CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
❛ 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝙰𝙶𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴 ❜

         MARYA SHOULD HAVE LEARNT BY NOW THAT the Second Ravkan Prince excels at many things. Striking deals for his own benefit, being a two-faced bastard, taking a punch like a champ. By all means, the list is as bothersome as it is extensive. But, above all, lying and misleading happen to be at the very top.

And so, Marya should not have been surprised to find out that Prince Nikolai Lantsov did not intend for them to journey straight to Os Alta. Rather, he had the thought-out plan of stopping by every city, every village, every outpost to declare his return.

Marya cannot exactly pinpoint the moment their journey to the Royal Palace became a parade. A spectacle of sorts in which the prince can display himself alongside Alina Starkov. A power play— that much is obvious.

The Captain of the Repentance has lived countless lives— traveler, acrobat, drüskelle cargo, refugee, thief, farmer, pirate. And yet, she never, never thought she would ever see the day when she became one of His Highness' royal entourage.

It makes her sick.

"I should have aimed for his mouth," Mal mutters besides her, features twisted into a scowl.

Up ahead, by the center of the plaza, stands His Most Royal Highness on a black horse. He grins and speaks words that don't quite manage to reach Marya's ears. Besides him, Alina tries to smile and nod at the villagers and the town's mayor— but the weariness is becoming evident. The prince must have struck some deal with her; after all, Marya gets the distinct feeling Alina would not let herself be swayed by pretty words from a liar.

Nevertheless, Mal's frustration is well-founded. It's no surprise that three days straight of being paraded around is starting to take a toll on Alina. On all of them.

"He'd find a way to keep talking," Neyar grumbles, shaking her head. The three of them hang back, away from the crowds.

It was during the second night that Marya came to the inevitable conclusion that sticking with her cold clothes would help nobody. And so, alongside Neyar, they both took First Army jackets from one of the crates. As she put it on, Marya reminded herself that it was to fend off the cold— that it meant nothing more. That she wasn't accepting a prince's favor. That she wasn't a First Army soldier. But the sour feeling building up in her throat felt unbearable. And so, in the early hours of the morning, Marya put what little affinity she had with textiles into destroying any symbol the jacket had of the First Army. In the end, it landed Neyar and her with jackets that were a shade darker, with torn seams and ripped golden threads.

The jacket is as far as Marya permitted herself to go. Anything further would've driven her over the edge. And while she told Neyar she wouldn't judge her if she chose to wear a pair of olive pants and a fur hat, the navigator didn't even acknowledge Marya's comment— as if following through with it had never been an option to begin with.

"How long is the trek from here to Os Alta?" Marya asks, turning towards Neyar and Mal.

"It should take less than a week. But at this rate?" Mal scoffs. "Who the hell knows."

"If Lantsov intends to repeat this routine in every village we find..." Neyar starts, but Marya's focus drifts before she can finish listening to what she was saying. Her horse neighs and huffs, and Marya tugs at her reins, to no avail.

Her horse keeps unsteady, and Marya exhales. Carefully, hops off her horse, reaching to guide him with the reins. He huffs again, but follows regardless.

"Where are you going?"

"To get him some water." If Nikolai's parade extends for longer, then she should probably get her horse some rest as well. "I'll be back."

Marya guides him until they reach a small stream by the side of the market. While the horse focuses on the water, Marya snatches a pair of apples from a nearby stall while the trader is busy.

She pets the brown horse's mane gently, watching as the animal becomes less uneasy after drinking from the stream. Perhaps she should've brought Mal and Neyar too. Marya exhales as she takes a bite of one of the apples.

The crowd feels distant from where she stands— just a distant murmur of indiscernible words she can tune out for the time being. That is, until the blur of sounds becomes recognizable voices— except they no longer sound far away.

"No deal. You best find another stall to purchase from."

"It is coin, no?"

"Find another stall."

         "But—"

         "Get lost, girl."

Marya turns at the sudden sharpness of the man's voice. She squints, only to find a head of brown hair in front of the very stall she stole the apples from. The girl looks young— maybe fourteen, fifteen. There is a vague sense of familiarity— one Marya cannot seem to place. The girl opens her lips again in protest, before a hand settles on her shoulder.

An older man with bronze skin shakes his head. "Meja, keep walking. It is useless."

He keeps walking, and the girl trails after him, "But Appa—"

"Hey," Marya says, loud enough for both of them to hear. Brown meet brown. "Catch."

Marya tosses one of her apples at her, which she catches with ease. The girl glances back up at her, a smile quickly forming on her lips. She draws closer, thanking her near immediately. Her father, on the other hand, lingers behind, looking at her warily.

Marya wonders if he can tell— if he can tell how long she's been away from their people, if the eroded edges are evident in his gaze. Then his eyes focus on her clothes, and she remembers the jacket she's wearing.

"You are a long way from home," Marya says in Suli.

"I could say the same about you." He does not seem swayed by the language she chooses to speak. It sits oddly with her. Then Marya reminds herself of the company she is keeping, of whom she is traveling with. Of what the jacket she is wearing —no matter how dismembered— stands for.

She should've risked hypothermia.

The girl shrugs off her father's arm on her shoulder. He furrows his brow. "Priya, do not—"

"Is this your horse?" Priya asks Marya. She pets the horse's muzzle gently with a bright smile. "She's very beautiful. What's her name?"

Marya can feel how her shoulders drop, how her features soften. "I don't think he has one."

"I like the name Amir," Priya continues in Suli. There is a dancing glint in her deep brown eyes when she asks, "Don't you?"

Marya tilts her head. "I think I do. Quite a lot, actually." Priya hums in approval. The pirate turns towards Priya's father. "How long have you been in East Ravka?"

"Only a few months," he answers curtly.

"Not much better than the West, then?"

"No."

There is a beat of silence.

"You are alone," Priya says, still petting Amir's mane. But there is a familiar edge to her voice, a curiosity mixed with a certain caution. And when she looks up to face Marya, there is a knowing glint in her eyes.

You are alone. It's not a question. Barely three words, and it cuts deeper than any passerby would know. You are alone. Not an accusation. Not yet, anyways.

There are very few reasons for Suli to travel alone. None of them good.

"I'm looking for my obitelj." Her home. Her family. She offers her bitten apple to the horse. Then, she looks up. "Karim Thakkar. My brother."

"Karim Thakkar," the man repeats, and Marya sees the moment the alertness wired into his body unwinds, replaced by a type of knowing. A sense of sympathy. "We'll remember his name."

Marya takes a breath, out of necessity or a sudden sense of relief, she wouldn't know.

She nods her head in appreciation. The man and Priya have bronzer skin than she does, darker hair too. But that is not what makes Marya pause. Rather, the fact that they are only two. A lone Suli pair is a rare sight. She would know. "Are you traveling on your own?"

"No." Priya shakes her head. "Just strayed a little too far."

"We're not many," her father says, "but you're welcome to join us, zheji." Marya's hand fumbles, and she drops one of the apples.

Daughter. How many years since she'd heard it last?

She follows as the fruit rolls onto the ground. When she looks up, Marya feels like a startled rabbit. And for the first time in a while, she hesitates. "I..."

But she doesn't get to answer, not when a horse trots behind her.

"The procession is moving forward," Tamar informs her.

Marya's jaw ticks, and as she reaches for Amir's reins, another voice pipes up.

"You've made friends," Prince Nikolai points out, casting a shadow over Marya from his gray horse. Even though she isn't facing him, she can picture him offering a golden, treacherous smile. "The more the merrier. I am certain we could offer food or—"

The man doesn't spare a glance at the prince. Neither does Priya. "We'll remember his name, zheji," he says in Suli.

Priya whispers a quick goodbye to Amir, before turning to Marya. "Best of luck with your journey."

"Hvala ti," she thanks, and watches as the pair head back through the market, neither of them acknowledging Tamar nor Nikolai.

It is only once Marya cannot see them in the growing crowd amongst the stalls that she hears Tamar speak. "I wasn't aware there were Suli encampments this close to Kribirsk."

Marya hauls herself onto Amir. She raises her head, if only to guide her horse away from this unwanted interaction. In doing so, however, she makes the mistake of meeting the prince's eye.

He raises a brow. "So they won't be staying for dinner?"

Marya snaps her reins, and Amir appears just as eager as her to leave. "Not everyone can be bought, sobachka."

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         BY THE TIME NIGHT FELL, the procession reached a town by the name of  Vernost. Marya can't tell if their prolonged stop was due to the time, the exhaustion, or the inn with enough space to host them. Either way, she isn't complaining.

She needs a drink. In fact, if Nikolai will be paying for them, she might as well drink herself under the table. What does it matter, anyways? It will hardly hurt his pocket.

At least she gets to be drunk.

The inn is noisy, with songs Marya does not recognize being sung somewhere by the back. Drinks are passed around like water, with soldiers staying both in and outside of the bar. Marya notes that Mal and Alina are nowhere to be seen. Good for them.

Now, Marya intended to drink until she couldn't see straight— she did. But as soon as she reached the bar, she was met by Karim waiting for her with that knowing look on his face and an empty seat beside him.

"You should've listened to Emerens," Karim says after a while. His brown eyes trail back to one of the tables by the back, where it is easy to spot a head of golden hair. He kisses his teeth. "He's usually right about this sort of thing."

Marya doesn't follow Karim's line of sight. It comes to her in waves, her anger. Just when she thinks it has receded, she sees him smiling, laughing, parading himself— and then the waves come back, stronger than before.

She thought she was getting over it. She really did. But something about Karim bringing it up again feels remarkably like putting salt in the wound— except this wound is deeper, and the salt only serves to remind her that it's there. Bleeding. Untreated. Unforgotten.

"Damned prince," Marya mutters under her breath. Her nails dig against the counter. "Out of all the people he could've been, of course he's a Ravkan prince."

"You sure know how to choose them." Karim leans his head against his arm, and Marya mimics the action. His eyes look darker up close, like earth after rain. "At least, he's a decent upgrade from Rayan."

Marya purses her lips at the name. When she thinks about him, and finds it she only recalls a few distinct fragments of the Zemeni boy's face. A strong nose. Dark skin. Shy gray eyes. The same smile Ravi carries.

She shakes her head.

         "Stop that," she murmurs, biting at the inside of her cheek. Saltwater crests against her bones, against her ribcage, against her heart. "All Saints, I nearly told him."

"Told him what?"

"About me."

Karim tilts his head, and Marya continues. "About you. About Ravi." She straightens off the counter, back wired tight. "I would've told him."

It hurts to realize just how much she truly means those words. She pictures herself alongside Sturmhond on the deck of the Repentance; before sunrise, when the whole world seems to sleep. How far would she have gone? Just how much of her truth would she have told him?

"Look on the bright side." Karim peers at her, easily dismissing her words. "A prince has much more resources to hold up his end of the bargain."

"That's not—"

"You're forgetting this is nothing more than that," Karim says abruptly, and Marya looks up at him with a furrowed brow. There's a sharpness, an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "A business transaction."

She bites her tongue. Is that all this was? She shakes the thought away, feeling as a pit forms in her stomach. A business transaction.

He said he'd still keep his word. So why is she still so angry? Why does it bother her so much that he lied to her?

         Karim's voice feels softer when he speaks again. "You look..."

         "Exhausted?"

         "Burdened." There's that crease between his brows, lips curled with concern. "There's a church nearby," he starts gently. "Maybe you could—"

         "You're awfully chatty today." He raises an unimpressed brow, and there is a flicker of rising familiarity in his expression. Shame climbs up her throat. She works her jaw with a ringed hand. "There is nothing waiting for me inside a Ravkan church."

         "But you used to love those big glass paintings they have," Karim continues, his voice honey-sweet. A smile graces his lips. "Remember when we were passing through Udova, and you convinced Nisha and I to—"

         "Since when do you care for churches?" she asks.

         Karim pauses at that, furrowing his brows, as if confused. He stares at her for a beat. Then, quietly, he says,

         "...I don't think I ever did."

         He looks up at her, with an expression that sends a jolt through her body. He seems nervous. Confused.

         "Do I? Care for churches, I mean?"

         Marya finds herself at a loss. Her voice sounds hoarse. "I don't know."

         The universe seems to pause for a moment. Karim looks at her, and Marya feels as waves grow inside her chest, thundering against her heart and her ribs. She feels horribly transparent, as if Karim is looking straight into her soul.

         Brown meet brown. Then, finally, Karim looks away— and the universe around them takes a breath.

         "You need a drink," he says.

         Marya swallows, forcing a chuckle out of her throat. It feels dry. "Understatement." But just as she turns away from her brother and towards the bartender, a drink is handed her way.

         She looks up. "I haven't ordered anything yet."

         "It's from the woman over there," the bartender responds. "Enjoy."

         When the Suli Captain turns to peer, she's met by a familiar sight. Neyar takes Karim's seat. "You looked like you could use a drink."

         Marya scoffs a dry laugh. "Yeah, thanks."

         "I know it's pointless to ask," Marya feels  Neyar studying her, "but are you okay?"

         "Never better."

         "Right," the navigator says, sounding wholly unconvinced.

         Marya takes a swig of her drink. "How are you holding up?" she asks. "I haven't seen you get into any fights yet."

         "Night's still young." Neyar cocks her head, leaning back against the bar to gaze out at the inn. "I think—" she hesitates, "I think the twins have, have dulled the shock. The betrayal." She lets out a breath. "They're good people. They feel like..."

         Marya thinks back to the Suli pair she encountered at the market. "...Home?"

         "But in a good way." Neyar looks back up at her, and a faint blush reaches her ears. "I know it's dumb and too sappy but..." she licks her lips. "Speaking in Shu. Being understood. Understanding each other."

         Marya's heart sags a little. It's easy to forget Neyar is the only Shu member of her crew.

         "I've missed it."

         "You deserve it," Marya says, making Neyar perk up. "Feeling at home without all the baggage that comes with the land. It... It's a rare thing to find."

Neyar nods. "Thank you."

"Now, as for other matters..." Marya finishes off her drink, feeling as the alcohol burns a path down her throat. "We need to talk about our plan moving forward." She wipes her bottom lip with the back of her hand. "We should send word to Emerens."

"Do you think so?"

Marya exhales, shoulders dropping. "Honestly? I don't know. I just know we left our crew behind for a farce." Her tongue pokes her cheek. "I don't take kindly to that."

"Speaking of farces." Neyar's eyes latch onto someone, lips curling into a sneer. "Your Highness."

         Nikolai Lantsov has long since discarded Sturmhond's teal frock, instead opting to wear a military uniform. Unremarkable, save for the plethora of colorful medals pinned to his chest. Marya can't say she's surprised.

"Neyar," he greets, unfazed. His blue eyes flick over to her, and her chest tightens. "Marya."

Her jaw ticks, and she quickly turns her head towards the bar. She raises two fingers, flagging down the bartender. He starts serving her a drink on a glass.

         "Actually," she places her hand on the man's wrist, "the bottle is fine, thanks."

The man raises a brow, but hands her the liquor. "It'll be pricier if you take the whole bottle."

"In that case..." The prince is paying, isn't he? "Bring two. The more expensive the better."

Marya wonders if it's petty. She finds it she does not care. "What do you want?" Neyar demands.

"A moment with your Captain would be lovely."

Marya toys with the bottle, eyeing the label. "Shooting you where you stand also sounds lovely." She looks up, finding that Nikolai's gaze is already on her. She tilts her head. "But given our current situation, I don't think either will come to pass."

         "I wasn't aware you were in the habit of underselling your skills."

         Brown meets blue. "Committing regicide is not as glamorous as it's made out to be," Marya drawls. "But who knows? Stay long enough and you'll change my mind."

         "A risk I'm willing to take."

         She narrows her eyes only slightly. "Are you?"

         He meets her gaze evenly, if not with an amused lilt to his voice. "You've promised to do worse before." He shrugs, and the candlelight casts a warm aura over his nose and curve of his cheeks. "Besides, what use does a crown have if there isn't an impending threat of death hanging over it?"

         Marya forces herself to breathe in, however sharp it may seem. "Neyar," she hums after a moment, taking a swig of her newly opened bottle. Wine. Soft, and without as much of a kick. "How does one go about telling a prince to get lost?"

         "It's pretty easy, actually." Her golden eyes flick over to Nikolai. Neyar sneers. "Get lost."

         He tilts his head, and Marya finds it she recognizes the look on his face. Trying a different approach. "Despite what he might say, Tolya is actually quite a decent Healer." He turns to Neyar. "He could take a look at those wounds on your back."

         Marya freezes. The Shu girl pushes herself off of the bar. Her voice is poison, a sword's edge. Cutting. "What did you just say?"

         "I heard—"

         With one lightning quick motion, Neyar yanks Nikolai's arm onto the counter and stabs a knife through the table. Just an inch away from his hand, effectively pinning his sleeve onto the table.

         Nikolai clicks his tongue. "Well, this is impractical."

         Neyar picks up another knife from the counter. She stabs his sleeve again, this time closer to his skin. Her glare would be enough to burn a hole through the wall. "If any one of your people even tries to lay a finger on me, the next one of these will go through your hand," she seethes.

         Nikolai searches her gaze, but for all intents and purposes, he looks disgustingly composed. His voice is calm and serene; everything Neyar's is not. "I only meant—"

         "I know what you meant, princeling" she hisses. Her lips curl and features set into a deep scowl. Her shoulders are stiff like ice when she adds, "Stay the hell out of my way."

         Neyar shoots her Captain one glance, and Marya nods slightly. The Shu girl shoves her body against Nikolai's, before angrily making her way out of the inn.

         Marya follows her frame until she leaves through the door. She tips her bottle. "You always know what to say, don't you?" she asks, shaking her head. She's half tempted to follow Neyar— but she knows the navigator would rather unwind alone. "She was on such a good streak too." Marya looks back at the prince. She wonders if he intended to make her angry. If he knew what would happen, should he bring up the subject of the long twin scars that pan from Neyar's shoulder blades to her lower back. Marya scoffs. "You just had to show up."

         "Not the first time I've been told I leave an impression."

         She swallows the remains. Her bottle of wine tastes sour. Great, she thinks. He's ruined drinking too.

         Nikolai plucks the knife pinning him to the bar with ease, and Marya briefly ponders if he allowed Neyar to do it in the first place. Even when he was Sturmhond, it was always plans, on plans, on plans.

         "I thought you were excited to see East Ravka," Nikolai comments. He doesn't take a seat.

         Marya scoffs. "How's the saying?" she asks sardonically. "It's not the place, it's the company?"

         He chuckles lowly. "I deserve that."

         "You deserve to be ransacked and left for dead."

He inhales, tilting his head to look at her. The light catches on his golden hair. Marya finds it she misses the red.

         "I want to talk."

Want, want, want. He's a prince, after all. Princes don't have to ask— they just get what they want. Marya shakes her head bitterly. "I'm sure there's a line of soldiers and townspeople waiting for their chance to talk to the Nikolai Lantsov," she retorts, tone deceivingly sweet.

Something flickers in those blue eyes. Whatever response he'd prepared seems to evaporate. Instead, his voice becomes quieter, as if he's telling her a secret only the two of them are privy to. "What must I do to earn your forgiveness?"

Marya doesn't find sympathy in her. She turns her head away from him, focusing on some blank point of the opposite wall. "Die, maybe," she says, voice steady and numb. "The dead are easier to forgive."

"Marya."

Another chord in her snaps. "You keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Calling me Marya." She's being louder this time. Angrier. "Sturmhond only ever did that once," she snaps, shoulders set and jaw wired tight.

When he took a bullet for her. When he saved her life. Back in her cabin, he told her why he did it. Why did she believe him?

"You lied to me. You lied to my face." Her nostrils flare, her hand tenses around her wine bottle like it might just shatter in her grip. "You told me you grew up in a farm. I—" Marya cuts herself off before she can continue.

         I let my guard down for you.

Nikolai looks at her, but he feels miles away. His voice feels hollow. "Would you have trusted me, if I told you who I was?"

         How absurd is it? To miss someone who never existed?

"I don't know," Marya says, and her words still feel too razor-sharp against her throat. "And I guess we never will know, right?"

         She misses her privateer. But, even then, the memories of him are slowly starting to feel tainted. Wine that seeps into them and turns them sour. "Business transaction," she mutters, and his brow twitches. "Damn it."

"Captain—" His hand reaches out.

She jerks away. "Do not touch me."

Nikolai freezes at that, if only for a second. The mask of impassiveness shows just a crack. Salt in the wound.

"You seem to be under the misconception that I'm staying for something else other than what was promised to me." She steps back. "Find my brother. As soon as you do, I'm getting the hell out of here."

He's a prince, she remembers. He's a bottomless pit of resources. That's all he is.

All he ever will be.

"Enjoy the wine."

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A/N.

shoutout to the entirety of the dear wormwood album by the oh hellos, without it this chapter would've driven me insane + also shoutout to farrah love u babes

when i say this chapter was a pain to write i MEAN it oh my god. writer's block hit for the first time with this book and let me tell you it SUCKED. but!!! i'm finally done with it!!!! next chapter will finally have the gang in os alta so.... yeah. how does it feel when a ship hits rock bottom you ask??? hm. i wonder.

also..... if you're curious........ maybe u should google what the name amir means :-)

[ Started: Jan 4th, 2024 ]
[ Posted: Jan 14th, 2024 ]

( word count: 4.4k )