#tidemaker

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ KETTERDAM WAS A CITY of shadows, where secrets were currency, and trust was a commodity too expensive for most. It was a city where survival meant hardening yourself against the world, and Kaz Brekker had mastered the art. But then you came along, slipping into the life of the Crows like a drop of water into the canals, altering the tides.

the city of endless shadows and sharp-edged deals, where the air was thick with smoke and greed, where people like you—soft-hearted, gentle-spirited—were swallowed whole. But you weren’t soft. Not anymore. The Little Palace had seen to that, had hardened you, shaped you into something more formidable, more dangerous. But still, Ketterdam wasn’t your home.

Kaz had found you in an alley, drenched and shivering, your Tidemaker powers slipping through your fingers like the rain that pooled at your feet. The darkness had been closing in, but Kaz had been there—his cane tapping against the cobblestones, his eyes assessing, calculating. You were powerful, that much was clear, and he was nothing if not opportunistic. He offered you a deal: safety from the Darkling in exchange for your skills. You had nothing left to lose, so you agreed.

For years now, you had been a Crow, woven into the fabric of Kaz Brekker’s schemes. You fought alongside him and saved his life and those of the other Crows more times than you could count. You weren’t made for the streets, but you had carved out a place for yourself, proving your worth time and time again.

But Kaz knew. He saw the way your eyes lingered on the few patches of sky visible between the buildings, the way you paused by the canals, longing for something more than this grimy, crime-ridden city. He noticed the way you touched your mother’s locket absentmindedly when you thought no one was watching, the way you hummed songs from Ravka when the world was quiet. Kaz noticed everything about you, and that was the problem.

Kaz Brekker didn’t have weaknesses. Not until you.

Kaz never allowed himself the luxury of weakness. He’d seen what it did to people, how it turned them into targets, how it left them broken. But you...you were different. You weren’t just another piece on his board, another tool to be used and discarded. You had become something more—something dangerous. You had become his weakness.

It infuriated him, how much he cared. He didn’t like it—this vulnerability that gnawed at him, this fear that kept him awake at night, worrying about your safety. He didn’t want to see you hurt, didn’t want to see the darkness of Ketterdam taint you, didn’t want to see tears in your eyes. His world was full of darkness, and he couldn’t bear the thought of you being dragged into it.

He hated how his heart stuttered whenever you smiled at him, the way his chest tightened when you frowned. Kaz wasn’t meant to feel these things—he had buried those emotions long ago, along with the boy he used to be. But you had brought them back, and it made him weak. It made him vulnerable.

Kaz Brekker didn’t do attachments. Attachment made him vulnerable, and vulnerability was something he couldn’t afford, not in this city, not with his enemies constantly watching, waiting for a single moment of weakness to strike.

And it didn’t take long for them to figure it out.

The first threat came in the form of a letter, slipped under his door. The second was more direct—a knife pressed to your throat during a routine job, the assailant whispering threats of what would happen if Kaz didn’t cooperate. You were unscathed, of course. You had power that made most men tremble, but that didn’t stop the fear that gripped Kaz’s heart when he saw the look in your eyes. The darkness that flickered there, the remnants of a fear you had long since buried.

He couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t let you be tainted by his world, by the darkness that surrounded him. He couldn’t let you be hurt because of him. The last time he had let himself care for someone, it had ended in disaster. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen again.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He let you go.

It started small at first. Kaz began to ignore you, a difficult task when every fibre of his being screamed to be near you. But he forced himself to walk past you without a word, to pretend you were nothing more than a ghost in the halls of the Slat. you had frowned, tilting your head in confusion. It had nearly undone him, the way you looked at him as if you were trying to figure out what you had done wrong.

It tore at him, every time he saw that look on your face, every time he felt your eyes on him, questioning, hurting. But he couldn’t stop. He had to protect you, even if it meant breaking your heart in the process.

Then, he began to snap at you, finding fault in the smallest things. He’d scold you for a plan that didn’t go exactly as he wanted, even if the outcome was successful. He’d raise his voice when you asked questions, brushing off your concerns as if they were nothing. The hurt look in your eyes was like a knife to his chest, twisting deeper with each passing day. But he forced himself to look away, to harden his heart against the pain that gnawed at him.

The Crows noticed the change, of course. Jesper would shoot him questioning looks, Inej’s gaze filled with disappointment, and even Nina would try to talk to him about it. But Kaz deflected their concerns, his tone sharp and dismissive. They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t. This was something he had to do. He had to protect you, even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process.

Kaz’s heart ached every time he saw the pain he caused you, but he told himself it was for the best. You were too good, too pure for this world. You didn’t belong in the shadows, and the longer you stayed, the more the darkness would seep into your soul. He didn’t want to see your eyes clouded with the same despair that haunted his every waking moment.

And then, finally, he let you go completely.

One night, after another gruelling heist, you finally confronted him. The others had gone, leaving the two of you alone in the Crow Club. You stood before him, your eyes searching his for answers.

“Kaz, what’s going on? Why are you treating me like this?” your voice was steady, but he could hear the tremor beneath it.

He didn’t look at you. Instead, he stared at the map on the table, the lines and figures blurring together as he tried to hold onto his resolve. “You’re slipping,” he said coldly. “You’ve been making mistakes—putting the entire crew at risk. I can’t have someone unreliable on my team.”

The words sliced through you like a knife. “Unreliable? I’ve saved all of you more times than I can count. You know I’m not—”

“You’ve been careless,” Kaz interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. “You let your guard down, and it nearly cost us everything. I can’t afford that.”

You took a step back, disbelief and hurt flashing across your face. “You don’t mean that. I know you, Kaz. I know—”

“You don’t know anything,” he snapped, finally looking up at you. His gaze was icy, devoid of the warmth he’d once allowed you to see. “You’re a liability. Maybe it’s time you found somewhere else to be.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in with the weight of his words. “Kaz, please. Don’t do this.”

But he only turned away, his voice void of any emotion. “It’s already done.”

You stared at his back, hoping—praying—for some sign that this was all a lie, that the man who had taken you in, who had protected you, was still in there somewhere. But he gave you nothing.

After a moment, you nodded, though it took everything in you to force yourself to move. “Fine,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “If that’s what you want.”

Kaz turned away from you, his heart aching with every step you took away from him. He didn’t watch you leave. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he knew he’d break, and Kaz Brekker couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not ever.

Kaz knew he had done the right thing—he had to protect you from the darkness that consumed him. But as the echoes of your voice lingered in the empty room, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Your eyes grew wide, as you spun around, finding Zoya smirking at you. And not far behind was the General himself, watching with an amused yet bewildered look on his face. You gave him a sheepish smile before following Zoya to the middle of the ship. “For your information, I wasn’t thinking about him,” you seethed. “No,” she said, signaling to an Inferni, “but you were getting there,” she said, turning back to you. You mock her, causing her to smirk, before getting to your station.

“Remember,” Kirigan started, turning to face all of you, “We just want to test this method. That’s all we’re going in for.”

You didn’t miss the whispers that sounded from all around you.

“Why did he choose her?”

“She’s so new.”

“We’re all going to die.”

“There are so many more experienced Tidemakers, her power won’t be enough.”

You shut your eyes, trying to drown them out when you felt a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes fluttered open to find Zoya in front of you. “Kirigan wants to know if this is too much for you,” she said, worry evident in her eyes. Your eyes flickered to Kirigan, watching his eyes on yours, a blank expression on his face.

He thinks you can’t do it. That you’re too weak.

You shook your head, “I can do it.”

Zoya nodded, before turning around and repeating the action to the General, but his eyes never left yours. 

You cleared your throat, focusing on the Fold in front of you, as the ship lurched forward. 

People were yelling instructions all over the ship as you tried to focus on the task at hand. 

“Once we’ve entered, you’ll create a dome of water around the ship. An Inferni will start a fire, which hopefully, thanks to your dome, will be refracted in multiple directions, throwing the Volcra off,” Kirigan told you.

“You think I can do it? Wouldn’t someone else be better fit for the job?”

“I do. But I don’t want you to do it, unless you think you can.”

Your eyes flickered to Kirigan again, who was now facing the Fold.

Truth be told, you didn’t think you could do it. You felt absolutely worthless, and everyone’s whispers weren’t helping.

Yes, the Little Palace was perfect. Everyone was nice. But you couldn’t handle the stares that you received ever since it’d been announced that you’d be handling this. No one knew your past. No one knew how it’d affected you. 

All they saw was the instant liking that Kirigan took to you. The way you’d sometimes spend entire days alone while other days you’d be like a ball of sunshine. It made no sense to most, but then again, everyone had their own trauma to handle.

Your hands trembled as you counted the seconds you’d spent inside the fold. Your eyes were on Kirigan, waiting for his signal. 

And it couldn’t have come sooner.

He looked back to you, nodding briefly. 

You focused on your hands, imagining water flowing through them, as you waved them in the air in a dome like shape, watching as water followed your motions. You kept your hands up, thinning out the layer of water, keeping it steady and from falling all over everyone on the ship. 

You caught Zoya looking at you from the corner of your eye, nodding to you before signaling to the Inferni. Your eyes landed on Kirigan, who gave you a brief nod, eyes shining with an expression you’d never seen anyone look at you with before. 

The Inferni got a good fire going, and as Kirigan had said, the light refracted beautifully. 

It couldn’t destroy the Fold. But it’d be easier to get across.

Just as you thought this would actually work, the first Volcra attacked.

You struggled to keep the water barrier up as it pounded again and again through it. 

Panic built in your chest as more appeared, clearly understanding the trick you’d played.

Everyone started rushing about preparing for a fight.

“Don’t you dare let go!” someone yelled at you, “If you do, we're all dead!”

Your hands trembled. 

They were right. You weren’t enough. You never would be. 

As the negative thoughts swirled in your mind, you felt yourself lose control of the water dome, and it came crashing down on the boat. 

Your breath became unsteady as you failed to process what was going on through all of the screaming. Volcra were all over, snatching people, throwing them overboard. The piercing shrieks of everyone around you sent a searing pain rippling through your head.

Or maybe it was the sharp object that had pierced through your left shoulder.

A blood curdling scream ripped through your throat as you felt yourself being lifted off the ground.

Your vision blurred as fear and pain surged through you. 

The next thing you knew you were falling in the dark, before everything went quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recuperation was a foreign concept to you. In your house, it’d always been that way. The second you can think, talk, walk and move at least one arm, you had to get back to your normal schedule. 

So that’s what you did. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror, more disgusted at yourself than you had been before the accident.

That’s what everyone called it now anyways.  Your left hand was in a sling. The healers did their best, but since it was a wound caused by a Volcra, it wasn’t healed completely. You ran your right hand over the black streaks across your shoulder, as they branched out all over your arms.

They would never go away.

There were different versions to the story. But, the most common one was that Kirigan had ordered one of the Inferni to kill the Volcra, and he caught you as you fell. And everyone who had told you this, had also added their comment about how you weren’t ready yet, and that Kirigan had made a mistake.

Of course it wasn’t hatred then. Only those who had been on the ship despised you for getting the others killed. No, everyone else had answered you with pity. Because that was the emotion shown to the weak.

You sighed, slipping on a coat over your tank top, wincing slightly at the way it sat on your shoulder.

The door opened, startling you out of your angry gaze on yourself. 

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” Genya said, coming to stand behind you, her gaze soft. 

“I have to train,” you said, turning around to face her.

“Y/N-”

“I messed up. I messed up and I can’t do that again.”

“You can’t summon without both your hands,” she said, gently as if speaking any louder would break you.

“I’ll train in hand - to - hand combat ‘till then,” you replied, moving to walk past her. 

“Y/N, you need rest.”

“I’m fine,” you said, slamming the door behind you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were not fine.

Your right hand wouldn’t work like it usually did, and the fake sword in your hand felt heavier than usual. You cursed out as the sword fell from your hand a third time, Zoya watching. “You need to stop this foolishness,” she said, a stern look on her face. 

“You should go mind the others,” you muttered, annoyed, eyeing her as you picked up the sword. 

“The others aren’t ignoring their injuries,” she bit back.

She watched you try to swing it around once more, before standing in attention abruptly, her eyes landing on something behind you.

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Someone behind you.

You dropped the sword, spinning around to find Kirigan behind you, an angry look on his face. 

Zoya cleared her throat, “Sir-”

“I didn’t ask you,” he said, dark eyes fixated on you.

“I can’t summon yet sir. So I thought I would try hand-to-hand combat first,” you replied feeling terrible. You were so upset with yourself. 2 weeks should have been enough. You were only proving what everyone was saying.

“Follow me,” he ordered, walking away. You looked back to Zoya, shocked, but she only nodded you on. 

You ran after him hurriedly, worried about what was going to happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirigan had brought you to his office and had been absolutely quite ever since.

He was sitting on the edge of his table, pinching the bridge of his nose with his hand. 

“Gener-”

“Call me Aleksander,” he says, finally looking up to meet your gaze.

You feel your cheeks heat up as you nod quickly. He got up, walking over to you, stopping just in front. 

“I know why you push yourself so much,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving your eyes as he took your hands in his.

You stood there dumbfounded, waiting for him to explain. He tilted his head to the side, running his thumb over your knuckles. “The first day that you came here, you were so hurt, you were blabbering in your sleep. You kept asking your parents to stop. And right before I had asked Genya to put you to sleep, you muttered that you’d never be good enough,” he revealed.

You felt your eyes start to water, and you looked down at your joined hands, feeling embarrassed and scared. One of Aleksander’s hands left yours, reaching up to your chin instead, and gently tilting your face upwards. “I wasn’t enough that day either. You trusted me and- and I failed. The Volcra should’ve taken me, I deserve that punishment,” you cried, closing your eyes. “Y/N, look at me. Open those pretty of yours….please,” he whispered.

You did, surprised by the soft, caring look he was giving you. “If the Volcra had done something to you, I would have never been able to forgive myself. Because you are more than just a Grisha to me. You are my better half to say the least. Moreover, you are enough. You are my equal. Your parents were blind. I gave you that job because I knew you could do it. No one else compares to you. In any way. And you will be the one to handle it. Once you are completely healed that is,” he said, smiling softly. He dropped your other hand as well, gently wiping the tears from your face.

You couldn’t help the surge of emotion that ran through you as a smile crept up your face. His hands were now cupping your face, as he leaned in, pausing just before his lips landed on yours. “May I?” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. You nodded, your stomach knotting up.

His lips landed on yours finally, merging both of you together as one. Goosebumps erupted all over your skin as his hands dropped to your waist, pulling you even closer to him. For the first time in your life, you felt…

…wanted.

He pulled away gently, his eyes bright. 

“Promise me you will rest?” he asked.

“If you’ll stay with me as long as you can,” you said sheepishly.

“Of course, my little tide,” he grinned.

"Tension between my armies over a scrap of parchment," he muttered. "The First Army siding with a mapmaker... the Second Army siding with Kirigan..." His lip curled. "This is how rebellions start. Not with battles— but with pride."

The courier swallowed hard. "Your Majesty, Lieutenant Bohdan requested clarity on how to proceed—"

"I know how to proceed," Pyotr snapped. "Send for Tatiana."

Tsaritsa Tatiana swept in moments later, silk dragging behind her like frost on marble. She glanced at the report on the desk.

"Another quarrel between your armies?"

Pyotr pinched the bridge of his nose. "Over a map."

Her brows lifted. "A map?"

"A map," he repeated flatly. "General Kirigan disputes the accuracy. The mapmaker disputes his revision. The First Army is standing by the girl, the Second Army by the General. If this festers, it becomes political. Soldiers choosing sides. Officers gossiping. My authority questioned."

Tatiana walked closer, tapping the parchment lightly. "And the mapmaker... Silina, was it? Do we know anything of her?"

"Nothing of interest," Pyotr said, waving a hand. "A First Army scribbler with more confidence than sense. But she has ignited tension among my soldiers— and Kirigan is fueling it."

Tatiana smirked faintly. "Oh, Kirigan always fuels things."

Pyotr ignored that. His mind was already made up.

"If the First and Second Armies cannot cooperate," he said, "I will force cooperation."

Tatiana arched a brow. "And how do you intend to do that?"

Pyotr tapped the report with the back of his fingernails. "These two created the problem. They will solve it."

Tatiana's amusement sharpened. "Pyotr... what are you planning?"

He sat, dipped his quill, and began to write with swift, decisive strokes.

"A marriage," he said.

Tatiana coughed. "A marriage?"

"A union," Pyotr corrected. "A formal binding between the First Army and the Second. Between General Kirigan and this... what is her name?" He glanced back at the letter. "Amira Silina."

Tatiana blinked once. Then again.

"You intend to force Kirigan into a political marriage because of a map?"

"I intend," Pyotr said, voice firm, "to stop tension in my armies before it grows. If Kirigan and this mapmaker cannot agree... then they will learn."

Tatiana folded her arms, studying her husband. "He will not appreciate this."

Pyotr gave a humorless laugh. "Aleksander never appreciates anything I do. He will accept it because he is sworn to me. And she..." He shrugged. "She will have no choice."

Tatiana drummed her fingers against the desk, lips curling with interest. "This will certainly quiet the gossip."

Pyotr sealed the decree with wax.

"Send this to General Kirigan," he ordered. "And another to the First Army commander. Effective immediately."

Tatiana took the scrolls, amusement glinting in her eyes.

"And do inform the priests," Pyotr added. "They will need to prepare the bonding rites in Os Alta. The wedding will take place when Kirigan returns with the girl."

Tatiana paused, a rare smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, this will be... entertaining."

Pyotr waved her off, already moving on.

"Unity," he muttered. "If they insist on discord, then I will bind them until they learn cooperation."

By midday, two royal riders were already cutting across the snow toward the Fold camps—one toward the First Army, one toward the Second.

The order was simple.

General Kirigan and Mapmaker Amira Silina are to enter into a royal binding. A marriage of unity between the armies. Effective immediately. Signed, Tsar Pyotr Lanstov.

A storm was coming.

Neither Aleksander nor Amira had even the faintest idea.

The News Reaches the Armies

The message reached the Fold camps faster than either army expected.

By late afternoon, both the First and Second Armies had riders approaching— each bearing the royal crest. Two sealed scrolls. Two very different destinations.

The camp quieted the moment the riders were spotted.

No one rode like that unless something important— or dangerous— was coming.

Second Army Camp

Ivan intercepted the royal courier before he even reached the command tent.

The rider dismounted quickly, breath frosting the air. "A sealed decree for General Kirigan. Immediate delivery."

Aleksander stepped out of his tent at the same moment, frown already forming. "A decree? The king rarely communicates directly unless—"

He broke the seal.

The words were simple. Sharp. Final.

Aleksander's jaw tightened.

Ivan watched carefully. "Moi soverennyi?"

Aleksander lowered the scroll.

"I am ordered," he said slowly, "to marry a First Army mapmaker."

Ivan blinked—once, hard. "Come again?"

Aleksander turned the scroll so Ivan could read the lines himself.

"Amira Silina," Aleksander murmured. "The one who disputed the elevation lines."

Ivan stared between the decree and the General. "The Tsar is forcing this? Why?"

Aleksander exhaled through his nose, temper restrained only by discipline.

"Unity between the armies," he quoted bitterly. "He believes our disagreement has caused tension."

A faint sound of disbelief slipped from Ivan. "Tension? Over maps?"

Aleksander folded the scroll with careful, dangerous calm. "Apparently."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't crush the parchment. But the shadows around his boots stirred with irritation.

"We leave for the First Army at once," Aleksander said. "If the Tsar intends to bind our fates over a piece of parchment, then I intend to know why."

Ivan swallowed, nodding. "Yes, moi soverennyi."

Around them, whispers had already begun.

"General Kirigan—marrying?" "To a mapmaker?" "Saints, this won't end quietly..."

Aleksander ignored them all.

First Army Camp

Nico was sharpening his blade when the royal rider galloped into the yard, drawing every soldier to attention.

Lieutenant Bohdan stepped forward to take the scroll, his expression unreadable—until his eyes caught the seal.

Royal decrees were never good news.

He cracked the wax and scanned the contents.

His face went white.

Nico leaned closer. "Lieutenant? What does it—"

Bohdan shoved the scroll at him like it burned.

Nico read it.

Then he swayed. "Oh Saints... Amira!"

He sprinted through the tents, nearly tripping as he reached the map station.

Amira looked up from stacking her supplies. "What? Why are you—"

Nico thrust the scroll at her. "Read it."

She frowned, unrolling it.

Her breath stopped.

Marriage. Kirigan. Royal order. Effective immediately.

She felt the floor tilt under her feet.

"This... this is a joke," she whispered.

"It's the Tsar," Nico said faintly. "He doesn't joke."

Amira reread the line. Then again.

Her fingers trembled, gripping the parchment.

"He can't do this," she said, voice cracking.

"He already did."

Bohdan approached stiffly, hands behind his back. "I assume General Kirigan will arrive shortly. The Tsar expects compliance."

Amira stared at the lieutenant. "This is because I wouldn't change the map."

"It is because the two of you created conflict between the armies," Bohdan corrected. "The Tsar despises conflict."

"So he's... marrying me off?"

"To unify command," Bohdan said. "Congratulations, Miss Silina."

Nico shot him a murderous glare. "She's not celebrating anything—"

"Save it," Bohdan snapped. "She's First Army. He's Second. The Tsar wants harmony. This is his solution."

Amira's stomach twisted.

She hadn't asked for this. She hadn't sought attention. She had tried to do her job.

And now the most feared Grisha in Ravka was being forced into a bond with her.

"For Saints' sake," she whispered. "General Kirigan is going to kill me."

Nico squeezed her shoulder. "No, no, he won't kill you. Probably not. He'll just—"

The air shifted. Dark shadows curled at the camp's edge.

Aleksander Kirigan—calm, unreadable—walked straight toward her.

The soldiers around them froze.

Nico stepped back. Bohdan bowed stiffly.

Amira... couldn't move at all.

Aleksander stopped a few paces in front of her. His expression wasn't angry. It was far worse.

Controlled. Cold. Resigned.

"I believe," he said quietly, "we need to talk."

Amira swallowed hard, the decree crumpling slightly in her grip.

This was only the beginning.

Amira forced herself to breathe—slow, steady—before lifting her chin.

"Yes," she said quietly, meeting Aleksander's gaze. "We do need to talk."

Her voice didn't tremble. Her stomach absolutely did.

She shifted her attention to Lieutenant Bohdan, who stood rigid and pale, clearly praying not to be caught in the crossfire between the most powerful Grisha in Ravka and a mapmaker who apparently had no sense of self-preservation.

"And you," Amira said, pointing at him with the decree still clutched in her hand, "can tell the Tsar's courier that my uncle is going to dispute this."

Bohdan blinked. "...Your uncle?"

"Yes," Amira said firmly. "Lord Dean Volkov. You might have heard of him."

Bohdan's face drained of blood.

Nico, behind her, closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, Saints preserve us... she said it out loud...

Aleksander's expression sharpened just slightly—interest flickering where irritation had been. "Volkov?" he asked, voice calm but unmistakably attentive. "You're related to him?"

"By marriage," Amira clarified, folding the decree under her arm. "He's my aunt Analise's husband."

Nico didn't dare speak, but he subtly shifted to stand behind her—supportive, protective, and absolutely refusing to reveal that he already knew Amira's true family connections and everything she hid to keep herself unnoticed.

Aleksander regarded her with a new, assessing look.

"I was unaware you had noble ties," he said.

"I prefer people not to know," Amira answered, sincerity slipping through the frustration. "It makes my job easier. And my life quieter."

A few soldiers nearby exchanged looks—clearly reevaluating the "ink-stained mapmaker" who had just declared familial ties to one of the most influential nobles in Ravka.

Bohdan swallowed hard. "Miss Silina, with all due respect, the Tsar's decree cannot be disputed—"

"My uncle will dispute it," Amira said again, firmer. "He won't let me be forced into anything without hearing my side."

Aleksander's jaw ticked once, the only sign of a reaction.

"And yet," he said smoothly, "the Tsar has made his decision."

Amira turned back to him, eyes bright with frustration. "You don't agree with this any more than I do."

"No," Aleksander said quietly. "I do not. But refusing a royal order is treason."

The word hung heavy between them.

Nico stiffened. Bohdan looked like he wanted to run. Amira's pulse hammered.

Aleksander continued, tone still controlled but edged with steel:

"We can send word to Lord Volkov—of course. But understand this: even he cannot overturn the Tsar's command if Pyotr has already signed it into action."

Amira pressed her lips together, anger and dread twisting tighter.

"I will not be used as a political tool," she muttered.

"You already are," Bohdan whispered before realizing he'd spoken aloud.

Amira shot him a glare. "Not helping."

Aleksander, to her surprise, did not rebuke her for her frustration. He seemed almost sympathetic beneath the stoic calm.

Almost.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she and Nico heard.

"We will discuss this—in private," he said. "Before messengers are sent. Before Volkov reacts. Before the Tsar demands our presence."

His eyes flickered briefly to Nico, who lifted his hands in surrender and backed farther away, silently promising to keep Amira's secrets locked behind his teeth.

Amira took a breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded once.

"Fine," she said. "Let's talk."

Aleksander gestured toward the edge of camp where his horse was waiting.

Every soldier in the First Army watched.

Every Grisha in the Second Army whispered.

And Amira Silina, mapmaker, niece of Lord Dean Volkov, marched beside General Kirigan with her head high—

already knowing this conversation was going to change everything.

Aleksander led Amira toward the tree line at the far edge of camp, far enough that the murmuring soldiers and curious Grisha faded into background noise. Snow crunched softly beneath their boots; the air was quiet enough that Amira could hear her own pulse.

Aleksander stopped beside a fallen log—far from prying ears, far from rumors—and only then did he turn to face her fully.

He didn't speak at first.

He simply studied her.

Not with hostility. Not with superiority.

More like he was re-evaluating everything he thought he understood.

Amira exhaled sharply. "If you're going to scold me for speaking my mind—"

"I'm not here to scold you," Aleksander interrupted, voice calm but firm.

That surprised her enough that she blinked.

His eyes flickered past her shoulder—toward Nico. The tracker was pretending to sort supplies by a crate, but every line of his body was angled toward them, alert and ready to intervene if needed.

Aleksander's gaze sharpened.

"That young tracker," he murmured, "is very protective of you."

Amira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Nico is my friend."

"Friends do not stand guard like that," Aleksander said quietly, attention still narrowed on the boy's tense posture. "He watched me from the moment I approached you. Ready to act if I so much as raised my voice."

"He's loyal," Amira insisted. "That's all."

Aleksander's gaze returned to her. "Loyalty like that is earned, not given."

Amira hesitated.

He wasn't wrong. Nico did not give his loyalty easily—she had earned it, the hard way. He knew her truths, her fears, her secrets. He would defend her without hesitation.

But Aleksander's expression told her something else:

He noticed. He analyzed. He already filed the tracker away as a variable.

Amira frowned. "Whatever you're thinking, Nico isn't a threat."

"I didn't say he was," Aleksander replied. "But he is invested in what happens to you. And that tells me you are not as inconsequential as you pretend to be."

Amira bristled. "I never pretended to be—"

"Yes," Aleksander said softly, "you did."

She froze.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't sneer or smirk.

He simply spoke as someone who had spent centuries reading people and saw through her with unsettling ease.

"You hide your lineage," Aleksander continued. "You hide your training." His eyes lowered to her ink-stained hands. "You hide your talent." He lifted his gaze again. "And you hide your fear."

Amira's breath hitched—but she forced her shoulders straight.

"I don't owe anyone my entire life story."

"No," Aleksander allowed. "But you owe yourself honesty."

She clenched her jaw and looked away, toward the courts she knew her uncle would storm the moment he received the decree.

"And that honesty is relevant," Aleksander added, "because the Tsar has forced our hand."

Amira snapped her attention back to him. "You think I want this marriage?"

His eyebrows rose slightly at her tone. "I did not say you wanted it."

"Good," she muttered. "Because I don't."

Aleksander let out a slow breath. "Nor do I."

For a moment, they simply stood there—two people caught in a political trap, bound by a decision neither asked for.

"General—"

"Aleksander," he corrected quietly.

She swallowed. "Aleksander. We have to find a way out of this."

His expression didn't soften, but the severity shifted into something steadier. "We cannot refuse the decree outright. The Tsar will not tolerate defiance."

Amira's jaw tightened. "My uncle—"

"Volkov will try," Aleksander agreed. "But Pyotr chose this pairing for a reason. He believes our disagreement—over maps—signals instability in his armies."

"It was one mistake," she argued.

"It was not a mistake," he corrected. "It was pride. Yours and mine."

She looked away, heat pricking her cheeks.

"Amira," Aleksander continued, voice lowering, "the Tsar will not reverse this. Not for you. Not for me. Not for Volkov."

She hated the truth in his words.

"So that's it?" she whispered. "We're trapped?"

"No," Aleksander said. "But we must be... strategic."

She slowly met his eyes.

"We will speak with Volkov," he said. "Together. Before he acts rashly. And before the Tsar drags us to Os Alta in chains if we hesitate."

Amira breathed out, trying to steady herself.

"What if he wants this?" she murmured bitterly. "What if he just wants to bind you to someone he can control?"

Aleksander's features hardened at that.

"Then the Tsar has chosen poorly," he said quietly. "Because I do not bend easily."

"...Neither do I."

A faint, almost reluctant spark flickered in his expression.

"I noticed," he said.

For a moment, neither looked away.

Behind them, Nico pretended to reorganize the same stack of crates he'd already "sorted" twice, but his eyes never left Amira.

Aleksander took note of it again.

"Your tracker is going to shadow you until this ends," he said.

"Probably."

"He is loyal," Aleksander said thoughtfully. "I do not take loyalty lightly."

Amira didn't know what to make of the way he said that.

Not yet.

But she held the decree tighter, her future suddenly impossibly complicated.

"Before we speak with your uncle," Aleksander added, "there is something I must ask you."

Amira braced herself. "What?"

His dark eyes searched hers—calm, unreadable, and far too observant.

"Why," he said slowly, "are you so certain someone like you does not belong at my side?"

The question struck deeper than she expected.

And she suddenly understood:

He wasn't only trying to solve the Tsar's problem.

He was trying to understand her.

Amira didn't look away when he asked why she believed she didn't belong at his side.

Instead, she drew in a steady breath and said quietly:

"Because we all have our secrets."

The words were simple. But they landed between them like a stone dropped into still water — rippling outward, slow but deep.

Aleksander's eyes sharpened, the shift subtle but unmistakable. He was a man who lived off observation, patterns, and the truths people tried to hide.

And that sentence... meant far more than she was willing to say.

He glanced again toward the tracker — Nico — who stood at the crate pretending to be busy but watching her like a hawk watches a limb about to break.

A friend might worry. A loyal soldier might watch for orders.

But this was different.

This was protectiveness rooted in something unspoken. Something he knew. Something he guarded.

Aleksander turned his full attention back to Amira.

"Secrets," he repeated quietly. "You mean your own."

Amira held his gaze. "Everyone has them."

"But yours," he said, stepping just half a pace closer, "seem to be... shared."

Her breath caught.

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't accuse. Just followed the trail of her words, her posture, and that tracker's unwavering vigilance.

Nico's jaw clenched, but he stayed silent — loyal, but terrified she'd say too much in front of the General.

Aleksander's eyes flicked toward him again, analyzing.

"He knows," Aleksander murmured. Not a question. A quiet conclusion.

Amira's pulse stumbled. Nico stiffened.

Aleksander studied Nico with a level calm that bordered on unnerving.

"Your tracker holds your secrets closely," he said. "Unusually so."

Nico didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Because the truth behind his silence was heavy, sacred, and dangerous:

He knew what Amira was. What she could do. What she was hiding. And why she chose to live among humans instead of the Grisha.

A Dual Summoner — Sun and Sea. Hidden her entire life. A secret that could change Ravka's future if revealed too soon... or to someone untrustworthy.

And Nico had sworn himself to protect that truth before he even understood its weight.

Amira swallowed, her voice low. "Nico knows... enough."

Aleksander's gaze cut to her again — sharp, thoughtful, too observant for comfort.

Enough?

Enough for what?

Enough to guard her?

Enough to fear for her?

Enough to know she would never survive under the wrong authority?

Aleksander didn't force the answer. Didn't push. But something in his expression shifted — a new calculation forming.

"Then you trust him," Aleksander said quietly. "Deeply."

"I do."

"And he trusts you."

"That too."

The corner of Aleksander's mouth moved — not a smile — something more like a realization. A piece sliding into place.

"People rarely become that loyal without reason," he murmured.

Amira looked away, throat tight.

Nico, knowing exactly where the General's mind was heading, stepped forward at last — not aggressively, but with the steady weight of someone planting himself between Amira and danger.

"General Kirigan," Nico said carefully, "Miss Silina keeps to herself for a reason. Those reasons are hers. Not the First Army's. Not the Second's."

"I see," Aleksander replied softly.

His tone wasn't threatening.

It was... intrigued.

And far more dangerous for it.

Amira stepped in before he could say anything else.

"My secrets," she said firmly, "will not interfere with my duty. And they are not your concern."

Aleksander tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"Perhaps not now," he said. "But soon they will be."

Amira forced herself to hold steady.

Aleksander took a slow breath — controlled, deliberate — then spoke with the calm certainty of someone piecing together a truth he wasn't meant to see.

"You are hiding something powerful," he said quietly. "And whatever it is... your tracker knows."

Amira felt the world tighten around her.

She could not tell him. Not yet. The time wasn't right.

So she gave him nothing — not a word, not a reaction — and he noticed that too.

The tension between them coiled warmer, sharper, more dangerous.

Aleksander's voice lowered.

"And if the Tsar binds us together... I will eventually know."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Nico took a step closer.

Aleksander watched both of them, dark eyes unreadable.

"Secrets," he said once more, almost to himself. "You chose that word carefully."

Then, turning away from the trees and the quiet tension:

"We should go. Lord Volkov will want a message sent immediately."

But as they walked back toward the two armies — soldiers staring, Grisha whispering, the decree burning in her pocket —

Amira knew something for certain:

Aleksander Morozova was far too observant. Far too perceptive. Far too dangerous to her secrets.

And the Tsar had just chained her to him.

The message reached the Volkov Estate by late afternoon.

Lord Dean Volkov was reviewing trade documents when the courier arrived, breathless and pale, clutching the Tsar's sealed decree like it was a snake threatening to bite.

Dean broke the seal, expecting another administrative request.

Instead, he froze.

Analise entered from the hallway, adjusting her shawl. "Dean? What is it? You look as though you've swallowed a ghost."

Dean held up the decree with two fingers, expression darkening. "It's Pyotr."

Analise sighed. "When is it not Pyotr?"

Dean handed her the paper.

She skimmed it once. Twice.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed with a fury almost elegant.

"That bastard," she breathed.

Dean paced once across the rug, the fur at his collar shifting with his agitation. "Amira. Forced into a political marriage? That arrogant boy thinks he owns the lives of my family?"

Analise set the decree down carefully so she wouldn't tear it. "And to General Kirigan?"

"This isn't about Kirigan," Dean muttered. "This is Pyotr flexing his power."

Analise folded her arms. "Kirigan won't like this either."

Dean huffed. "No, but he will obey. Pyotr knows that."

Analise walked toward the window, watching the snow fall against the courtyard stones. "Kirigan arriving here... and with Amira... This will not be a simple visit."

"No." Dean's jaw tightened. "Especially because Kirigan is about to discover something he will not appreciate."

Analise glanced at him. "You mean—"

Dean shook his head sharply. "We say nothing. Not unless Amira chooses to speak."

Analise nodded. "Good. Her secrets are hers."

Dean's hands curled around the back of his chair. "Kirigan will sense something. He always does."

"He'll sense what every Grisha does around her," Analise murmured. "Power she pretends not to have."

"And when he asks?" Dean asked softly.

Analise's eyes hardened. "We say nothing."

Dean exhaled slowly. "Exactly."

He looked toward the door as another knock sounded.

"Lord Volkov," the attendant said, bowing. "A second courier. General Kirigan is en route. He is expected before nightfall."

Dean exchanged a look with his wife — one part dread, one part steel.

"Prepare the estate," Dean said. "Make sure Amira's rooms are warmed. And alert the staff."

Analise placed a hand on his arm. "Dean. Be calm when she arrives. She will be frightened, and she'll need us."

He nodded once, deeply. "Of course."

But his voice carried an undercurrent of storm.

"No one forces a Volkov into anything," he said. "Not even Pyotr."

It was near dusk when Aleksander and Amira approached the estate on horseback, Nico trailing closely behind. The torches outside the manor flickered to life, casting warm light across stone lions and carved arches.

Aleksander took in the sight with a careful, guarded expression.

"You said you were related by marriage," he said quietly. "You did not say your uncle was Dean Volkov."

Amira shifted nervously. "You never asked."

"You withheld."

"I protected my privacy."

Aleksander didn't argue further — but his silence was sharp.

The estate doors opened before they even dismounted.

Dean Volkov stepped out, tall and imposing, fur cloak billowing behind him, flanked by two guards. His green eyes locked immediately on Amira — relief and fury warring in them.

"Amira," he said, voice low and warm.

"Uncle," she breathed.

She barely had to take one step before Dean swept her into a fierce embrace, hand at the back of her head like she was still a child he'd sworn to protect.

Aleksander watched them quietly — not jealous, but attentive. Studying. Learning the shape of her life beyond the map tent.

Analise joined them moments later, touching Amira's cheek gently. "Oh, sweetheart. We received the decree."

Amira swallowed hard. "I didn't ask for this."

"We know," Analise murmured. "None of this is your fault."

Aleksander stepped down from his horse, posture formal but tense.

"Lord Volkov," he said. "Lady Volkov."

Dean released Amira and straightened, expression shifting from warmth to cool, razor-edged politeness.

"General Kirigan," Dean greeted. "I trust you are here to explain why the Tsar decided my niece should become a pawn."

Amira winced. "Uncle—please—"

Aleksander didn't flinch from the accusation. "I am here because I received the same decree. I did not request this marriage. Nor do I approve of the Tsar's approach."

Dean's brows rose. "So we are in agreement."

"We are."

Analise stepped closer, studying Aleksander with the same perceptiveness he had shown Amira earlier. "This situation is... delicate. And dangerous for our girl."

Aleksander inclined his head. "I am aware."

Dean's gaze sharpened. "Are you aware she has secrets?" he asked bluntly.

Amira stiffened. "Uncle—"

Dean raised a hand. "General Kirigan is no fool. He will sense it regardless. Better to make it clear we are not blind."

Aleksander's eyes flicked between them — Dean, Analise, Amira — reading every expression, every hesitation.

"You all know," he said quietly.

Dean didn't answer. Analise didn't either.

That silence was answer enough.

Aleksander's jaw tightened — not in anger, but in realization.

"Amira's secrets," Analise said gently, "are not ours to share. They have never been."

Dean crossed his arms. "If the Tsar wants to bind her future to yours, General, then you will discover the truth in time. But not from us."

Aleksander absorbed this calmly, though a faint shadow rippled at his feet.

Amira's heart hammered — fearing he'd push, demand, confront.

But instead, Aleksander only said:

"Very well."

Dean blinked, surprised.

Aleksander looked at Amira — not with suspicion, but with the same calculating understanding he had earlier.

"When she is ready," he said softly, "she will tell me."

Amira's breath caught. Her aunt's eyes softened. Dean nodded once, respectful despite himself.

The first fragile thread of trust formed in that moment — unwilling, but real.

Aleksander continued, "But for now... we must face what the Tsar expects."

Dean's expression hardened. "And what he expects is unacceptable."

"This," Aleksander said, "is how we fight him without committing treason."

Analise glanced between them. "How?"

Aleksander lifted his eyes to the estate's torchlight.

"Together."

Dean's expression hardened, the protective fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior.

"She is seventeen," he said, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the cold air. "Seventeen, Aleksander. A child in the eyes of the court. And Pyotr dares to arrange a marriage behind our backs?"

Amira flinched. "Uncle..."

Dean placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "No, dorogaya. This is not something you should have to shield yourself from. This is my responsibility."

Aleksander watched quietly—no protest, no argument. Just listening. Calculating.

Analise stepped beside her husband, her voice soft but firm. "Dean is right. Before any plans are made, before Ravka's gossip spreads, before the priests are summoned... the Tsar must hear from us. Directly."

Dean nodded, jaw clenched. "I will speak to Pyotr myself. Tonight."

Amira's breath hitched. "The Tsar... won't listen. He won't care—"

"He may not care," Dean interrupted gently, "but he will hear me."

Aleksander inclined his head. "If you confront the Tsar, understand this: he will not rescind the decree easily."

"Then he can explain," Dean snapped, "why he believes forcing a seventeen-year-old girl into a political bond is acceptable."

Analise touched Amira's cheek, comforting. "Your uncle will fight this. And he will not go alone."

Dean swept his cloak over his shoulders, already turning toward the estate doors.

Amira stepped forward quickly. "Please—don't make him angry. Don't make it worse."

Dean paused in front of her, cupping her face with both hands the way he had since she was little. His voice softened, all the fire melting into warmth.

"I would tear down the Little Palace stone by stone before I allowed harm to come to you," he said. "I fought to protect your mother. I will fight for you."

Her eyes glossed instantly.

Dean pressed a kiss to her forehead, then straightened with the cold dignity that only a Volkov could carry.

"I will leave immediately. Analise will remain with you."

Aleksander stepped forward—not stopping him, but offering clarity.

"Dean," he said quietly, "be cautious. Pyotr will not welcome disagreement."

Dean's eyes flashed. "I do not need Pyotr's welcome."

Aleksander held his gaze, steady. "I mean only this: he is already uneasy about both our standings. If you push too hard, he may use your protectiveness against you."

Dean exhaled sharply, but nodded. "I know. I will choose my words with care."

"He will test you," Aleksander added. "He will try to provoke. Prepare your arguments before you reach the throne room."

Dean stared at him with a mix of irritation and reluctant respect. "And you know this how?"

Aleksander's features cooled. "Because I have stood before him a thousand times."

A silent understanding passed between them.

Dean turned back to the staff waiting at the door. "Prepare my carriage. And ride ahead—notify the palace guards that Lord Dean Volkov seeks urgent audience with the Tsar."

The attendant bowed and sprinted off.

Analise wrapped her arm around Amira's shoulders as Dean headed out the door, boots echoing sharply through the stone entryway.

Nico watched from the courtyard, tense and worried, as the Volkov carriage was prepared in haste.

Dean paused at the threshold long enough to look back at Aleksander.

"If Pyotr refuses to reconsider," Dean warned, "I will bring this decree to the Queen's Council myself."

Aleksander dipped his head once. "Then he will know the full weight of the Volkov name."

Dean nodded, cloak swirling behind him.

Moments later, the carriage door slammed, horses lurched forward, and Lord Dean Volkov sped into the night—

racing toward Os Alta to face Tsar Pyotr Lanstov and dispute the decree that threatened to bind his niece to Ravka's most feared general.

Amira watched until the carriage lights disappeared down the snowy road.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling much smaller.

Analise pulled her into a gentle embrace. "He will fight for you."

Aleksander watched her quietly—dark eyes taking in fear, confusion, and the weight of a future neither of them had chosen.

"We will all fight for you," he said softly.

And though his voice was controlled...

something in it held a promise she could not yet name.

The Volkov carriage thundered across the winter roads, wheels cutting deep into the frozen ruts. Dean sat rigid in his seat, jaw locked, fury simmering beneath every breath he took.

He had faced kings before. He had negotiated treaties, silenced rebellions, and advised councils.

But nothing—nothing—boiled his blood like someone threatening the children he'd sworn to protect.

By the time the spires of the Grand Palace rose against the darkening sky, Dean's anger had sharpened into something cold and lethal.

The palace guards straightened as the carriage stopped at the entrance. They recognized the crest instantly.

"Lord Volkov," one stammered, "the Tsar is—"

"He will see me," Dean said, stepping out with the kind of authority that made even hardened soldiers move aside without question. "Now."

The guards exchanged glances, then hurried inside.

Dean paced once across the marble courtyard, cloak snapping behind him in the biting wind. Snow fell in soft flakes against the gold-lit windows, but he barely noticed.

He was thinking of Amira. Her small, ink-stained hands. Her stubborn pride. Her tremor of fear the moment she read the decree.

No. No one—especially not Pyotr—would decide her future without him standing in the way.

A moment later the guards returned, bowing deeply.

"His Majesty will grant you audience."

"Of course he will," Dean muttered, sweeping past them.

The throne room was warm, filled with the glow of dozens of braziers. Pyotr sat on his gilded throne, wearing a robe lined with fur and smug irritation.

"Dean Volkov," he greeted with forced cordiality. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dean stopped before the first marble step, bowing just enough to be respectful—barely.

"You know why I'm here," he said.

Pyotr lifted his cup lazily. "Ah. The decree."

Dean clenched his jaw. "You forced a political marriage on my niece without consulting her family."

Pyotr shrugged. "Your niece caused tension between my armies. She made a fool of my General. Or so the reports say."

Dean stepped forward, voice rising with controlled outrage. "She is seventeen!"

Pyotr waved a hand. "Nobles marry at seventeen all the time."

"Not to the most powerful Grisha in Ravka."

"Kirigan will ensure her obedience," Pyotr said casually. "And her safety."

Dean's jaw tightened so hard it ached. "You assume too much."

Pyotr set his goblet down. "You forget yourself, Volkov."

"No," Dean snapped. "You forget the law. The Council. And the families who have stood by your crown for generations."

Pyotr's expression cooled. "I acted within my authority."

"You acted recklessly," Dean said. "And dangerously. Amira is not ready for such a binding. And Kirigan knows it."

The Tsar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ah. So Kirigan has already reached your estate."

Dean cursed internally. The Tsar had been expecting that outcome.

"He arrived only to comply with your order," Dean said. "Not because he desired it."

"That is irrelevant," Pyotr replied. "My decree stands."

Dean took a breath—slow, grounding himself before his anger shattered the last thread of diplomacy.

"Pyotr," he said, lowering his voice, "you do not understand the gravity of what you've done. This is not some simple alliance marriage. You are binding her future to a man who carries centuries on his shoulders. A man who—"

Pyotr interrupted with a lazy flick of his hand. "—is loyal. That is all I require."

Dean's eyes flashed. "Amira is still a child."

"She is old enough."

"She is not Grisha."

Pyotr smirked. "Is she not?"

Dean froze.

Pyotr leaned back, eyes sharp. "I hear whispers, Dean. Interesting whispers. About shadows of power in your family line. Strange happenings at your estate. A girl hiding in the First Army instead of being sent for testing."

Dean's blood ran cold.

"Careful," he said quietly, "where your rumors lead you."

Pyotr laughed under his breath. "Oh, I am always careful."

Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous growl. "If you try to use my niece's life to play your political games, I will bring this before the Queen's Council."

Pyotr's smile vanished.

"You would challenge your Tsar?"

"I would protect my family."

Both men stared, locked in a silent battle of will and power.

Pyotr finally leaned forward. "The decree stands, Dean. The wedding will be arranged when Kirigan brings the girl to Os Alta."

Dean's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You are making a mistake."

"Perhaps," Pyotr said, unconcerned. "But it will be my mistake to make."

Dean exhaled slowly—cold fury settling into his bones.

"This isn't finished."

"No," Pyotr agreed. "It's barely begun."

Dean turned sharply, cloak swirling, and strode from the throne room without another word.

The doors slammed behind him.

And as he stepped into the frozen night, Dean Volkov's mind raced with one truth:

If the Tsar would not protect Amira...

Then Dean would.

Even if it meant standing against the crown itself.