#mwehe

The Vy, a week’s ride from Os Alta.

8 weeks later. 

Alina’s fingers found purchase on the spy-glass clutched in her fingers. She rode side-saddle on a calm west-Ravkan mare of the fairest white, her kefta’s skirts tumbling down her legs in a heap of green satin and fox-fur. Her kefta’s top had been closed at the throat and buttoned up against the freezing chill. Her white hair was done up in a braided chignon. Woven through it were strands of gold and green ribbon. She wore a crown of hammered gold fashioned in the style of Morozova’s antlers. A gift for Nikolai to undo when he reached her.

At her side, Olga checked her rifle. The line down her cheek had left a scar, holy anointed. She dipped her head in the presence of the Sankta. Alina’s gloved finger touched her cheek, and she raised a brow. 

“News?”

“They are headed southwards, Moya Tsaritsa.” Olga murmured. Soon, the banners of the double-eagle and fox in splendour would paint the horizon in swathes of babe’s blue and emerald green. With them, at their helm, would be the true king. An open rebellion against the Lantsov pretender who’d been crowned by the Apparat had begun. Starting originally in the eastern reaches, past Os Alta, the peasantry had thrown down their plows and picked up their scythes. They prayed to their saints, begging for an end to the hunger that sickened their stomachs; robbed their cradles and meager coffers. It had been against the new king’s grain quotas, impossible to achieve even in times of peace, and the mood had become a tangible one of rage. When the militia was brought in to quell the uprising, the people lashed out, taking over the grain stores and the city’s Duma, press-house and inn. From there, they used the printing press of the press-house and a learned nobleman held at musket-point, to write an edict of the uprising. It demanded that Nikolai Lantsov, the one true Ravkan king, end centuries of Serfdom, remove the threats of Shu Han and Fjerda, and most amazingly, overturn the choke-hold the nobility had on the land.

Nikolai himself had written these peasants, and while Vasily or his father would have sent more men to crush the uprising - Nikolai acknowledged and allowed it to continue. He congratulated the peasantry on fighting the corruption of their pretender king, and asked them to keep him in their prayers.

Murmurs of the Fox-Saint, the King of Scars, had swept the country already. From inn to ale-house and banyan, the murmurs of King Nikolai returning had swallowed Ravka whole. The Fox Saint and the Sun Saint were said to join together at the center of the Vy and relieve Ravka of the Darkling and Lantsov Pretender. Unto that, their reign would be one of peace and prosperity. Already, a new design of a royal banner was beginning to spread through the villages and smaller towns - an emerald green backing of a red fox under a sunburst. The fox wore a crown. Some of the pieces added the firebird above the sunburst, wings aloft in a baptism of fire that would cleanse the land and air.

Alina herself had created that idea. The new maps she was making as part of her saintly progress were tactical, a way of observing the Darkling’s weak points. As they moved along the Vy, Alina was starkly reminded of how it had been a scant 4 years ago, when she was merely 16. She had been a girl then, unaccustomed to the mantle of Sainthood. The Apparat and White cathedral had marked her 17th name-day with the mantle being a crushing one. Then, her 2 year exile and slumber had forced her to become a woman. Her childishness of girlhood burned in the fire she swore to her followers had purged her of sin, and whitened her hair for eternity. In truth, her hair was going to stay white perhaps centuries more.  

She adjusted the reins of her mare, pulled close to Tamar as the procession began again. The Kefta Alina wore today, while green, would soon be changed to gold as they moved closer to the lands around Os Alta. The Duchy of Udova had sent their to-be Duchess a cape of ermine-fur and purple velvet, which she knew was safely packed into a trunk. The traditional offerings of bread and salt had passed her lips many a time as they’d picked their way north. While old maps of Ravka noted the Vy as being from Kiribirsk to Os Alta, a second wing of the Vy, known as the Yuzhnyy, ran from Dva Stolba to Os Alta, passing Keramzin as the major source of trade and travel for the southern expanse of Ravka.

The crossroads of the two Vy’s was directly west of Os Alta by a good thirty miles. Balakariev loomed before the procession, and Alina raised her hand. They halted, and Alina looked over her shoulder to regard the followers. Entire villages had vacated to follow their savior, and Alina tilted her head to the side to count the number of women, children, and older men. Normally, all of them wouldn’t be the kind to fight a war against the Darkling, but they’d followed her. The Apparat’s claws were in the hand of the Lantsov Pretender. His Soldat sol were hers to command. Indeed, Alina noted their brown robes emblazoned with her sunburst. She nodded to them, drew a line with her pinky finger.

Be covert. Be on the outlook for spies. 

The weeks of training, a scant eight, had turned them from a poor force to a crack fighting team that rivaled any of the top First Army regiments. The 22nd would be their only superior. Alina couldn’t wait to show them off to Nikolai. In those eight weeks, she and her soldiers had developed a sign language of finger symbols and codes that showed who was foe or friend. Her raised hand to pause the procession had in of itself been a symbol - keep the flock together. Amongst her followers, plain-clothes Soldats were herding the faithful into a tighter group.

Their leader, Vladim Ozwal reined in his steed and bowed his head, his hand clenched to his chest.

“Sankta, What do you require?”

“Look out for spies. Disperse some of your men to the town to ensure there are no threats. Send a rider to-” Alina removed her crown and melted one of the antler fronds off it. She tied the bit’s slender tip off with a green hair-ribbon and handed it to Vladim. “-to give this to the Fox-Saint and tell him that I will be awaiting him in the inn’s bed-room.”

Vladim bowed his head, splayed his fingers out and wheeled his horse. Her commands were barked out without a word spoken. The sign-language provided the perfect covert operative in case the Darkling’s spies had slipped amongst her faithful. Alina let a smile touch her lips, and urged her horse forward.

The procession wound its way down the hill and spilled into the town. Alina, reining in her horse, accepted glasses of tea, thick slices black bread and salt. The flour stores were starkly low, but someone had still offered up the loaf to feed her. Another, sadder smile reached her face. She let the sunlight fill the town in thanks, and swung off her horse. Her boots hit the cobblestones with a welcome thud and she reached for Olga’s arm. Even though she was at full strength, her legs wobbled a little.

“Yes, Sankta?”

“Get me the mayor.” 

Olga nodded, and disappeared into the crowd. The town square of Balakariev was war torn and attempting to present as anything but. It succeeded remarkably. Scrappy blue flags painted with crude gold suns waved from the windows, and the double-headed eagle flapped overhead in the town square. The mayor, a major civil servant of Nikolai’s father’s generation came over with Olga on his arm. The two of them were markedly similar, and Olga bowed deeply. 

“My grandfather, Mayor Ivan Alexandrevich of Balakariev is delighted to offer you the use of his town, Sankta Sol.” Olga spoke for her elder, and he pinched her thin cheek, chuckling. “Indeed, Sankta,” He bowed deeply, and spread his arms. “I wish for you to take my home. We have many rooms-”

Alina knew refusing an offer would be sin, but she held up her hand before the mayor could worsen the bulging vein in his temple. “Your offer is most appreciated, good sir, However might I suggest you offer that room to his majesty Prince Nikolai and his General of First Army, Dominik Vertov? I live amongst my flock.” Alina’s voice softened and she folded her hands behind her back. “I am not one much suited for living amongst four walls these days, however-” She needed to offer an olive branch.

“I would be more than happy to dine with you and your esteemed family, sir.”

Ivan’s eyes widened in joy and he kissed Alina’s hand profusely. She sighed inwardly and Olga giggled, mouthing; he’s old fashioned, forgive him, Moya Sankta.

She smiled, and waved her free hand. Once her other hand was free of Ivan’s lips - which reminded her faintly of Vasily’s - Alina found herself swept into a whirlwind tour of the town. As she passed houses, market-squares and fountains, people stopped in their work and fell to their knees. Alina regarded them all coolly and let the light from a passing lantern flare in a sunburst for a moment - a sign of good fortune. 

It was as they were walking amongst the town’s outskirts that Alina’s eyes settled on the town’s church and the line of homeless flowing out from the door. She gathered her skirts, and moved closer to the Mayor. 

“Are there nuns here?”

“Indeed, Sankta. Mainly followers of the Order of Sankta Anastasia.”

Alina nodded. “And what do they line up for?”

“Pottage and tea, Sankta,” Olga’s fingers edged to her pistol. If there was anywhere for the Darkling’s spies, in the former sniper’s eyes, it was here. Alina shot her a glare. Not Here. The hand stilled, and moved back to its place at Olga’s belt. 

“May I be allowed to see them? To offer blessings?”

The mayor’s eyes widened. “Y-you would?”

“Is it not good faith to give unto those who are suffering?” Alina asked, quoting from the Istorii Sankt’ya. 

The Mayor’s eyes almost bulged out of his head as Alina swept off in a trail of skirts, dust, and the smell of unwashed bodies. Weeks amongst her followers, who while suffering from the ruins of starvation, still possessed homes and incomes, no matter how pitiful. These people were devoid of anything. She came up to the simple wooden doors and knocked on them. Gasps went up from the congregation. 

“Is there a reason this isn’t open?” She asked a woman waiting in the queue who held a babe to her chest. The little thing was hollow-eyed with hunger, and the woman wasn’t much older than her twenty years. 

“The Head Sister says they have no pottage to give.”

“Nonsense.” Alina scoffed, refusing to think clearly. She went to rap her fist against the door again, and then her head twisted back as a bugle call rang through the air. The roar of hoofbeats was growing louder with every passing moment, and she stepped down the stairs of the church in shock as the full swell of First Army’s 28 regiments - cavalry and infantry - streamed into the town. At their head was Nikolai, his kepi was bent a little, the uniform he wore covered in smuts from riding hard for evident weeks. He swiveled in the saddle and dismounted from his steed with the speed of a seasoned soldier. 

He was running to her. Alina’s heart stuttered in her chest and she tore up the street to him, not caring for the dust or how her hair looked or her skirts. She threw her arms wide, and ran straight into Nikolai’s waiting grasp. The crushing feeling of the collision with him knocked the air from her lungs, and she gasped in hysteria as he spun her around.

“Alina!” He cried. “We didn’t see your banners! I thought you were still back at Keramzin!” He gasped. 

“We did a lot of hard travel over the past weeks.” Alina breathed. 

Tears were pouring down her cheeks, and she cupped his face in her hands. She smiled, feeling the ghost of stubble against her palm. He’d not been shaving. The exhaustion and burned skin of his face gave her an estimate of the amount of land and time he’d covered from Chernast to Balakariev. Judging by the regiments he’d gathered, he’d amassed quite a mass of men and munitions. There was another bugle blast, and the artillery surged into the town. At the head of the crush of soldiers was Dominik, yelling orders to men and women. Isaak was at his side, snapping at the non-coms to get the lower ranks into file and dig latrines for the massive tent-city that was about to come into existence.

She watched Ivan and Olga head back to the town square to welcome the First Army to their humble town, and she turned her gaze back to the waiting crowd. Nikolai looked up, and his eyes widened at the gathered group. He sniffed, noted the closed blue doors of the church and fished in his pocket for his pocket-watch. Flipping it open, he noted the time - a little after the noon bell.

“Why’re they not open? It’s вторник.”

“Apparently the head sister has no pottage to give.”

Nikolai scoffed. “Let’s see about that.” He slipped his arm through Alina’s and the two of them moved back to the church. Knocking on the massive door, silence emanated back. He made a face. “Not even a priest. Hmm.”

His fingers shifted through his pockets and he pulled out a pair of lockpicks. Bending over, he began to pick the lock while the waiting crowd shifted from foot to foot and fidget. They were evidently used to such depravity as waiting with the patience of divinity. This was evidently not something remiss to them.

With a satisfying click, the lock gave and Nikolai pushed the doors open. He stepped in, and something under-foot twinged. He stopped cold, and held up his hand. 

“Tripwire.”

Alina’s eyes widened as Nikolai dropped to his knees and blindly touched the wire in front of him. With the slightest touch of his finger, he felt the tension in the wire and grimaced.

“Get them into the square.” He could feel the whole church under him being boobytrapped with enough fabrikator-explosive to level the church. He rose to his foot, and was almost free of the church’s doors when one of the congregants closest to him leaped forward. Nikolai moved too slow to catch the man’s fall, and both fell to the ground, right on the wire.

Alina screamed as the explosion rippled outward. What she felt next was the feeling of being lifted off her feet and thrown into the air. Looking down, she saw black wings emerging from Nikolai’s back and the sight of the Merzost flowing over his wounded skin to heal the tissue.

She flew backwards, threw a glass-plated window, and the whole world spiraled into darkness.

When Alina came to, she found herself lying on a cot in what was certainly the mayor’s wife’s bedchamber. She coughed, the stench of plaster and crud in her lungs. She hacked, wheezed, and struggled upright. Steady hands pushed her down, and she fought back wildly, clawing at the air.

“Calm down! Alina, it’s me!” 

Alina’s eyes flew open properly and she settled on Nikolai’s hands on her shoulders. She stopped fighting and stared up at him in shock. Her ears were ringing, blood dripped from her nose. She sneezed, and then her stomach roiled.

“Here.” Nikolai shoved a china basin under her chin and she expelled her stomach contents, all while he pulled back her hair. “Shh. it’ll be alright.” His wings were still looming out from behind his back. She wondered if they were a permanent fixture.

“T-the tripwire?” She wheezed. Nikolai sighed.

“A booby trap. I don’t think whoever did it accounted for the unhoused needing their food-stores of the day.” He noted her wide eyes and rushed to soothe her. “We’ve fed them and made sure they have space in the camp to be tended to and live in. No one died.”

“Except for the man who pushed you onto the wire.” Alina’s voice dropped. She wanted to maim the man, to blind him with her holy light and make him live as an example of what it meant to harm the man she loved.

“He was desperate, Alina.” Nikolai murmured. “I believe he merely panicked.” 

“Or he tried to kill you.” She spat. 

“That is for the saints to determine, not us.” He murmured against her hair. She snorted, and growled;

“I am a saint. I say he meant to kill you.”

“If it soothes you, no one else was hurt. The explosion was a foolish, home-made attempt. I don’t even know if they meant to kill us or anyone. It explains the lack of a priest and nuns. That is unusual. Maybe they retreated to the nunnery for the summer.”

“And left those people to starve?” She whispered.

“People are unkind.” He examined the disaster of her braided coiffure and sighed. Reaching over, he grabbed her brush and began to run the bristles through the silvery strands. The ribbons were carefully unwound and removed, and as he ran the brush through her curls, Alina realized no one since Genya had done her hair. She’d stuck it in a braid during her exiles and in hiding, and now, she was here, in the mayor of Balakariev’s wife’s bedroom, getting her hair brushed by Nikolai Lantsov.

Her stomach churned and she groaned.

“Tell me it was something I ate.” 

“Not sure on that.” He reached for a silver plate and held up an apple slice. “Here. this’ll help settle your stomach.”

“How? It’s Summer.”

“A little help from the Little Palace greenhouses.”

Alina breathed. 

“The Darkling rules over the Little Palace.”

“He’s neglectful of one of the tenets of building relations with Otkazat’kya. Those in positions even as lowly as gardeners appreciate basic respect and decency. I’ve known the gardeners of both palaces since I could walk.” He slipped the slice between her open lips. She bit down and the tart sweetness caused tears to bud in her eyes.

“Have your soldiers ravaged the town’s stores?” She blinked at him. He rolled his eyes. “I am but a man, Alina. Not even I as king can cease a marauding army from painting the town red.” 

She laughed and then groaned again. 

“No more jokes, you ass.”

He snickered, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I thought Grisha don’t get sick.”

“We don’t, but getting thrown through a window does leave more wounds than let on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I think of ways to dispose of my enemies.” 

“Your most powerful, most dangerous enemies,”

He winked, and traced a line down her cheek. “Mmm.” A dangerous glint entered his eyes and she sighed fondly. Fisting her fingers in his hair, she set the basin aside, and dragged him down into a deep kiss.

His tongue snuck out, pleading entrance, and she let him in without a moment’s hesitation. They’d slept together before this, starting from that night in Os Alta after he’d announced their engagement. It had been a hot night filled with sweaty sheets and sinful words that would burn lesser couples. 

This, however, was different. The kisses from Nikolai’s lips were hungrier, desperate. The monster within him was keening for her light, unafraid of it. She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the flex of muscle under her palm, and grinned.

“Mind taking that shirt off?”

“Only if I get to-” His lip brushed her earlobe and murmured; “Undress you.”

“Do the wings stay present?”

“Oh, yes. And the claws.” He tore off his gloves with his teeth and she gasped at the sight of his talons, imagining those onyx shards in her thighs.

“Bring it on, Moi Tsarsevich.” She purred, dragging him down with her. He hissed, his inky fangs finding purchase in the tender flesh of her neck. He sucked at the skin, leaving a shining, wet and reddened hickey. 

“That’s Moi Tsar, Sankta.” He growled. “And if you’re not good, I’ll have you begging for me to break you in half.”

“Oh, will you?” Alina teased, slipping a hand under his shirt, watching his eyes darken with that primal hunger. “Remind me, what did you say to me after my awakening?” She purred.

“‘I’ll not let you from my bed, even if you threaten to burn me to a pile of ash.’” Nikolai quoted, nipping her ear-tip with his teeth. 

“And are we staying true to that?” She examined the time on his pocket watch. “Or are you going to at least let me perform my services to my flock?”

Nikolai growled. “I much prefer your services here.”

Alina rolled her eyes and stroked his cheek.

“Then, you might want to get on your knees, Nikolasha.” Her grin turned devilish. 

“And start praying to your glorious Sankta to let you confess.”

The look he gave her was so hungry, so wanting, that Alina purred and shoved him back into the bed. To any listening maid or soldier, the noise the two made would send even the heartiest souls scampering for their prayer books, ears burning. The pent-up wanting of two years of no intimacy (they’d never figured out how to do it through the tether even while awake), made them into wild beasts that raked clawed hands across one another’s flesh and their releases to be violent, sweat-soaked and filled with the guttural cries of two people so deeply hungry for the other that the world and heavens would buckle under them.

As Alina snuggled into Nikolai’s arms, he kissed her soft hair and idly braided it under his fingers. At long last, the monster within him settled, and he splayed his wings out to cocoon them both in its inky embrace. She sleepily pressed her ring-clad hand to his chest and she nuzzled into his pec, murmuring something.

“What was that?” He yawned sleepily.

“I love you.”

Nikolai’s fingers stilled in braiding her hair, and a smile split his face in two. 

“You know, you’ve never said that to me once.”

She reached for a pillow to hit him with, but the wing encircling her trapped her movements. He chuckled at her glare. “Don’t think of burning me. Not after that sinful tongue of mine-”

Alina buried her face in her hands and groaned. “There’s people listening!”

“Let them. You deserve to be worshiped.” He winked at her angry look and ran a thumb down her cheek. “And, you know you loved it.” 

His lips pressed feathery kisses to the tip of her nose, her eyelids and lips in quick succession, like tiny star bursts on the canvas of her face. She giggled, and snuggled closer to him. “Don’t…” she yawned. “Let go of me.”

“No such chance, Moya Sol.”

She smiled, and threw an arm over his stomach, then let out a loud snore and nestled closer. Nikolai stifled a laugh and rolled onto his side, bringing her closer to him so they could spoon. He kissed her neck and nestled his face into the crook of it. 

They both slept easy and for a long, long time. When they woke, a whole day had passed. With their rising, came plans to formulate an attack against the Darkling. However, these were not the half-baked plans of Nikolai and Alina in the attack on the Grand Palace 4 summers ago, but a plan that would work without fail, having no gaps for which the Darkling to poke his fingers into.

It would be perfect, it would work, and no more casualties than the ones naming towns from Os Alta to the Fold would be added. No more men would be cut down by the Volcra, no more women and children made widows and fatherless. 

The Sun Saint had her fox, and the Fox had his queen once more with him. All was right in the world, and all would be so. Even if things went poorly - which they would not - all would be well, and the hell of the Darkling’s rule would end not with a whimper, but a bang.

They would meet him where all of it began - at the Making of the Heart of the World, and from there, send the bastard son of a bitch back to where he truly belonged - hell. And with him would go all of his monstrous kith and kin.