CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
❛ 𝙴𝚇𝙸𝚃 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂 ❜

MARYA HAD HIGH EXPECTATIONS FOR EAST RAVKA. It has always been one of the very few places she has never set foot on. Even back when she lived in West Ravka, her family had never traveled around the Fold— and despite her father denying it, Marya knew it had to do with superstition. West Ravka is open to the world— the sea at its shores, easier roads to Shu Han, and open abyss of possibility. The Old Country, on the other hand? Guarded by mountains and corralled by the Fold.

         There is an old evil rooted in that land, she once heard her Uncle Matej mentioning, before getting promptly reprimanded by her mother. The kind of evil that makes people rot. At the time, Marya had dismissed it as yet another superstitious rambling of her uncle. She wasn't wary— she was curious. Curious as to what awaited behind the towering Unsea.

         It is safe to say that, for what might be the first time in her life, her curiosity has been satiated. She's no longer eager to remain on this side of the Fold and explore the Old Country. No, no— she wants her ship. She wants her crew. But, most importantly, she wants her gun— along with the blond prince she intended to use for target practice.

The thought makes her grind her teeth again. It creates a dull throb by the back of her skull— the very spot where one of those First Army soldiers managed to land a hit on her with the back of his rifle.

As it turns out, soldiers don't take kindly to having a pirate knock their precious Ravkan prince onto the dirt. But Marya wasn't done there— and if it wasn't for the squadron of soldiers with their sights set on her, she would've bashed his head until he bled out.

A rash decision. Definitely not worthy of a Captain. But she could only see red— and if the impostor tried to smile at her one more time, she was certain she would've ended up knocking his teeth out so he never would again.   She considers it a mercy he is undeserving of; a silver lining— at least bruises heal.

The red has slowly ebbed away. Now sequestered inside a tent —in what she can only guess is a military camp— the crimson has fled to the corners of her vision, giving her a brief moment to think.

         The jail she is in is mediocre at best. The cuffs around her hands are far from optimal. The jail is rusting, and the handcuffs are too loose, giving her too much free range. They're both meant for otkazat'sya— definitely not for Grisha, much less a Fabrikator. If she wanted to —if she really wanted to— she could break out of them with a flick of her wrist.

Marya leans her head against the metal bars behind her back. Something tells her she's better here. Sequestered away from the others. Gathering her thoughts, gathering herself.

Her only worry is Neyar. Marya silently hopes that Tolya and Tamar stepped in the way if any soldiers tried to lay hands on Neyar because of her.

Her jaw ticks. Or maybe they didn't do anything because they're rats— just like their Captain. It's pitiful, really— she was only starting to like them.

The sound of boots against gravel makes Marya open her eyes. She sits against her cage with her knees to her chest, her cuffed hands resting loosely on them. Two soldiers in olive First Army getup stride inside, and she doesn't make an effort to move. At least, not until Sturmhond walks in behind them.

         Her body tenses, and her vision is crimson again. Not Sturmhond.

         He stands straighter, and an ugly shiver shoots down her spine the moment she realizes she finds his demeanor familiar. Unlike Marya, he dons dry clothes in the form of a First Army uniform, accompanied by a series of medals that —for some reason— infuriate her even further. She senses how he waits for her to meet his gaze, but she's intent on glaring at the floor until she burns a hole through it.

"Leave us," he commands.

The two soldiers exit the tent without a moment of hesitation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Marya wonders whether this is what Damien had to endure back when he was First Army. Whether the lookout of her ship had to follow direct orders from idiotic princes as well. If anything, Marya sympathizes even more with him.

Marya feels the prince's eyes on her. Unwillingly, she raises her head to meet his gaze. If anything, the sight before her irks her even further. Pristine blond hair, unbroken nose, and the bruise she gifted him is nowhere to be seen. Of course the royal prince has Healers at his disposal— but they could've at least made it last more than five hours.

         Brown meet blue. Marya's chuckle rasps against her throat like gravel. "Get out of my sight."

         He doesn't wait another beat. "I understand you might be angry."

         "Angry?" she says, lightning shooting down her spine. "Angry?" she repeats, and her voice grows sharper, deadlier. She reins herself in. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry— of seeing her lose her temper. No matter how much she wants to feed him bullets until he chokes on his own ammunition. She settles for glaring at him. "You understand nothing."

         But the prince doesn't seem too fazed. He distracts himself by inspecting the cage around her. "Admittedly, this is not how I planned on telling you."

         His demeanor makes her regret not pulling out his teeth. Let's see how your Healers fix you then. Marya tries to keep her voice leveled, but fails miserably. "Were you planning on it? Or did your secret simply catch up to you?"

         He keeps his distance from her jail. Why? Marya wonders cynically, Afraid I might bite, Your Highness?

         "As a matter of fact, I was planning on it. Candlelit dinner. Maybe roasted lamb."

"I don't eat meat."

         "Roasted figs, then."

She scoffs, and it echoes hoarsely. "Pathetic." She isn't sure whether the sentiment is directed at him or herself.

Marya looks away, her nails digging into her arms. He has no right to be here. This is her tent. He already lured her away from her ship; left her with no cabin to lock herself in, no place to stop and gather her thoughts. He has no right. He has no right.

"Your clothes are wet," he mentions suddenly, and when Marya turns back to him, she notices a fleeting look of concern. Liar. "I thought I—"

She doesn't make an effort to move. Instead, she watches as his eyes flit over to a table outside of her cell, where a pile of dry, neatly folded clothes await her.

Marya rolls her eyes, the grip of her hands tightening around her arms. "Anything else?"

He gazes at her for a moment too long before striding toward the table, retrieving the clothes left for her there. He inspects them for a moment, brushing off invisible dust. He looks down at her as he extends his hand. "I believe a Captain would know best that wet clothes are a fool's way of catching a cold."

It's not regular clothes he's offering, she quickly realizes. It's First Army uniform. Her eyes flick back up to him, and she wonders whether he truly is Sturmhond, and not some impostor. But as he extends them to her, there is something about how the light frames his face, something about his posture— and she knows it's him. Her jaw clenches, and she wonders how much repressed anger it will take for her jaw to splinter in half.

She doesn't want his clothes. She doesn't want his ring. She doesn't want anything to do with him.

"I'll survive." she grits out. The promise of warm clothes is inviting, but Marya would rather get hypothermia than accept anything that comes from his hand. However foolish it may be, she tries to imagine Sturmhond caged somewhere else. Somewhere in a near tent, facing a similar situation to her. She pictures him leaning against his jail, maybe donning a matching pair of handcuffs. It feels all-too real; Sturmhond with his head of messy red hair hunched over, hiding his hands from any soldiers lurking around while he expertly picks the lock on his cuffs. Marya tries to believe it, if only for a moment, that Sturmhond is not the man standing in front of her. She wants to convince herself that the man, the prince, is nothing like the privateer she has spent the past weeks with— the privateer she has grown to know and care for. But she can't deny it— because, not only did she bear witness to the unfolding of his web of lies, but the resemblance is there.

It makes her want to scream. And yet, for the time being, she settles for: "I want to see Neyar."

He lowers the clothes he was offering, not appearing defeated. While a few of Sturmhond's tells are there, she has a harder time reading him. The prince's hand rests against one of the metal bars. "She's unharmed— although I can't say the same for a handful of soldiers." He waits a beat, as if expecting a reaction from her. "Regardless, I gave everyone strict orders to steer clear of her. She's safe." His voice is softer, kinder. She despises it. She despises him. What the hell do you want from me?

"Your promises mean nothing to me," she bites, and her voice feels darker. The thought of a squadron of Ravkan soldiers aiming their firearms at Neyar shoots electricity down her spine. If her navigator has so much as a scratch on her— "I want to see her."

The prince hums. "This whole situation feels remarkably familiar." She refuses to close her eyes for long now. Among the lies and her anger, Marya has only just clocked that his voice is the same as that of the privateer's. And, if she allows her eyes to close, she runs the risk of forgetting the man before her is nothing more than a golden prince who saw it fit to play dress up. "You forget that not too long ago, my promises meant something to you."

         His words nearly make her flinch. She remembers. When he promised her to find Karim— not once, but twice. She remembers how she felt; like sunlight had burst within her chest. Like, for the first time in eternity, she could finally let go of a fraction of the weight resting on her shoulders.

         Now? She feels nothing. She feels too much. She feels too cold, and too hot, and like her whole body might explode with rage— or something worse. Her hands start trembling; she balls them into fists.

         "Sturmhond's promises meant something. You forget, Your Highness, I do not know you." Her blood feels too hot underneath her skin, embers setting every nerve alight. "If anything, the only thing I do know is that you're a liar. I don't trust liars."

         "Of course— you prefer thieves and pirates."

She can't be certain whether the mocking, demeaning tone is there, or if she's imagining it. "Watch it," she hisses.

He exhales as the pristine smile falls for just a second, before being quickly patched up by an apologetic look. "I meant no disrespect."

Marya tilts her head, leaning it against her palm. "Why? Are you feeling under the weather?"

His lips part, before his eyes flick down to her hands. He pauses, furrowing his brows. "Why are you wearing handcuffs?"

"You mean other than your army men slapping them on me?" she asks, resisting the urge to shift at his unreadable look. "I wonder."

"I've seen you redirect a bullet without breaking a sweat." He scoffs a chuckle. "They might as well have handed you a loaded pistol with those."

Marya purses her lips, raising her hands. She inspects the cuffs. They are as useful on her as a pair of bracelets. She drops her hands. "Maybe I need a reminder."

"Of one of our first encounters?"

Her jaw tightens again. "Of what'll happen if I leave Ravka with just one royal son," she snaps.

         She glares him, and this time, she doesn't let her attention trace away from him. He looks like a polished prince. If she hadn't witnessed it first hand, she wouldn't believe it herself. The roguish privateer with ruddy hair and that pretty grin is gone. And yet, she sees remnants of Sturmhond embedded into the prince's face, into his voice, into his demeanor. It's driving her insane.

         "Prince," she finally says with a scoff, shaking her head.

         He shrugs nonchalantly. "Among other titles."

         Marya stands up slowly. His eyes trail after her with what she can only place as caution, as wariness. Why else would he be following her movements so closely?

         She feels cold. Her clothes are no longer as wet as they were when she was first thrown in this jail, but they're not warm by any means. Still, she refuses to take his offering. Because accepting it would be caving in. Not only that, but having Ravka's second prince hand her some First Army uniform feels so deeply wrong. She supposes there might be a metaphor hidden somewhere in there, but she is too angry, too tired, and too worn out to figure it out.

         "Whatever it is you want, you're wasting your time," Marya says as she finally stands. It makes for a mighty picture, she supposes. A polished prince. A dirty pirate. "Any apologies you could offer are as valuable as your lies."

         "I wasn't planning on apologizing." His words feel like a slap to the face. "I get the sense you wouldn't appreciate another attempt at deceiving you."

         Marya turns to him, inspecting the rusted metal beneath her fingertips. She looks up. "I don't appreciate the fact that you're still standing," she sneers.

         Marya finally walks up to his side of the cage, leaving only a wall of rusted metal between them. Up close, she manages to spot a few tells his new face bears: the way his throat bobs, the faintest tension by the line of his jaw.

         Brown meet blue. An unfamiliar abyss. An ocean she does not know. She's a pirate— and any pirate knows the dangers of foreign waters.

         Nikolai Lantsov, she repeats in her head, and even then it bleeds through her mind like a deadly poison. The second son of the Ravkan King. Nikolai Lantsov. Her hand tightens around one of the bars. What did he see in her? Did he see that she could be easily fooled? Easily played? Easily used?

Her fist tightens. If she was a Heartrender like Karim, she would make him kneel. Maybe she should bend the irons around her and do just that. Make him regret ever crossing her path. Make him rue the day he thought her to be easy prey.

         I am no quarry, she thinks, and the words echo violently in her head. I am the Demon of the Waters. Her eyes narrow. There's few pirates in history that can say they've ransomed Ravkan royalty.

         "I thought you were religious," the prince says, and derailing her train of thought. He tilts his head, as if intrigued. "Lantsovs are said be descendants of the Firebird, you know."

         Her jaw ticks. Don't give him the satisfaction. "I'm religious, not superstitious," she hisses. At least, she tries not to be superstitious. She's devoted to the faith— not to a lineage of Ravkan Kings. Marya tilts her head, leaning closer to him. Both her hands grip her cage. "But if you do have Firebird blood in you, then maybe Alina should slit your throat and wear your bones." She bares her teeth like a hungry wolf. "I'll gladly give her a helping hand."

         "I don't believe Alina would approve," he says, and his words ring like a challenge in her ears.

         "Why don't you come a little closer and we can find out?"

         A strange glint crosses his gaze, one she's unable to place. Regardless, she doesn't do meaningless killing. Not for revenge— her Saints will forgive the murder of a slaver, of a soldier following an evil cause— they won't forgive the murder of a man who has done good.

         No matter how much she wants to tear him in half.

         Perhaps with enough time in this place, she could find a way around it. A loophole. Then again, killing a prince of all people won't do her any favors.

         Prince. She still can't wrap her head around it.

         "I thought you said you didn't care for pasts," he starts again, and Marya gets the distinct feeling he's trying a different angle. Ways to make the pirate docile. She'll bite his hand off before she allows that to happen. "That's why you took a different name."

         The bars around her hands bend to the side with a violent thrust. "Do not compare yourself to me," she snaps. "I don't care for pasts— but being a prince is your past, your present, your future." The cage around her creaks.

         She was a fool.

         "You told me your name was Sturmhond," she says, and her words crack. She hates how broken her voice sounds.

         He doesn't falter. "I thought you would have understood." There it goes again— that unplaceable glint in his gaze. "After all, you hide under a different name as well."

         "Hide?" she repeats, backing away from the cage. She shakes her head violently. Hide? Hide? She laughs, and the cage screeches and groans again. She was a fool if she ever believed he understood her. Hide? a voice inside her chest seethes, She doesn't hide.

         "I hope you rot, Sturmhond."

         Her chest heaves, and her cell sounds as agitated as she feels. She was right the first time around. I hope the land that greets you on the other side is barren and dead. She let herself be used.

         The mask of nonchalance slips, and his shoulders sag. For just a fraction of a second, he almost looks ashamed.

         "Nikolai," he says softly.

         Marya reaches for her finger, yanks off his emerald ring, and flings with all the strength she can manage. It passes through the bars of her cell, only narrowly missing his face. The ring collides against one of the walls of the tent, before bouncing harmlessly onto the ground.

         She's too angry, too enraged, and she has to put conscious force into keeping her body from shaking.

         "I should have stabbed your heart when I had the chance," she spits.

         The mask slips back on, and Nikolai looks unimpressed. Silently, he bends down to pick up the ring, polishing off a speck of dirt from the green gemstone. "That's a family relic, you know. The Lantsov emerald."

         "Get out," she seethes, and her voice feels like a sword's edge.

        His expression changes only slightly. He examines his ring with an unreadable look. "Is that what you want?"

         He lied her. He used to her. She left because he asked. Because of the way he was looking at her underneath the moonlight, because of how she was starting to feel around him.

         She trusted him. He asked, and she left her ship. Her crew. Her Second. Her son.

        "What I want is to fill your mouth with rocks and watch as your body sinks to the watery deep, Your Highness."

        "Ah, but I believe that is called treason."

        Marya's fist slams against the side of the cell, and the metal cries out loudly— enough to make him wince. Behind, she leaves the jagged indentation of her hand. "Then you better make sure the next set of cuffs they put on me are a whole lot tighter than these." She strides towards the front of the cell. Her chest heaves.

         He straightens, as if bracing for another punch to the side of his princely face. Cages are for wild animals, not for prey. She won't be easily fooled, easily played again. I am Captain Marya of the Repentance, and I am no quarry.

         She reaches for the two bars she'd gripped earlier, and straightens them back into their original form. This cage is not to keep me inside. The cell creaks again, lower this time. It's to keep you safe from me. He'd do well to remember that.

         Marya meets his gaze through the metal bars of her cage.

         "Get out," she says, her voice eerily even, "before I decide to leave your crew without Captain, and your nation without Prince."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         IT TAKES A COUPLE OF HOURS UNTIL MARYA'S TENT is invaded by yet another uninvited visitor. This time, however, the intruder is not Nikolai, but a man in First Army uniform.

Marya looks up at him as he approaches her cell. He seems older, with graying hairs on his beard. There's a poorly concealed scowl on his face— as if the task of visiting her is beneath him.

The keys on his hand jingle loudly against each other. He brings them to the lock on her cell, before casting his eyes onto her. He sneers.

"Stand up, pirate."

Marya is far too exhausted to be dealing with some soldier's contempt. She casts her gaze onto him dismissively.

He inserts the key and opens the door, throwing it open. She remains seated on her spot, wondering just how he'll be reacting. She swallows a scoff. She's met enough soldiers from enough countries to know that they rarely take kindly to foreigners who ignore lousy commands.

"Stand, or be dragged out." Marya meets his narrowed gaze, and decides her stubbornness can wait. Slowly, she stands up, her handcuffs rattling with her movements. "Step outside."

Marya's jaw clicks. She takes a single step out of her cell. The soldier with the permanent sneer goes to unlock her cuffs. In turn, Marya flicks her wrists, and the handcuffs drop to the ground with a loud clatter.

"I'll show myself out."

The soldier doesn't get the chance to protest before Marya steps outside of the tent, squinting her eyes at the immediate sunlight that greets her. The army encampment is slowly being torn down, she notices, with less and less tents still standing.

"Marya!" she hears from the side, and Alina practically leaps onto her as she wraps her arms around her neck. Marya blinks once, twice, feeling wildly off balance until Alina pulls away from her. There's worry swimming in those dark eyes of hers. "I thought they were going to shoot you."

"Alas, I live."

Alina frowns. "How's your head?"

"Sore." That glimmer of concern flickers again, and Marya tries to offer a smile. "Nothing too bad, Starkov."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure Neyar broke the arm of the soldier that hit you."

Her smile drops, and her heart skips a beat. Her brown eyes quickly search the open space behind Alina. "Where is she?"

"She's okay." Alina tilts her head slightly. "Tolya nearly had to restrain her, but she's okay." Marya can feel Alina's eyes still scouring her features, as if searching for a wound. "She'll want to see you."

Marya breathes out, as if letting go of yet another weight on her back. She's okay. "Good," she says with a nod. More tents are dismantled behind them, their contents being sent into crates. "What's happening?"

"We're moving," Alina says, and the edge to her voice is undeniable. Her lips twist into a scowl. "His Most Royal Highness wants us to get a head start to Os Alta." Dark eyes flick back to Marya. "It's a good thing you knocked him on his ass when you did. Otherwise, I think I would have."

Marya snorts. Glad to be of service. "We'll both get another chance if I have anything to say about it."

"I believe Mal already beat us to it."

At that, she furrows her brows. "Mal?"

Alina hesitates, only for a brief second, before exhaling, "Sturm— Prince Nikolai tried to talk to us after— after..." she clears her throat. After they threw her in a cell. "If it makes you feel any better, Mal threw him against a tent post."

Her lips twitch upward. "Oh, it does." She knew there was something she liked about Mal.

It only took a couple of more hours for the soldiers to disassemble what was left of the military encampment of Kribirsk. A few horses went on their way earlier than the rest— probably to clear a path, and issue any possible warnings regarding their upcoming journey.

"Why aren't we leaving?" Neyar asked her the moment the procession started. "We owe him nothing."

"But he owes us," Marya had responded, struggling to ignore the simmering feeling that buzzed beneath her flesh. "Trust that, if it comes to it, I won't have any moral qualms with shattering his bones until he does as promised."

Neyar had nodded once, and they had been ready to follow the procession.

Now, Marya rides her horse at a steady pace, following a few paces behind Alina and the prince. From what she hears, the journey from Kribirsk to Os Alta is not exactly short, and though it is usually uneventful, none of them can rule out any possibilities.

Marya hasn't forgotten the words Genya said to Alina aboard the whaler.

Grisha are being persecuted again— by the King's own soldiers.

She can't ignore the fact that there was no Second Army in the military camp— that there are no keftas in sight in their procession of wagons and soldiers. Marya can't help but wonder if it was always like that, or if it's a recent development.

Among the sea of people, it is damn near impossible to ignore his head of golden hair, riding only slightly ahead. It makes Marya grind her teeth again. She wonders if, at this pace, she'll have any teeth left by the time they reach the Royal Palace.

The Palace. She was supposed to reach Os Alta alongside a privateer, not a prince. The thought shoots an unpleasant, boiling feeling across her body.

After pondering on it, Marya is surprised to realize that it is not the lie that stings the most. To her shock, there's a sting, a quiet grief for the picture she had of Sturmhond in her mind's eye. Of a young, red-headed farm boy, stubborn enough to leave the countryside and journey towards the seas. There's a heartbreak there— in realizing that such boy never existed in the first place.

To her dismay, it doesn't stop her from searching their little parade for Sturmhond's head of red hair. And, instead, she ends up finding Nikolai's every time without failure.

         "If you keep glaring at him like that you might burn a hole through his skull."

         Mal's voice makes her turn. The tracker rides next to her, looking ahead at the pair.

"Would that be so bad?"

         Mal snorts. He shakes his head. "I take it you didn't know about him—"

         "—Being a prince?" she answers, and the words come out sharper than she intended. She inhales. Exhales. "No."

She let herself be blindsided. Because, the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes the signs were there. Why would the Royal Family have ties to a privateer? It was why the color of his eyes seemed to change from moment to moment, why the tone of his hair was a little too bright, too unnatural. Why the position of his scar seemed to shift. All the times his hair seemed to dim away from red, and inch towards a lighter brown, a darker blond. The way he talked. The way he walked. The way he fought. The way he danced. Even that Saints damned ring of his.

The signs were there. She could've seen them. She did see them.

         She just chose to ignore them.

         "You landed a nice hit on him."

         "Thanks." Marya looks back at the tracker. "I was told you did too."

         He averts his eyes. Mal exhales loudly, the corner of his lips curving upward only slightly. "Maybe next time you could aim for the nose."

She likes the idea. Give him a real broken nose for a change. Marya scoffs a laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

         A beat. Two. "...What happens to you now?" asks Mal.

         In all honesty, she doesn't know. "I doubt the King and Queen will appreciate having a pirate wandering around their grounds," she answers instead. "If I'm lucky, he'll keep his end of our bargain."

         "Which is?"

         "Helping me find someone."

         Mal considers it for a moment, his grip loosening around the reins of his horse. "Back in the whaler— with the Darkling. You told me you were in it for the money."

         "Did I?" she questions absentmindedly. "A little lie. You didn't exactly strike me as the type to cooperate easily." Marya can't explain why, but the phrase like calls to like rings faintly by the back of her skull.

         "I appreciate it," Mal says abruptly.

         "What?"

        He clears his throat. "What— What you did for us. For her." His brown eyes linger a moment too long on Alina, still riding ahead of them. "What I'm trying to say is—" he sighs, "...thank you."

        Marya finds herself smiling slightly. "Any time."

        Mal's lips part to add something else, when a stranger's voice cuts him off. "Oretsev," a soldier interrupts, "you're needed ahead."

        Mal hesitates, while Marya simply nods. "Go," she says.

        The tracker nods, and follows the soldier towards the front of the group. Marya watches as they ride ahead, eyes flitting over the sea of wagons and horses. Her brows furrow as they land on Alina— who, as it happens, is notably alone.

        "Wonderful evening, isn't it?"

        Speaking of the devil.

        Marya doesn't spare him a glance. Instead, she keeps her gaze firmly set forward. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she spots that golden head of hair that seems to be everywhere she looks.

        Her hands tighten around the reins.

        "Granted, I suppose the Vy is not the best spot for sightseeing, but it does have its merits," Nikolai continues, now riding side-by-side with her.

        It doesn't take long for Marya to piece it together. Damned bastard. She wouldn't be surprised if he had been the one who gave the order of sending Mal to the front. She supposes Prince Nikolai Lantsov has only so many noses the two of them can break.

        "I imagine after we cross the Sokol River, the sights will improve— although nothing compares to the view of Os Alta," Nikolai continues, as if unaware of the growing tension in Marya's jaw. "The only thing it lacks is a proper view of the True Sea— although it does have a lovely lake next to the gardens."

        Marya gets the distinct feeling he's willing to spend the entire ride describing all the geographical landmarks of East Ravka. "What do you want?" she demands, voice cutting.

        "Countless things, my darling. Too many to name. For now, a tub of brandy and a response from you should suffice." Marya doesn't spare him a glance. She keeps staring straight ahead, focusing on the back of one of the army wagons. Upon her lack of an answer, Nikolai simply continues, "I suppose the lake of Os Alta could be to your liking, Marya. There are a few—"

        She pulls at her reins sharply, making her horse neigh. Her head snaps in his direction, nostrils flaring. "Don't call me that."

        Nikolai arches a brow, pulling his reins as well. He meets her gaze evenly. "It's your name."

        Marya scoffs, shaking her head. She resumes her path, eager to leave him behind. "Like you care for names." Captain. Sturmhond. Nikolai. Your Highness.

        To her irritation, he doesn't relent. "Okay, so, if not Marya, what would you have me call you?" he asks, considering his possibilities. "Captain?"

        Marya clenches and unclenches her jaw. "I would rather not have you call me anything at all."

        "That seems counterproductive, seeing as we'll be spending at least a few weeks together." She can feel his blue eyes trying to burn a hole into her cheek. "Should I just make a nondescript sound whenever I wish to address you?"

        "Is this a joke to you?" she demands, features twisted into a deep scowl that Nikolai is starting to find all-too common. "Do take pleasure in this, Your Majesty?"

        He clicks his tongue. "Now, that title is reserved for the King." He pauses, and for a moment, Marya almost believes she hears his voice growing softer. "And would you believe me if I said I didn't?"

        Find another fool to believe your lies. "I don't believe a word that comes out of your mouth." A man with a pretty smile and sharp wit is a dangerous thing. She should've heeded those warnings earlier.

        "But you did back on the ship. When I told you I'd help you find your brother."

        "That's—" That's because she trusted Sturmhond. Saints, she was even starting to like him. Maybe even more than that. Now, she hates him. She hates herself. She let herself be vulnerable around him. "The only reason I'm still here is because you vowed to hold up your end of our bargain."

        Stupid, stupid girl.

        "Does that mean you've chosen to trust me?"

        "It means I have five knives on me and two loaded pistols," Marya shoots back. "It also means that if you can't help me, I'll just take you hostage and ransom you to your family."

        Nikolai narrows his eyes only slightly, and the look on his face is unreadable to her. Perhaps it is amusement. Perhaps suspicion. Perhaps something else entirely. "I thought you didn't do prisoners."

        "Perhaps I've finally changed." She snaps her reins. "You'd think you of all people would understand that," she says, and rides ahead, leaving him behind.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

hello hello!!! updates are not returning to their regular schedule just yet (read: twice a month) because i'm currently starting out my summer break but won't really get settled until after new years!!! (exciting vacation plans that are causing me anxiety for no reason at all??? maybe!!!!) so this is probably gonna be the last update in a little while :-)

planning this second act for some reason has become harder for me?? though i like the show, i do feel they rushed through so many key events, so i'm still undecided whether i should follow the books or the show (especially because i want that whole episode of the crows + zoya and tolya going to shu han to be included with emerens neyar and marya). like maybe i should just stick to the canon of siege and storm, and then instead of ruin and rising just follow the show???? thoughts? i'm still undecided whether i want them going to os alta directly (like the books) or to the spinning wheel (like the show). this is a cry for help.

i wanna say that i've been considering asking someone to help me straighten and figure out the whole timeline, but i would hate not to see their genuine reactions when the chapters do come out, since its my favorite part of writing (which is ALSO why i'm so cryptic when answering comments, because i love spoiling things but at the same time don't)

also!!!!! i made a pinterest board containing sections for all the members of my beloved repentance crew + a few other characters + places (both canon and non-canon) that might contain a few hints and spoilers with no context....... who's to say. anyways, if you're interested, you can find it on my pinterest @/dovegrangers under the name "who can see a shadow in the dark?"

quick shoutout to the three books i currently have stacked next to my bed to keep everything in order + serve as running inspo for this fic:

sadly i haven't been able to find the lives of the saints in english so its the only book by leigh bardugo that i'm missing :( (also would make my attempts to reference the saints a LOT easier lmao)

anyways!!!! merry christmas to those who celebrate, happy holidays to those who don't, and have a wonderful summer break to my peeps from the southern hemisphere <3

[ Started: Oct 25th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Dec 24th, 2023 ]

( word count: 6k )