CHAPTER TWENTY
❛ 𝚃𝙾𝙶𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙴 ❜

         AS MARYA HAS COME TO LEARN, there are only a handful of things that are more relentless than Alina Starkov. Death, perhaps.

And so —despite her vehement insistence against it— the Suli Captain finds herself sat at a long table, her shoulders pressed up against Tolya's giant ones, and a sizable plate of red herring staring back at her.

Marya blinks down at the dish. She'd be a horrid pirate if she couldn't stomach fish. Yet her words to Prince Nikolai from a week ago weren't a lie— Captain Marya of the Repentance, Killer of men, Demon of the Waters, does not eat meat.

Her eyes flick towards the silverware placed neatly on the white tablecloth. Her fingers toy with it. There's a pretty vine-like design engraved onto it. The metal glints underneath the light. To her surprise, it's not silver-plated, but pure silver.

Marya pretends to drop the knife onto her lap, before swiftly pocketing it in one quick motion.

Tolya grumbles besides her. For a split-second, she's certain that she's been caught. That is, until he mutters, "They do love their pretty colors."

It is only once Marya raises her head that she realizes what he's talking about. His eyes narrow as they travel across the tables set inside. Marya sits amidst a sea of blue, purple, and a pitiful amount of red keftas.

         "I thought they're supposed to sit with their own Order." Marya reaches across for a glass filled with a sweet-smelling liquid she doesn't recognize.

Tamar clicks her tongue approvingly. "Alina decided otherwise."

Marya picks up on the sour looks on the faces of more than a few Grisha. "They don't seem too happy about it."

"They'll be less happy when Kirigan's shadow army rips through their ranks," Tamar scoffs. A boy with a purple kefta sat at Tamar's left flinches, arms stiffening as he brings a forkful of herring to his mouth.

Marya shakes her head, lips pursed. A few thoughts start to trickle back into her head. Is she wasting her time here? They're preparing for a war— what is she doing getting caught in the middle of it? Should she leave and get back to square one? Should she stay and see this whole thing through?

Before she can devolve any further, an arm bumps against hers. Unfamiliar gray eyes meet her gaze.

"You should get a kefta," the stranger says simply, as if they're already well-acquainted. "That is, if you're going to be dining with the rest of us."

Marya's eyes drop to the blue kefta she wears, embellished with pale blue embroidery. Tidemaker. The pirate scoffs, almost sounding amused. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

The blond woman tilts her head questioningly. "All Grisha in the Little Palace should have one."

"Don't be foolish, Inessa," a man in a matching kefta with silver embroidery mutters.

"Ignore him." Inessa waves her hand dismissively. Intrigue twinkles in her gray eyes. "He's always like this with newcomers."

Marya parts her lips, but doesn't find the words to say. A part of her feels she should be laughing. Does she look like the sort of newcomers that arrive at the gates of the Little Palace? Granted, she's discarded her Captain's coat, but she still sticks out like a sore thumb— even in something as simple as a white blouse.

Inessa searches Marya's expression, something bordering on mischievous in her eyes. Finally, she says, "You're the pirate that came in with Alina Starkov. The one that helped her find the Sea Whip." Although they don't turn, Marya doesn't miss the way a few Grisha sitting by Inessa seem to pause, ears perking up. "Tidemaker, yes?"

"Please." A man in a red kefta rolls his eyes at Inessa. "She's a Heartrender."

Marya watches as the two Grisha throw each other looks, puffing up their chests like peacocks. There's an underlying conversation she's not picking up on— not that she truly cares enough to find out. She does, however, get the feeling she's being pulled into a petty squabble.

"You're such a child, Mikhail," says Inessa.

Mikhail scowls. "You're the one who's trying to claim—"

"Fabrikator," Marya interrupts, stabbing her red herring with the fork she intends on keeping. When she looks up, there's more eyes on her than there were before. She clicks her tongue. "And I've been doing perfectly fine without a kefta. Thanks."

         She ignores the varied looks of disappointment on their faces.

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         LIFE AT OS ALTA IS SUFFOCATING. Marya has barely spent a week inside the Dream City— and, already, she has decided she hates it. From the towering spires to the gilded statues, Marya has grown sick of it. She can't fathom how Alina does it.

Between lunches and dinners at the Little Palace, Marya started spending most of her time mapping out the surrounding terrain. From the forests to the marble and limestone buildings, it wasn't long before the pirate finally found something that interested her.

The stables stood tucked behind the first line of trees, hiding just out of sight. She supposes royalty isn't particularly fond of the smell of horses.

She stumbled upon it by accident at first— but, ever since she did, she's been seeking shelter here. Perhaps shelter is the wrong word for it.

Marya eventually found the section in which Amir was being kept in. He looked better than he did during their journey. Royal horse, she said one day, who would've thought.

But it sits oddly with her, just how much it all reminds her of Novyi Zem. For any intents and purposes, the stables aren't built like anything one might find in Zemeni lands. And yet Marya can't help but feel hundreds of miles away from Ravka every time she sets foot inside. It's as if, each time she closes her eyes, the breeze grows warmer, and the air carries the faintest scent of jurda blossoms.

It took her a while to realize it's not the country she misses. Novyi Zem is a beautiful place— a place that seemed like a safe paradise after her time in Kerch. But it was never about the country. It's about the people in it.

With each visit to the stables, Marya finds herself missing Karim even more. She misses her brother. She misses her son. She misses going to visit them to Novyi Zem. She misses arriving to the ports, spotting Karim with little Ravi sitting on his shoulders, waving wildly at her ship.

"He would've loved you," she murmurs to Amir, leaning against the wooden half-door. She's always guessed it's one of the things that made Karim fall in love with Novyi Zem. The golden fields, the warm winters, but there was something about horses that intrigued him so. She still remembers the first time she visited him after leaving. Karim had traded for a beautiful dark brown stallion. Hadi, he'd named him. Rightly guided.

Marya picks straws of hay from the half-door, tossing them to the horse. "Where are you, Karim?" she asks quietly. She exhales, running the possibilities she's been dissecting for nights on end.

Fjerda is not an option. Fjerda is not an option, because Marya knows Fjerda means there is no brother left for her to find. When he was taken, he was near Red Harbor with Ravi— and based on the description Ravi gave her, it wasn't a drüskelle ship. She spent weeks intercepting any ships heading for Fjerda. And if that wasn't enough, she knows from experience that drüskelle don't tend to focus their efforts on the coast of Novyi Zem. They focus on the Spine— the stretch of water between the Wandering Isle and Novyi Zem.

Next is the Wandering Isle. But while Kaelish hunters are vicious, they don't stray from their borders. Red Harbor is too far from their reach.

The Shu are similar to the Kaelish like that. And while someone as high profile as a Sun Summoner might draw their attention, Karim isn't some Grisha of legend. No— the Shu have a tendency for using their own terrain to their advantage. Incursions in the mountain range is more of their style— not kidnappings from across the ocean.

Which leaves her with Kerch and Ravka.

Marya has spent years at sea sinking Kerch ships. The country is so corrupted, so rotten, that she has even encountered ships flying the emblems of families belonging to the Merchant Council. But, even then, Red Harbor is no place for stolen indentures.

Isn't it?

Marya can feel herself tipping into that all-too familiar spiral. What are the chances that Karim had been in Ketterdam, and her hunt for Sturmhond had derailed her further away from her brother? Even then, Karim has a decent grasp over Kerch— courtesy of their year spent in Belendt in a boarding house. Ketterdam means indentured. But Ketterdam means alive.

        Then the words she overheard from Genya Safin come back to her. She's ran them over more times than she can count. Each syllable etched onto the marrow of her skull.

The Darkling has raided camps in search for Grisha prisoners. People taken from their homes, from their posts. Grisha rounded up at the borders of cities, at ports, near the Fold.

        To be executed.

        Marya shakes the thought away, fists tightening around the dark oak planks of the door. Even narrowed down, the possibilities are far too many for her to tackle on her own.
She hates it, but she needs Prince Nikolai's help if she's ever going to track him down.

        A branch snaps behind her. Marya spins on her heel, fingers reaching for the knife she stole.

         "Who's there?"

         Another snap, and Marya flings her knife into the bark of a tree as a warning. She sees a blur ducking behind it. And while she doesn't manage to see his face, the colors of his clothes she recognizes. Irritation blooms in her chest. Nikolai.

         She steps away from Amir's stall with a scowl. "Just what the hell do you think you're—"

         He stands up, dusting himself off. And it is then that Marya realizes it's not Nikolai. With a myriad of medals pinned to his chest and a permanent sneer on his face, it's not difficult to recognize him. His brother.

         Vasily Lantsov.

         "That is hardly any proper way to address the future King of Ravka," he sniffs, barely concealing his momentary surprise. She supposes he's not in the habit of having silverware thrown in his general direction.

         "King?" Marya repeats, and his brow twitches. "Apologies," she says between her teeth. She hasn't been deaf to the rumors that Vasily has a knack for exploiting his power. And Marya is in no hurry to get her head cut off by order of a prince. "I didn't know I was to expect company."

         "In what world would a Crown Prince be required to inform of their comings and goings to someone such as yourself?" Vasily asks, lips pursed primly.

         Marya digs deep and urgently for some semblance of restraint— something to stop her right hook from showing the prince what someone such as herself can do.

         "Of course." Her jaw ticks. "My mistake."

         He clicks his tongue loudly. "Yes. Quite."

Marya and the first prince stare at each other for a moment. There is a calculating glint in his droopy eyes that she doesn't particularly appreciate.

"I was curious," he finally says, stifling the disgust that crosses his face as he looks around the stables. He turns his blue eyes back to Marya, scrutinizing her. "I'd heard rumors about my brother befriending pirates." He takes a step forward. "But I must admit, I was expecting someone... grander."

Marya swallows a scoff. Instead, she simply says, "Underestimating a foe is a simple path for ruin."

"A foe?" he chuckles, lips curving into a bemused expression. There is mirth in his voice when he says, "Is that what you are, little pirate?"

There are fibers of metal in his clothes, gold and silver on his medals. Marya wonders just how long it would take for him to choke.

Step closer and find out, she thinks. She smiles. "What kind of pirate would have enemies in a Royal Palace?"

"It would be certainly unwise to make an enemy out of the Crown." A thinly veiled threat. She wasn't expecting he'd be making them so soon. Vasily's eyes flick over her frame, slower this time. "I was told you were Suli."

Marya's brow twitches. She finds herself standing straighter. "I am."

"You don't look it."

She can't stop herself fast enough. "Would you rather I wear a silk mask and bells at my feet, your Highness?"

His lips curl in distaste. He looks away from her, focusing on Amir. Marya stares at the side of his face, jaw clenching and unclenching.

"I suppose it makes sense I'd find you here, all things considered," he starts again, his transition anything but smooth. "After all, your people have a deep connection with nature, do they not?"

Marya's cheek twitches. No matter how many times she encounters it, she will never get used to the sheer stupidity of some people. 

A deep connection with nature. She can practically see his moronic perception of her people. Men and women that read the winds, that communicate with animals, that heal wounds with nothing but earth and an air of mysticism. It makes her blood boil. This is the prince intended to lead an entire country? What a bleak future for Ravka indeed.

         Marya blinks, and Vasily is standing a lot closer than he was before. She has to stifle the urge to step back.

         "If the Suli are remarkable for anything, it would be entertainment and beautiful faces." Vasily tilts his head, his hand veering dangerously close to cupping her chin. He seems to stop, as if considering something. He reaches for a lock of her hair, curling it around his finger. Something violent starts to brew inside her ribcage. She wonders what sound his bones would make after getting his hand severed. "I suppose I can see your appeal— although you are hardly the best this country can offer." Vasily pauses, and Marya's hands tighten into fists. A vile sort of curiosity dances in his gaze. "What ever does my brother see in you?"

         She feels her back growing rigid, her skin unbearably hot. "I wouldn't know," she responds between gritted teeth.

         It's either her voice or her words that makes the corner of his lips curve upwards into a smirk. "Of course." Vasily steps back, busying himself as he glances around the stables. "Nikolai has always had a bad habit of keeping strays for company." Blue eyes focus back on her, and there is an air of smugness to him that grates at her. Vasily chuckles, turning around to leave. But not before saying,

         "We'll be seeing each other again, little pirate." His smirk widens. She can only hear his steps fading away before he adds, "Soon."

         When Marya pulls away from the stable door, there's an imprint of her hand left on the wooden surface.

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         AS OPPOSED TO THE PAST TWO DAYS, tonight dinner is hosted in the Grand Palace's great hall. And, much to Marya's chagrin, she cannot keep her eyes away from Prince Nikolai.

She tries. She truly does. But it becomes increasingly difficult when he sits at the focal center of the room. Marya stabs her plate of potato dumplings. For the first time, she almost misses the Little Palace. At least there she could've enjoyed the first meatless plate in she's been served since her arrival in peace. Instead, she's sat next to Tolya and Tamar —as per usual— with the new addition of Mal and Neyar... with a perfect view of the Royal Family's table.

         From where she sits, she sees the whole Lantsov family, just paces away from her. The entirety of the Ravkan monarchy— with the notable exception of the King, who has apparently taken sick as of late. The Queen sits at the center of a large table wearing a bright golden gown with Vasily on her left, Alina by the right corner, and Nikolai between them. It took her a while to place why it was exactly that the sight of him felt so jarring.

         He feels so... foreign to her. Watching him sitting with lavish medals and formal attire worthy of his title. Most of his garments Marya doesn't even know the name of— but calling the item he wears a jacket feels like a disservice. Even from a distance, Marya can see the gold detailing, the refined cuffs, the lavish buttons. If anything, he looks like a gilded prince, draped in blinding sunlight. The sight shoots a sour feeling inside her. The distance between Sturmhond and Prince Nikolai feels insurmountable.

         Marya shifts on her seat. His whole family is draped in golden silks. She has a moment of odd clarity, as she takes in Nikolai, Vasily, their mother sitting between them. In her father's tales, it was always humble boys with pure hearts and pure intentions. Fishermen, artisans, farm boys. Princes were cruel— their whims and desires just as much. She thinks of the ones she heard of in her Appa's stories. Princes who betrayed, who backstabbed, who manipulated and killed to get their hands on what they wanted. A maiden's hand. A roomful of riches. A deed of land.

         Marya looks at Nikolai. Second son. His brother's crown.

         Her spine feels tenser, her shoulders stiffer. She looks away from the Lantsov table.
It's not only Little Palace Grisha that dines with the Royal Family tonight. There are two wide tables with men and women in olive First Army uniforms. Decorated generals and high ranking lieutenants, she guesses.

         What is the purpose of this? She already heard the speech Nikolai gave. The words were meaningless for her. If anything, the only thing of note he achieved was cementing Alina's position. Whether that will garner the Sun Summoner more respect or create more enemies for her, it remains to be seen.

         By the time her eyes eventually return to the Lantsov table, she sees him sitting with a pleasant smile, holding his glass of wine in the direction of a First Army table. The generals raise their glasses in response, grinning and bowing their heads. Marya bites her tongue. How easily he falls into the role of prince.

         But then he surprises her. Briefly, if only for a split second, his focus flicks over to her. She tenses, her hand tightening around her fork. She feels the metal give away underneath her touch, curving into an odd angle.

         Nikolai doesn't show any sign of acknowledgment, but she can feel his stare lingering a moment too long. Then, he turns to whisper something in his mother's ear, before excusing himself. As he rises from his seat, Vasily and Alina follow suit.

         Marya watches as the three of them are soon joined by four men in uniforms. "Where are they going?" she asks the tracker sitting next to her.

         She finds Mal already following them with his eyes. He swallows a bite of his food. "To the war room," he answers quietly, before forcing himself to focus back on his dish.

         The grand doors shut behind them. Night has already fallen upon Os Alta. They're going to be discussing war strategies at this hour?

         Her brow twitches. "Now?"

         Tamar hums besides her. "I don't believe the threat of an impending war is restricted to any particular schedule."

         Marya stares at the tall, closed doors. Everyone sitting around her seems to know exactly what goes on behind palace walls. Everyone except for her. It leaves her to ponder why Tolya and Tamar aren't joining them this time around. Especially after she's seen and heard of them serving as some sort of guard for Alina and the second prince.

         The thought is quickly dragged away by a far more pressing one. If Prince Nikolai is out discussing war strategy from sunrise until well after sundown, Marya wonders if he truly has even spent a second following through with his promise. She tries to imagine his unbalanced scales. One one side, a country— his country. On the other, her brother. Marya's stomach sinks. Even back as Sturmhond, he had a talent for twisting words for his own benefit.

         He lied to you once, she thinks. What's stopping him from doing it a second time?

         Mal pushes a plate near her face. "Herring?"

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         BY THE TIME MARYA GOT BACK to her room in the Little Palace, she quickly found a note awaiting her on a flawless silver tray.

Marya,
Training starts tomorrow at sunrise.
I really, really hope to get to see you there.
— Alina.

It took Marya longer than she'd admit to fully read it. And yet, once she did, she promptly came to realize something. Had Alina chosen any other day to deliver her a message, she would've spent the night making her decision. Weighing her options. Determining the best course of action. But tonight is different— and even without her knowing it, there are already other more pressing matters awaiting.

Marya doesn't know when she decided to go through with it. Truly, only a fool would attempt such a thing. She doesn't fancy herself a fool. But, in the end, Marya is a pirate. And pirates will take whatever they can get their hands on.

         Unlike the others, Marya hadn't spent her days getting acquainted with Palace etiquette, finding a space made for her in this world of luxuries (a world that, in her opinion, seemed so unbelievably distant from her own). While Tolya, Tamar, Alina and Mal spent their afternoons being debriefed on future preparations, the Suli Captain spent her hours mapping out the entirety of the land around her. From gate to gate, Marya made it her mission to memorize any and all areas that could become of use to her. The stables, the woods, the towering walls, all the exit points she could exploit.

Determining which of the Grand Palace's rooms belonged to Prince Nikolai wasn't as grueling as she originally thought. What did pose a challenge had more to do with the fact that it remained guarded from the hallways, virtually impenetrable. There was no way she could slip in through the door without drawing attention. The windows, however...

         The night is dark and quiet. The moon is a crescent in the sky, barely casting any glow onto the land. Thanks to that, Marya's silhouette is invisible to any possible soldier guarding the Palace grounds.

The roofs of the Grand Palace are easier to walk through than those of Ketterdam. There's no rain to make them slippery, no broken tiles to make her fall. Truly, if anything, it's a security risk. Perhaps someone should let them know.

Marya lands on the windowsill with a barely audible creak. The sill is too slim— barely enough for a quarter of her foot to hang onto. Marya's hand grabs onto a protruding marble pattern that stands just above the window.

She inhales deeply, willing herself not to look down. You're out of practice, she thinks, her fingers tightening around the marble engravings. And despite what logic tells her, Marya makes the mistake of looking down. The hedges and statues of the Grand Palace seem so far away. Her throat closes. She won't survive the fall.

She takes a deep, fortifying breath. "Then don't fall."

         Marya looks away from the gardens and instead presses her palm against the window. Locked. She raises her hand gently, curves it, and the lock on the other side unfastens with a barely audible click.

The window slides open with a creak, and Marya steps in soundlessly.

The pale curtains billow behind her with the gentle spring breeze. The room itself is bathed in darkness; she'll simply have to make do with whatever light the moon will spare her. Marya doesn't make the mistake of lingering, of taking in whatever furniture the second prince has chosen for his chambers. The clock is already ticking, and she needs to be gone before Nikolai returns from the war room.

Marya scours the area as quickly as possible, before her gaze ultimately lands on a mahogany table by the corner of the room. She makes her way towards it, but the floorboards creak loudly— loud enough to become noticeable. Marya stops, mouth growing dry as she stares at the door with bated breath. What kind of prince wears clothes with golden threads, but doesn't look after his floors? Marya dismisses the thought. When no one steps inside, she continues her search.

         There are piles upon piles of papers on Nikolai's desk. She feels frustration climbing up her throat before she can even begin her search. All papers written in Ravkan, with barely any light for her to attempt to read them. It's far from ideal.

         Everything about this far from ideal, Marya thinks bitterly as her hands run through the heaps of pages strewn across his desk. She needs something— anything. Maps of trade routes. Correspondence. Mission debriefs. Anything to point at the fact that he's been looking for Karim— that he hasn't just been stalling for time. But she doesn't even know where to start. Most papers range in shades, sizes, texture, quality. Some are wrapped neatly with silk ribbons and wax seals. Others are thrown haphazardly.

        Just as her frustration is threatening to spill out, her attention stops at one recent document— one that looks a lot like a soldier's log. She skims through the writing, only picking up on a few familiar words. What draws her attention isn't the handwritten text, but rather the sketch of a coastal map. Just as she brings it closer to her face, she spots a series of maps and charts underneath it— of Novokribirsk, its ports, its limits with the Fold. As she picks one of them up, her eyes catch something else.

There is a candle sitting next to the pile. And while the candle has no flame, a string of smoke billows in a faint, curling stream.

        "Most people would rather use the front door."

         Marya doesn't turn around, not immediately. She feels her fingers tightening around the papers in her hands. She forces her shoulders to relax.

         "Most people wouldn't get past the army of guards posted outside."

         She hears a match being lit. A dim, orange light is casted over the prince's room, faintly illuminating the papers she'd been struggling to even get a grasp of. Shadows become legible lines. When Marya turns, she does it slowly, deliberately— as if she hasn't been caught red-handed. As if the second Lantsov prince hasn't managed to sneak up on her.

Nikolai stands next to the window she snuck in through with an unreadable expression. His blond hair is messy, his princely medals and sashes long discarded. Instead, he wears a dark blue robe with its silk belt left undone. Her gaze dips for just a fragment of a second. Heat travels up her spine as she looks back up at his face. She's seen him without a shirt before, back when he was shot. Nothing about this is new— at least, it shouldn't be. Her heart stammers.

Nikolai doesn't seem to notice, simply shrugging his shoulders. "Well, assassination attempts are far more common than one might think." He looks at her, as if asking, is this one of those times? When her face doesn't give anything away, he continues. "Not many people catch me off guard, Captain. I must say, this is an the unexpected visit."

Despite being caught, the pirate is blunt in her response. "I didn't think you'd be here."

Nikolai arches a brow. "Inside my own room?" He chuckles, taking a few steps forward. His demeanor is frustratingly relaxed. He's a man of a hundred faces, she reminds herself. He won't make it easy to read him. "If life at sea taught me anything, it is to know better than to leave my prized possessions unattended."

Marya scoffs, pushing herself away from his desk. Life at sea. The fact that he thinks he can stand there and lecture her about it makes her skin itch.

"Really? Is that what years in the True Sea taught you?" she sneers. What a dull, hollow lesson that is. She smiles sourly. "If only the rest of us could be as lucky."

"Unless the grand Captain of the Repentance willing to share any knowledge she's garnered over the years?" There's that word again. Grand. The same word Vasily used at the stables.

Marya schools her face into a cold, neutral expression, but the cracks in her facade are starting to show. "Someone once told me when a pirate conquers enough riches, they make him a prince." She tilts her head, jaw clicking. "What do you think happens when a prince playing a pirate cheats the wrong person?"

"Privateer." She draws closer to him, and they meet each other halfway. Nights are growing warmer now— it explains why the prince is bare-chested. And yet, that annoying, childish voice in her head tells her he's doing it on purpose. She makes a point to ignore it. "And I imagine he gets an angry pirate Captain with dubious intent coming into his room through a window." He pauses at that, offering one long glance behind him. "A window which, might I add, doesn't even have a balcony. It's quite an impressive feat. Frightening, but impressive all the same."

Blue meet brown. His face doesn't show it— it never does. If anything, the fact that he's without a shirt is the only way Marya can tell his breath hitches. It's almost imperceptible.

Almost.

His blue eyes flick down to her belt. Now that they're closer, his voice is lower, quieter. It tickles her ear. "I see you didn't bring your sword with you. Should I take that as a good sign?"

Marya doesn't respond. Even Nikolai knows better than that. If anything, he knows better than most. Last time they went toe-to-toe, she nearly killed him. The only reason she couldn't slit his throat was because Tamar intervened by stopping her heart.

Marya wonders whether he's thinking about that moment too. When she bent his sword into a harmless decorative piece. When she embedded her knife into his back. When she promised to bring him to his knees and kill him.

She doesn't need a sword. Not when metal is threaded into his clothes, into his bedsheets, into his pens and jewerly.

Her gaze shifts down to a thin chain hanging around his neck. She reaches for it, slowly, bringing it closer for her to inspect. Then, as if to prove a point, she asks, "What is this?" She eyes it calmly, nonchalantly. "Gold?"

The night is quiet. There is no noise coming from the hallways, from the gardens, from the training grounds. Nothing to distract from the hoarse sound of his voice.

"Brass," he answers, the single word scratching against his throat. If he understands the implication, he doesn't show it.

She remembers what he said when he found her in handcuffs. A loaded gun in her hands. Her fingers toy with the brass chain. She's killed others by similar means in the past. She wouldn't even break a sweat, watching some simple necklace snake around his neck until his pretty face turns purple. Does he consider it?

"Still metal." She flicks away the small pendant with her finger. Marya looks up. Nikolai is closer than she thought— closer than she expected him to be. She can almost feel the warmth of his skin against her.

"Still metal," Nikolai murmurs back. His hand is slightly raised, as if wanting to graze her cheek. He hesitates —she can see it in his eyes— before he brings it down.

Marya doesn't move. She has never been this close to him. To Nikolai Lantsov. With Sturmhond, she had almost memorized the color of his eyes, the line of his jaw, the curve of his nose. The pattern of freckles in his cheeks. The rise of his grin.

Looking at the prince, a strange new feeling emerges in her gut. Maybe it's the closeness— the odd, jarring familiarity of it all. Gilded clothes, gilded bedsheets, gilded hair. A golden prince.

There's no teal frock around his frame. No red hair. No muddy eyes. But that dancing glint in his clear blue gaze hasn't changed.

Marya closes her eyes, as if that has ever helped the canary in her ribcage find rest. He wasn't real, she has to remind herself. But it's easy to forget— scarily so. In the dim candlelight of his room, it would be easy to pretend the man in front of her is a privateer with charm, and not a prince with a mask. Her attention flicks down to his lips, and her pulse stutters.

Marya moves past Nikolai. "This was a mistake."

He doesn't stop her. Her heart is in her ears and she's already made far too many mistakes for one single night. Sturmhond. Nikolai. How much closer would she have stood if the man behind her wasn't a prince? What would she have allowed herself to do if it was Sturmhond in the room with her? Marya crouches on the windowsill, intending to leave the same way she came from before she can entertain any more foolish thoughts.

Her back is already facing him when she hears him say: "It's impolite to steal from a host."

         Her body locks in place. She looks at him over her shoulder as he turns. Silky curtains softly billow around her, clouding any clear view she could've gotten of him.

Marya's hand curls against the window frame. "I don't know what you're talking about."

         "The map of trade routes in your pocket." He sounds so at ease, so knowing. He steps closer to the sill, face bathed in gentle moonlight. His blue eyes are unreadable. "There are more interesting documents to be stolen, Captain. Letters from high-ranked officials. Reports from spies."

         The canary in her chest flaps its wings against her bones. "Then what do you care?"

         "Well, I believe it to be the principle of the thing, of course."

         Marya leans closer to him. He doesn't back away— impassive as ever. "So, it's impolite. But is it treasonous?"

         He looks up at her, and blue searches her features. "Some might say."

         "Good." She can still feel his eyes on her back as she stands up, reaching for the same marble patterns she used to hang onto before. The floor creaks beneath his feet.

         Her golden bangles clink against each other. A distant melody. A familiar tune. "You should look out for your brother." She side-glances at him. "I have patience, sobachka. But it has a limit. The next time he decides to corner me for some insulting interrogation, I won't be as kind."

         Something cracks in his perfected mask. "Vasily?" he asks and, to his credit, he has the decency to look confused. It only lasts a second, before something darker crosses his face. "What did he—"

         The night beckons. Marya swings onto the roof before he can finish.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

fake karim: you are worthless. you are an awful person. you are hopeless. you are-
real karim: yeehaw 🤠

this chapter took so long. oh my god. the whole vasily scene was originally gonna be set in marya's room under different circumstances but the more i thought about it the more uncomfortable it made me so i changed it!!! i'm much happier with this version tbh. i'm pretty sure the vasily scene was the one dragging this whole chapter because istg once i finished it everything went SO smoothly.

i'm actually proud of the dialogue for that last scene? it took me so long to get it right. istg for the longest time it was like two lines of dialogue and then just: [nikolai & marya say something witty].

can i also just add that the gif at the beginning of medalion rahimi is just EXACTLY how i
picture marya. it's also why u can see me recycling the same gif/scene because that's just... marya in my head. the earrings, the make up, the hair? canon marya i tell you.

[ Started: Feb 7th, 2024 ]
[ Posted: Mar 6th, 2024 ]

( word count: 6k )