life before sainthood was forced onto her. Heâs her anchor in a world that sees her as a weapon. Imagine being told the one person who makes you feel human is a distraction. Imagine being called weak for refusing to sever the last thread that connects you to who you are.
Judging Alina through modern expectations completely misses the point. Her story may be fantasy, but her struggles are metaphors for real emotional truths. Her supposed "privilege" as the Sun Summoner is anything but it's a curse that makes her a target for the Darklingâs manipulation, the royal courtâs exploitation, and the Grishaâs resentment. Her âwhiningâ about the weight of it all isnât entitlement, itâs human. Her arc from self-doubt to self-possession reflects the internal battle of someone carrying a burden no teenager should have to bear.
You see this pattern again with Genya. On the surface, she âhad it easyâ....pretty dresses, royal access, life in the Grand Palace. But her beauty was a weapon she never asked for. Her loyalty turned her into a pawn. And her so-called privilege left her isolated, objectified, and abused. Her trauma, especially the sexual violence she endured deserves every ounce of sympathy.
But it raises a question: why does that sympathy seem to stop with Genya? Why is Alina, who was collared, controlled, and turned into a weapon, so often dragged for being emotionally affected? Their trauma isnât the same and shouldnât be equated, but both girls were exploited, both fought to reclaim their autonomy, and both bore the weight of power they didnât choose. So why is Genya praised when she breaks from her oppressors, but Alina is mocked for taking longer? If one is worthy of empathy, why not the other?
Like Alina, Genyaâs âadvantagesâ were just trauma wrapped in silk. Gilded cages are still cages.
And that's why Alinaâs arc does mirror real teenage resilience. Her journey from hiding her power to choosing to lead is a fantasy translation of universal coming-of-age struggles: insecurity, identity, growing pains. Real teens donât battle shadow monsters or have mythical amplifiers for best friends, but they do experience emotional whiplash when relationships evolve. They do fear abandonment. They do wrestle with expectations they never asked for. The magic doesnât trivialize her pain, it amplifies it. Power doesnât equal privilege. And resilience isnât about being fearless, itâs about surviving in spite of fear.
The critiques of Alinaâs âpassivityâ ignore the fact that itâs the starting point of her arc, not the destination. She hides her power because being different is dangerous. She clings to Mal because heâs her only family, and orphans in Ravka donât get the luxury of being emotionally independent. Her dependence isnât weakness, itâs honest and real. Itâs what trauma looks like.
As for the so called âtrivial complaintsâ? The herring thing is laughable when even battle hardened soldiers like Zoya have food preferences. Alinaâs grief over the stag? Itâs not some vegan protest, itâs a soul deep response to the death of a magical creature she was bonded to. Her distress over Malâs silence? In a world where letters are the only form of communication, her anxiety reflects fear of abandonment, not petulance over not getting a text back. These arenât signs of being out of touch. Theyâre evidence of her being human.
One of the most tone-deaf criticisms is that Alina should be grateful to be Ravkaâs Living Saint. Grateful for what, exactly? Being labeled the countryâs only hope while being collared, controlled, and used as leverage against the one person she loves? Thatâs not destiny, itâs a carefully disguised prison. Her so-called âwhiningâ is fear, plain and raw, the kind that hits when you realize youâve been handed a live grenade and told to smile for the crowd. And real people would crumble under far less.
By Ruin and Rising, Alina does completes a powerful arc: she leads an army "Iâm going to fight", defies the Darkling "I wonât be your pawn", and sacrifices her power "I had wanted to be whole". Her arc from self-erasure to agency proves sheâs resilient, not a âwilted potato.â If this growth from a traumatized orphan to someone who makes these choices is "spineless," what exactly counts as bravery?
Alina isnât Katniss or Inej, and thatâs okay. Her story isnât about being a perfect revolutionary, but about a damaged girl learning to claim agency in a world that wants to use her. If she were male, her fears would be "humanizing" and her flaws "complex." Because sheâs female, theyâre dismissed as "annoying." That says more about our biases than it does about her character.
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Summary: Following a heartbreak with a certain childhood friend, an inferni asked to be stationed somewhere as far away as possibleâto heal, while also serving her country. It's going well, until she realised her feelings were, in fact, requited.
[This is the longfic I had in plans after 'You Made it Easy'. I update once a week/every two weeks on Ao3, but will update here as well.]
CHAPTER 1: SCORCHWITCH
âHow much for the plums?âÂ
Dasha picked up the ripe purple fruit, squishing it in her hands to check for rot. Next to them are various fruits; apples, pears, perfect round peachesâand her mouth waters at the thought of having peach jam to go with her bread. For a country known for its never ending winter, itâs quite surprising how they can grow the amount of fruits that they do. Sheâs not even surprised if illegal grisha labour is involved somehow. Saints know how they treat grishas in Fjerda. In fact, being forcefully indentured might sound better to some than getting killed for simply existing.
The village market was nothing compared to the perfectly arranged stalls they have in Djerholmâbut Dasha finds it endearing; almost whimsical in its own way. She preferred the Ravkan market more, though. The wares were more colourful, especially in the summer and spring. Rows and rows of stalls full of produce, flowers, cloth and the Zemeni spices her brother used to love. Heâd buy something from the spice stalls every time they visited the marketplace and use those to make his famous hot chocolate. Dasha knew it was only delicious because of the spice,but Stepan never got the chance to tell her what the exact ingredient was before he left. She missed his hot chocolate. She missed Stepan.
The sky grumbled. It was such a lovely day this morning, but she can see dark clouds approaching from the distance, sensing a storm coming soon. Just as the snow had stopped falling for the day. Great.
âOh, dear Astrid!â The stall owner greeted her. âGood to see you today. Doing some shopping for the mister?âÂ
Dasha smiled, still not quite used to the identity Zoya had given her. She had been undercover in Fjerda for almost a month now, disguised as a housewife to a leatherworker;a member of the Hringsa. She repeated her new name to herself the first week she arrivedâ Astrid Karlen, Astrid Karlen, Astrid Karlenâ just so she wouldn't be an idiot and say her real name; Dasha Lenkovya, whenever she had to introduce herself. The story she had concocted was that sheâs a girl from a rural Fjerda village looking to marry someone who can take care of herâand live somewhere closer to the city for better opportunities. It was simple, but so far, no one had mentioned anything about it.
It was her request to be sent somewhere far away for workâheartbreak makes you do weird thingsâbut she didn't expect Zoya to assign her somewhere this  far.
âYes,â she replied, âalthough Iâm not sure I will get anything else done today with a storm around the corner.â
She turned to look at the sky, and the lady at the stall followed her gaze. Her mouth twisted downwards, and Dasha grinned. Her fruit stall seems wonky and there was nothing to cover its wares and owner from the torrent of bad weather Fjerda has been experiencing lately,so the lady will have to close shop sooner than she planned.
âDjel must be angry.â She states, as her eyes scanned through her unsold produce. âYou know what? Any other fruit you want, Iâll give it to you for half the price. At least Iâm getting something instead of leaving them to rot .â
Dasha laughed and picked herself a variety of colourful fruits; apples, plums, peaches, and pearsâsome for dinner, some for pies, some for the jams she plans to make. She reached into her coin purse for the payment, when she overheard two ladies in her periphery sounding distressed.
âItâs just a precaution,Clara.â Â
She arranged the produce neatly in her netted bagâtaking her time, focusing her attention on what the ladies were saying. If thereâs anything Zoya had taught her, itâs that even gossip from the townspeople can offer valuable information. She just had to be diligent enough to sift through and separate idle talk from intel.
âThey probably arrested him,because you knowâheâs not actually the upstanding civilian you think he is.â A pause. âWhen they find out heâs done nothing wrong,they will release him.âÂ
âThatâs easy for you to say. Heâs my brother!â
Hmm , so people have been missing . She had heard the same words from different people over the course of two weeks now.
She hurried down the gravel away from the market square, not wanting to be caught out there by any authorities, or worse, Druskelle. Sure, the Druskelle rarely patrols this far down from Djerholm, but with what had been happening latelyâthe miracles blooming here and there in what she was guessing was a part of Nina Zenikâs planâitâs normal to be scared.
Her role in Fjerda is to be a dormant agent, to be used only to send messages or news to Ravka. She hasnât stumbled into anything that requires active work yet, so to her this kind of feels like going on a vacation. Except she has to pretend that sheâs happily living with the man of her dreams who she had only known for a month now. Itâs already hard enough for her to form bonds, but Zoya had to pair her with someone as ill-tempered as Henrik Beck, who reminds her of the boys who pull on your pigtails just for the fun of it.Â
It also took her a while to get used to the ways of Fjerdan women, to be obedient and prude, or in her case seem like it, but other than that, things were going swimmingly. Well, sometimes she wishes the weather was less harsh on her skinâher nighttime routine consists of slathering herself with animal grease so she wouldn't shrivel up like a prune.
She stopped by a house a little further left to the market square to pay its tenant a visit. It took her three knocks before a boy a little younger than her answers, his face a welcoming olive against the harsh colour of snow.
âDasha,â Adya Yul-Naran whispered as he ushered her into his home. His assigned home. Dasha had known Adyaâs sister Zaya since she was a fresh-faced student, still struggling to control her abilities in Baghraâs hut. They have been close enough for her to share some of her secrets, and for Zaya to ask her to take care of her brother as a favour. Dasha treated Adya like her own brother already, so she was planning on doing that, anyway.
âItâs Astrid, Oswin Westegaard. Common Fjerdan name for common Fjerdans, remember?â She reminded Adya, sitting herself in his comfy armchair before he even had the chance to extend the invitation to sit. She placed her bag of fruits by the side of the chair, sinking into the chair like it was made for her.
âAye, Astrid, I daresay you got that aright. Please, make yourself at home. Fjerdan hospitality,â Adya mimicked as he poured her a steaming cup of tea. âTo what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?â
Dasha laughs, threatening to hurl one of his many throw pillows at him.
âJust curious as to how my charge is doing. That, and Iâm seeking refuge from that nightmare outside,â she replied as she took a sip from her cup.Â
Adya crossed over her to pull the curtains down, so that they could talk away from prying eyes.
âYou know how those Fjerdan are,Dash. You canât just visit the home of unmarried men when you have that six feet hunk of a husband to return to.âÂ
Dashaâs mouth hung open. âAdya, are you lusting over my fake husband?â She asked, a grin spreading on her face.
âPlease.â Adya rolled his eyes. âI have better taste. Though I have to admit, Zoya picked a fine one for you.â
Dasha giggled at his admission, though she canât say she had the chance to look at Henrik thoroughly enough to agree.
They exchanged a couple of pieces of information regarding the mission before Adya slapped his knees and stood, claiming, âYou best get going, Dash. That storm cloud looks like itâs going to chase us with a cane,â and Dasha agreed as soon as she saw how close it was. She packed her stuff and rushed out of his doors hurriedly lest she got caught in the storm.
She manages to return just as the sky starts sprinkling its first wave of rain. The house she lives in is situated in KvĂvik, a quaint village further east from Djerholm, with most of its building still made up of timberâa stark contrast to the brick and concrete Djerholm is packed in. It was near enough to the capital for her weekly visit, but not that near that it became a common patrol route for Druskelle.Â
Bag hanging from her elbow, she unlatched the door to the small snow cabin she had been living in the past month. Well, to Fjerdans, itâs just a normal house. She pushed her wet hair away from her forehead as she entered. The light from outside shone a path from the front door to a small dining table and a modest kitchen Dasha had helped set up.
She hung her coat on the hook by the door, shook the dirt and snow off her boots before removing them. Heâs not home yet. Her shoulders sag in relief, though she doesnât know why she was so tense to begin with.Â
Dasha hummed a Ravkan lullaby as she emptied the fruits from her bag to a basin full of water so she could rinse them. She watched as they bobbed up and down, thinking about the summer festivals in Ravka, then realised that her teeth were chattering.Â
Changing to something dry, a modest dress that Fjerdan women often wear, she wrapped herself with the blanket she had brought with her from Ravkaâblue fleece embroidered with gold starsâand approached the fireplace. Her fingers were numb as she struck her flint to conjure a small kindling of flame to start a fire. Itâs probably wiser to use the match propped on the stool to the side of the fireplace, but her hands were too shaky to even attempt to strike a match.
She sits there for a while and watches as the flame grows, the dancing of fire taking her back to the nights spent with an old friend. Someone she probably should try to forget by now, the reason she was here to begin with. She tried to tear her eyes away from the fire,but the rhythmic movement was too hypnotisingâher mind too quiet.Â
âI find fire mesmerising,donât you?â Nikolai told her one night, and she agreed. He took a swig out of an amber bottle and continued, âYellow and orange, like autumn leaves. The sway of them almost looks musical, dancing and playing like the silk ribbons they sell in Noyvi Zem.â She listened to the poetry pouring out of his lips, remembering how the subject of it illuminates his facial features. If she was drunk enough, she would have kissed him.
A loud creak startled her out of thought. She looked to the door, tense, hand on her flint, to find out it was Henrik just returning from work. Saints, how late is it? When the outside wind from the open door crept in, she scoots nearer to the fire to find out it had burned out to a pile of ash on the hearth.
Henrik dropped his tool belt on the dining table, scowling.
âStupid girl, why didnât you start the fire?âÂ
Dasha cringed at the scornful tone that came out of his mouthâshe does not like this man, and it doesnât matter if Zoya says that heâs helpful towards the cause.Â
Standing up to grab some more firewood, she replied, curtly, âI did, but got distracted .âÂ
âI shouldâve asked the Stormwitch for more competent help.â Henrik dashed past her to the woodrack before she did.
Her hands trembled, movement so minute that most would just assume it was out of cold or nerves. Then he swiped the matches off the stool and took one out to restart the fire. What would Zoya do if she found out that Dasha had singed their valuable intelâs eyebrows off? She could do it right nowâcould enlarge the sparks from the matches to make it big enough to reach his face. She chose not to, but thereâs a surprising comfort in knowing that she can.
âFirst of all,â Dasha crosses her arms, âIâm not here to be the help.â
Henrik grunts, more focused on feeding the fire so that it gets big enough to warm the entire house instead of just himself.
âIâm here for my country. And secondlyââ she flicks her hands, making the flames roar, barely licking the cuffs of his coat. ââhave you forgotten that you were talking to an Inferni?â
The corners of her mouth rose in a smirk, satisfied as she made him tumble back on the heel of his feet.Â
He stood up to make himself dinner, rubbing the charred cuff at his wrists, and Dasha heard him call her something under his breath.
â Scorchwitch .â
***
Dinner was frugal, butter smeared toast and smoked deer meatâthough Dasha wished she had jam to go with her bread. She added that to her mental list as she grabbed a couple of plums to snack on as she wrote Zoya a message regarding the stuff that was happening in the market square earlier. Reports of missing people, some saying that they were taken to the Ice Court for trial.
She doesnât think that the missing people were taken there, because the Ice Court isâaccording to the Fjerdanâa place for people who were considered the bottom of the barrel. So, Zoya, the infamous Stormwitch, would definitely count as the average barrel dweller. Maybe she would be considered one, too. Sheâs pretty confident that she could wield her ability well enough to annihilate an entire town. If she tries.
Dasha shook her head, once again distracted by her weird musings. This is why Nikolai called her a âspace cadetâ, which is quite a fitting nickname for her in general. Though she knows it was mostly because her head was always in the cloudsâand not because of her love for the stars and moon that adorned the night sky.
She finishes the letter complaining about Henrik,as usualâbless Zoya for putting up with herâand folded it neatly into an envelope. Sheâll ask someone from the network to send it out tomorrow, but today she just wants to relax and not have to think of anything else.
With the last bite of her plums, Dasha stood up and walked to the washbasin to splash her face clean before going to sleep. She looks into the mirror and inhales sharplyâa little alarmed at the person staring at her in the mirror. Oh, she whispered to herself. She forgot that Genya had tailored her face to fit the usual Fjerdan features. Itâll take a while for her to get used to the new face. Blue eyes, the bridge of her nose a little too high that it looks weird if she were to have it with her original face. And Saints , her hair. She preferred her auburn curls much more than the limp blonde she had to settle with. What would Nikolai say if he were to see her now?
She tucked herself into her bed, her body weary. She hasnât used much of her power lately, and the dark circles under her eyes were getting too prominent. Today was the first time in almost two weeks that she had even had a reason to use them. And one of them was out of spite. She smiledâGenya would be proud of her. No more being careless, though. Itâs far too dangerous to display even the tiniest hint of Grisha abilities, even this far away from Djerholm. Just like Ravka has the Hringsa everywhere in Fjerda as eyes, so does Jarl Brum. Itâs hard to trust anyone these days.
***
âDash!â
Dasha jolted up from her cot, startled. She took a moment to process her surroundings, using her flames to disperse the darkness she woke up to. Droplets of rain pitter pattered the roof of the tent they had been living in the past months, and Dasha shivered as a gust of wind blew into the slight opening of hers.
Who was calling her? She peeked out, dimming her fire so she wouldnât leave soot on the walls of the tent. Her eyes widened. Several steps north of their camp, before the trees lining the Sikurzoi, a pyre was set up. Smoke haze her vision, but she can see that something was propped up on the pyre, and the burnt smell of it was so overpowering that her eyes teared up. She looked aroundâassessing her surroundings for dangerâand found that the camp was eerily empty, almost like a mass exodus had happened in the span of one night. When she was sure that nothing would sneak up on her, she raised her hands to diminish the burning pyre, but stumbled when she heard someone calling her. From the pyre. âDashaâŠâ the personâor rather, creatureâcroaked, burnt hands outstretched towards her. The voice seemed oddly familiar, and fear tingled up her spine. As the smoke started clearing, she noticed something new that she had missed before. It had wings. And talons. Its eyes as black as the charred wood that was used to prop up its body. Itâsâ
Dashaâs eyes shot open, sweat beading down her forehead. That was the third nightmare she had had in two weeks. She was at the campsite in all of them, reliving the horrors of the slaughter her mind refuses to let go. This was the first time Nikolai was in it. As the demon. She was pretty sure that when Nikolaiâs creature first visited her several moons ago; she was not that scared. So why was she dreaming of it?
Clank!
Dashaâs back straightened, startled. The damn neighbourâs cat is always running into things at night. She was about to return to sleep when she heard the soft pit-pat of footsteps on snowy grounds. Whoâs up this late ? She rises and knelt on her bed to take a peek outside. Darkness wouldâve cloaked the neighbourhood had it not been for the moonlight providing a wash of dim light against white snow. A figure silhouetted against the walls of the shed to the left of the house. She considered telling Henrik to come and see before another figure joined the first. She wanted to conjure her flames to see the faces of the figure, but decide against it. Should she tell Henrik about this? Maybe in the morning when she feels fresher to deal with his sour self.Â
She pressed her ear closer to the frosted glass of her window to try to catch a glimpse of what sort of dealings were going on in the dead of night. The winds were not helping her,at all, but she managed to catch one word that gives her an idea of who one of the figures is.
little reminder that kaz renamed the emerald palace âthe silver sixâ and has a tunnel to wespers house, cuz yâknow heâs a big scary gang leader.
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â Have you watched any of Shadow and Bone Season 2 yet? Who is your favorite Grishaverse character? I was going to start on Friday, but we havenât had the chance to yet. (Donât spoil me!) I am excited to watch it thoughâI really loved Seige and Storm, and Nikolai is my favorite #Grishaverase character. I am excited to see him brought to life! â HASHTAGS // #bookstack #leighbardugo #shelfiesunday #stacksaturday #sixofcrows #kingofscars #thedarkling #kazbrekker #nikolailantsov #alinastarkov #ShadowAndBone #Grishaverse #Netflix #Bookstagram #ReadingCommunity #homelibrary #fantasybooks #readingnook #bookish #fiercereads https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp_DairSXQw/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=