...another blog that nobody needed. And with an unhealthy tendency towards h/c (fan)art.
I understand everyone who can't stand it here. But if I bring a little joy to just one person with one of my posts, or manage to distract someone from the burdens of everyday life for a brief moment, it was worth it.
Be kind.
Find me (and more stories) on Ao3:
https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumbled_messy_confused
Twenty years in a tower. Twenty years of being told the outside world would destroy her. Twenty years of watching lights floating into the sky on her birthday, dreaming of seeing them up close just once.
When a stranger crashes through her window, she seizes her chance. The bargain: he takes her to see the lanterns, and she'll help him. Simple.
But nothing stays simple. Not when touching him feels like lightning. Not when her power responds to his darkness. Not when the woman who raised her comes hunting.
Some truths are buried for a reason—and some people will kill to keep them that way.
Notes:
Quick clarification on how Grisha abilities work in this story:
The Cut doesn't exist – Shadow Summoners can manipulate darkness in frightening ways but can't weaponize it as a cutting tool
Heartrenders can't kill directly – They can sense heartbeats, recognize people by their rhythm, and tell when someone is lying, but they can't stop hearts or crush organs
Healers are powerful but limited – They can close wounds, fight infection, and mend bones, but it takes time and energy. Some injuries are beyond their abilities.
Sun Summoners are the exception – Alina's healing has no limits when it matters most, because she's literally made of condensed sunlight/life force (the golden flower's magic)
Think gentler magic system, but still high stakes.
The story is finished. I will update every few days.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with ... well to be honest with the whole damn thing. Both source materials, all characters. But hey! That's why it's called fanfiction!
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Prologue: The Stolen Princess
Once upon a time, a single drop of sunlight fell from the heavens. From this small drop of sun grew a magic golden flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured.
An old woman named Baghra discovered it. For centuries, she hoarded its power, singing to it to restore her youth and keep death at bay. She hid the flower carefully, jealously, using it for herself alone.
Centuries passed, and not far away there grew a tsardom—Ravka. The tsardom was ruled by a beloved Tsar and Tsaritsa. The Tsaritsa was about to have a baby, but she became gravely ill. So ill that she was running out of time.
The entire tsardom searched desperately for the legendary golden flower that could save her. They looked everywhere, and finally—hidden beneath Baghra's concealment—they found it.
Baghra watched from the shadows as they took her flower, her immortality, her power, to brew it into medicine for the dying Tsaritsa.
The flower saved her. The Tsaritsa recovered and gave birth to a healthy baby girl with dark hair and bright eyes. They named her Alina, and the tsardom rejoiced. A princess was born.
The flower's magic had passed into the child. She was born Grisha. Was born a Sun Summoner.
But nobody knew.
On Alina's first birthday, the tsardom celebrated with lights and lanterns. That night, while the palace slept, Baghra crept into the royal nursery.
She stood over the infant's cradle and began to sing—the same song she'd sung to the flower for centuries. As she sang, the baby's hair began to glow. Golden light spread through the dark strands, brilliant and warm and powerful.
Magic. The flower's magic, now living in the child.
Baghra reached out with trembling, greedy hands and cut a strand of the glowing hair.
The moment the scissors closed, the glow vanished. The strand in Baghra's hand turned black and lifeless, its magic gone. But the hair still attached to the child's head continued to shine softly in the darkness.
Baghra understood then. The magic couldn't be taken. It had to be kept alive, kept whole.
So she took the child instead.
By morning, Princess Alina had vanished without a trace. The tsardom searched for years, but the princess was never found.
Deep in the forest, in a hidden valley wrapped in stone and secrecy, Baghra built a tower. A tower with no door and only one window, impossibly high.
There she raised the child as her own, singing to her hair whenever age began to creep back into Baghra's bones. The child's hair would glow with golden light, and Baghra would be young again.
Years passed. The child grew.
And every year on her birthday, the Tsar and Tsaritsa released thousands of lanterns into the sky, hoping that one day, their lost princess would see them and find her way home.
But the girl in the tower didn't know she was a princess. Didn't know about the tsardom that mourned her, or the parents who still searched.
She knew only the tower, and the woman who called herself mother, and the magic that lived in her hair.
She knew that she was special. That she was different. That she must never, ever leave the tower, or people would take her gift and use her until there was nothing left.
She didn't know that her light was meant to shine for the world, not just for one woman's vanity.
This story begins the day a stranger climbed through her window, bleeding and desperate, and changed everything.
⚠️ These oneshots are companion pieces to "Coffee at Dawn" and won't make sense without reading the main story first. Go read that one, then come back.
"Coffee at Dawn" is told entirely from Alina's perspective - which means you see everything she sees. And Alina sees a lot. She notices when Aleksander's shoulders are tense, when his gait is off, when something heavy sits behind his eyes. She pays attention.
But there are things she can't see.
This collection fills in some of those gaps. These aren't "missing pieces" because Alina wasn't paying attention. They're missing because Aleksander often chose not to share his thoughts. Choose to shield her from the worst of his job. Choose to show up at the café looking put-together even when he was barely holding on. Chose to make her smile instead of worry.
This collection is about what happens when we pull back the curtain on that behaviour.
I put these out as they drop into my brain. Each oneshot stands alone.
P.S. If you haven't read "Coffee at Dawn" yet, here's the link: "Coffee at Dawn". These will only make sense after you do.
In the sterile quiet between past and present, between life and loss, Alina finally understands. And she's shattered by the story of a man she's never spoken to, yet can't imagine losing.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, Fedyor's composure began to fray.
He started moving restlessly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack. Back and forth, back and forth—the same five steps, turn, repeat. Whatever was driving him seemed to go beyond mere worry—it seemed to be something deeper, something that had settled in his bones and wouldn't let him be still. His coffee sat untouched on the small table beside Alina, going cold.
Alina watched him in silence, exhaustion making her limbs feel heavy, but her mind refused to quiet down. She had seen the scars on Aleksander's chest, had heard the way the doctor spoke earlier, the way he had known Aleksander's medical history far too well.
This wasn't the first time Aleksander had been brought here broken, there was a history here, something old and painful. And right now, this place—the hospital, the machines, the waiting—was digging up wounds that had never really healed.
Fedyor's fingers drummed against his upper arm in an irregular rhythm, then stilled. Started over. Stopped. His breath was controlled, too controlled, like he was actively fighting to keep it even.
And then, as he turned on his heel once more, she heard him murmur, barely more than a whisper, "I never wanted to be here again."
The words settled in her chest like a stone.
She hesitated, unsure if she should pry, unsure if she had the right to ask—but she longed to understand. To grasp what drove Fedyor pacing like a caged animal in front of her. What haunted the man in the office across the street. What had carved grief so deep into him that she had felt it through glass and distance for months.
"Can you… would… can I ask what happened?"
Fedyor stopped mid-step.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. His fingers twitched where they were tucked under his arms, his throat worked around words that didn't want to come. He stared at the far wall, at nothing, his jaw tight.
Then, finally, he let out a slow breath, turned to face her, and sat down—close enough that his voice wouldn't have to carry.
"It was three years ago," he began, steady, measured. Too measured, like he'd told this story before and had learned exactly how to keep it from breaking him. "It was everywhere in the news. No secret."
He paused, gathering himself.
And then he told her.
A hit-and-run.
Aleksander and his wife Luda had been crossing the street on a quiet evening when a black SUV blew through a red light, never slowing, never stopping. Luda had been thrown several feet through the air. She had died instantly, her body broken beyond saving before anyone could even reach her.
Aleksander had survived—barely.
The impact had shattered his ribs, ruptured internal organs. His chest had caved under the force of it, his lungs collapsing, his body breaking in ways that should not have been survivable.
"It was touch and go in the ambulance. He nearly didn’t make it to the hospital," Fedyor murmured, his gaze distant, fixed on something Alina couldn't see. "But they got him there, alive. The surgeons were working on him for hours. It took so long—all that time we thought we'd lose him, too."
Alina pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes burning.
"They put him in a medically induced coma," he went on, his voice growing quieter, more strained. "It was the only way to keep him stable. His lungs... his ribs... he couldn't breathe on his own. Machines did that for him. For weeks."
He paused, swallowing hard.
And then, softer, almost as if the words still didn't feel real even after all this time:
"We buried Luda while he was still unconscious."
Alina closed her eyes, a fresh wave of grief crashing over her. Her throat closed up entirely.
He had woken up too late. Too late to say goodbye. Too late to hold her one last time. Too late to be there when they lowered her into the ground.
She could picture it too clearly—Aleksander coming to for the first time after weeks in the dark, weak, drugged, confused. Tubes everywhere. Pain in every breath. And then, little by little, through the fog of medication and trauma, realizing she was gone.
That his wife had been laid to rest while he was still attached to a ventilator.
That the life he had built had been over before he had even opened his eyes.
"We had to tell him three times," Fedyor whispered. "The first two times, the sedation was still too strong. He understood—God, he understood. But a day later, he didn't remember. And we had to destroy him all over again." His voice cracked. He stopped, pressed his lips together hard, and breathed through his nose until he could speak again. "The third time, there was no… mercy of forgetting. And something in him broke that never healed.”
Tears tracked down her face. She didn't bother wiping them away.
Fedyor—who had lived through it, had watched it happen, had been there in that ICU when Aleksander's world had shattered—was still drowning in that grief. Even now, even three years later, it sat in his voice, in the way his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees, in the way his shoulders curved inward, as though the weight of it never lifted.
She didn't interrupt. Couldn't have, even if she'd wanted to.
"He was different after that," Fedyor murmured, staring at his hands now. "Of course he was. But we all hoped... time, you know? We thought time would help. That he'd heal. And physically, he did. But little by little, we started realizing..." He exhaled shakily. "The Aleksander we knew wasn't coming back."
Alina swallowed, something twisting painfully beneath her ribs.
The SUV had stolen everything from him. Not just his wife, but the entire life they had been meant to have. The future they'd planned. The man he had been.
And suddenly, so many things made sense.
The way Aleksander sat alone in his office, staring out at nothing. The way he worked late into the night, as if stopping would mean crumbling under the weight of something too unbearable to name. The way he carried himself, composed and unreadable, but with a sadness so deep it had bled through the glass and into Alina's bones long before she had known why.
She had felt it before, seen the grief radiating from him, but she hadn't understood.
Now she did.
She exhaled shakily, staring at the floor, at her hands, at the nothingness between them. "He woke up, and it was already too late," she whispered, the words barely audible.
Fedyor nodded slowly. "Weeks had passed. And when he finally opened his eyes, there was nothing left to hold onto.” A single tear slid down his face, and he wiped it away quickly. “I think that's what haunts him most. That he wasn't there."
Alina's fingers curled into fists against her lap, her nails digging into her palms.
"For a while, we thought he’d give up." Fedyor admitted, his voice hoarse. “And for a while, I think he wanted to. He just... shut down. Didn't eat unless we practically forced him. Didn't talk. Barely even looked at us. After he was released from the hospital, Ivan basically moved in with him for months."
Alina's stomach twisted, imagining Aleksander in those dark days, hollowed out and unreachable.
"But then... slowly, so slowly, he fought his way back," Fedyor murmured. "For Ivan. For me. For his people. He threw himself into work, into responsibility. He rebuilt the company. Made it stronger than it ever was. Took care of everyone around him." He paused, his expression tightening. "But he never really rebuilt."
Alina swallowed, her throat dry. She tried to wet her lips, but her mouth felt like sand.
"Well, he takes care of himself," Fedyor conceded, frustration and helplessness bleeding into his tone. "Eats well. Exercises. Rides his damn bike everywhere, rain or shine. Keeps himself healthy. He's not reckless. Not self-destructive. But he's not really living either."
It was just existing, Alina realized. Going through the motions. Surviving, but not truly alive.
"Luda was..." Fedyor's voice softened, something warm and sad bleeding into it. "She was the warmth in his life. The lightness. She was the one who made him laugh, who dragged him away from work, who made him believe he deserved more than just duty and responsibility. That he deserved to be loved. To be happy."
His throat worked.
"And then she was gone. And after that... he never looked for it again. Never let anyone close. Never even tried."
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence.
But then—so softly it was barely there, a shift in tone that made her go still—Fedyor whispered, "Until lately."
Something in his voice made her lift her head.
His gaze flickered toward her, something unreadable in his expression. Not quite a smile, but something gentler than the grief that had filled his face moments before.
"I think," he murmured carefully, as if testing the words, "you're the first person in three years that's made him want to turn toward life again. Instead of just... enduring."
He paused, his gaze distant for a moment. "He's been in the dark for so long. And then there you were. Across the street, in that bright studio of yours." A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "Light. That's what you are to him."
She froze, suspended between heartbeats.
She stared at him, unable to speak, unable to process what he was saying.
Her?
She was just—she was nobody. A struggling artist who could barely pay rent. An orphan with paint-stained hands and a tiny studio. What could she possibly offer someone like Aleksander? Someone who had loved and lost so deeply?
"I don't—" she started, her voice breaking. "I'm not—"
"You are," Fedyor assured gently, but firmly. "You don't see it, but we do. Ivan and I... we've watched him these past weeks. And he's been different. Not happy, not yet. But... lighter. Like there was something worth looking forward to for the first time in years."
Alina felt tears prick her eyes again, her chest too full, too tight.
She wanted to believe him.
But before she could find the words—before she could ask what she was supposed to do with that—a nurse appeared in the doorway.
"You can see him now," she said gently, her voice low and kind. "Just for a few minutes."
Alina had thought she was prepared.
She wasn't.
The sight of Aleksander lying in that hospital bed broke her all over again.
The ICU was dimly lit, the overhead lights turned low for the evening. The monitors glowed softly in the dimness, their displays silent—no alarms, just an occasional beep, just the quiet hiss of the ventilator and the soft whir of the infusion pumps.
The blood was gone from his face, carefully cleaned away, but that only made his pallor more pronounced. His skin looked almost translucent under the faint glow of the machines, bruises already blooming dark purple along his temple where he'd struck the desk. His dark hair was damp and unruly, pushed back from his forehead, revealing the neat line of stitches that disappeared into his hairline.
A soft hospital blanket was pulled up to his chest, replacing the bloodied, ruined shirt she'd held him in hours ago. But beneath it, she could still see the rise and fall of his chest—mechanical, steady, controlled entirely by the ventilator.
And now there was even more medical equipment. A central line in his neck—the catheter taped carefully in place, another stark reminder of how serious this was. Two IV lines snaking into his arms. The half-dozen infusion pumps lined up beside the bed, each one delivering medication she couldn't name.
He looked so terribly, terribly fragile.
Nothing like the composed, powerful figure she'd watched through the window for months. Nothing like the man who had made her heart skip with a single smile.
He looked diminished. Vulnerable. Breakable.
But it was still him. Still Aleksander—the sharp angles of his face, his height even lying down, the dark hair she'd seen through the glass a hundred times. Just... stripped of everything that had kept him standing.
Alina bit down on the inside of her cheek, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent as they slid down her face. Her hands trembled at her sides, useless.
She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to let him know she was here—but she was afraid. Afraid of disturbing something, of making things worse, of—
She felt Fedyor move beside her, and then suddenly he was pulling her fully into his arms.
She went without thinking, burying her face against his shoulder as the sob she'd been holding back finally broke free. His arms tightened around her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, and she felt him shaking too.
They held each other like that, clinging together in the dim light of the ICU, both of them breaking apart for the man lying so still in the bed beside them.
When she felt his breath hitch, when she felt tears dampen her hair where his face pressed against the top of her head, she held him tighter.
They barely knew each other.
And yet, in this moment, they did.
Bound together by the man lying in that bed, fighting for his life.
"He'll be okay," Fedyor whispered, though his voice cracked on the words, barely audible over the hiss of the ventilator.
Alina wasn't sure if he was saying it for her or for himself.
But she nodded anyway, fighting to see clearly.
She needed to believe it, too.
For a long moment, they just stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, staring at Aleksander's still form. Time stretched, heavy and slow.
Eventually, Fedyor's grip loosened slightly, though he didn't let go entirely. His voice was quiet, strained. "Last time... he often fought the tube. Thrashed against it, panicked, choking... It was—" His voice broke. "It was horrible. But now..." A pause, then barely a murmur against her hair: "At least, he looks peaceful."
Alina made a small sound of agreement, even though peaceful wasn't quite the right word. He looked absent. Like he was somewhere far away, somewhere they couldn't reach.
But she understood—this stillness was mercy compared to the terror Fedyor had witnessed three years ago.
"He's strong," Fedyor added softly, as if reminding himself. "Stronger than anyone I know."
"I know," Alina whispered.
And she did. She'd seen it in the way he carried himself, in the way he worked, in the quiet determination that had drawn her to him in the first place.
He would fight.
He had to.
She didn't know how long they stood there, holding each other in the quiet dimness.
But eventually, the nurse stepped back in, her expression apologetic but firm. "I'm sorry, but visiting time is over now."
Alina pulled back slowly, swiping at her cheeks, managing something like assent. Fedyor's hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before falling away. Her legs felt unsteady as she turned and she cast one last look back at Aleksander.
Please, she thought desperately. Please wake up.
And then Fedyor's hand was on her elbow, guiding her gently toward the door.
The hospital corridors felt endless as they made their way out. The lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sterile glow that made Alina's exhaustion feel even heavier. Her feet moved automatically, one step after another, but her mind was still back in that dim ICU room, watching the rise and fall of Aleksander's chest.
Fedyor walked beside her in silence, his hand still hovering near her elbow—not touching, but close enough that she felt steadied by his presence.
When they finally pushed through the main doors, the cold night air hit them like a slap. Alina sucked in a breath, the sharpness of it cutting through the fog in her head. The city stretched out before them, lights glittering in the darkness, traffic humming in the distance. The world was still turning, still moving, even though hers had ground to a halt hours ago.
Fedyor guided her toward his car, unlocking it with a quiet beep. But before he opened the door, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He froze. His entire body went rigid.
Alina saw it immediately—the way every muscle locked, the flash of raw anguish across his face before he'd even pulled out the phone. And in that split second, she understood: he was back in that nightmare. Back in crisis mode. A phone ringing after leaving Aleksander in the ICU, and he was bracing for the worst. Already expecting catastrophe. Already halfway back to that night when everything fell apart.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen—
—and exhaled shakily.
"Ivan," he murmured, answering. "Hey."
She couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but she watched the fear drain slowly from his face as he spoke—jaw unclenching, shoulders dropping, eyes closing briefly in relief.
"No change yet," Fedyor said quietly, his voice tired. "They've got him stable. Ventilator's doing its job. Antibiotics are running. He's... he's as okay as he can be right now." A pause. "I know. I know." Another pause, longer this time. "Ivan, you need to focus on what you're doing. He'd want that. You know he would."
Alina looked away, giving him privacy, staring out at the dark street instead.
"Yes, she's with me," Fedyor continued, and Alina's attention snapped back. "We just left the ICU. I'm taking her home now." A beat, and a faint, fond smile touched his lips. "Of course, I am. As if I'd do anything else."
Despite everything, Alina felt the faintest hint of warmth flicker in her chest at the protectiveness in his tone.
"I'll text you every hour," Fedyor promised. "And if anything changes, you'll know immediately. I swear." His voice softened. "I love you too. Be safe."
He ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand. Then he looked up at Alina, his expression weary but gentle.
"Ivan." He exhaled slowly. "He wanted me to thank you. And to tell you to get some rest."
Alina's fingers tightened around the car door handle as she nodded. "Is he...?"
"Stressed. Worried. Hating that he's not here." Fedyor exhaled slowly. "But he'll get through what he needs to do. And then he'll be back." He opened the car door for her. "Come on. Let's get you home."
The drive back was quiet.
Fedyor kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, but Alina could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was still set too tight. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound hollow.
When they reached her building, Alina turned to him, exhaustion weighing down every word. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She blinked at him.
He gave her a look that was both exasperated and fond, a faint echo of the warm, smiling man she'd seen through the window. "Aleksander and Ivan would both murder me if I didn't make sure you were okay."
Alina let out a breath of something like a laugh, weak but genuine.
She didn't argue when he followed her upstairs, his footsteps quiet behind her in the stairwell.
Didn't protest when he took the keys from her trembling fingers and unlocked the door himself, nudging it open and letting her step inside first.
He paused just inside, glancing around her small studio. His gaze lingered on the easel by the window, the half-finished painting still resting there, and then drifted to the canvases stacked against the wall.
For a moment, something softened in his expression.
"Go change," he then advised gently, turning back to her. "I'll make tea."
Too exhausted to resist, too wrung out to argue, she did as he said.
By the time she returned—dressed in soft, clean clothes, her face scrubbed free of dried tears—he had a steaming mug waiting for her on the counter. The scent of chamomile filled the small space, warm and soothing.
She took it with a small, grateful nod, wrapping her hands around the heat, and he watched as she took a sip.
"Good," he nodded approvingly, a hint of satisfaction in his tired eyes.
And then, after a pause, his tone gentle but firm, "Alright. Time for bed."
Alina let out a huff of laughter despite herself. "You sound like a big brother."
"That's exactly what I am, solnyshka."
The nickname caught her off guard, warm and affectionate in a way she hadn't expected. Little sun.
And for the first time that night, something in her chest eased, just a fraction.
She set down the mug and let him guide her toward the small bedroom. She didn't resist when he pulled back the blankets, when he waited until she climbed in, when he pulled them up over her with surprising gentleness.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, his silhouette backlit by the soft light from the main room.
"You're not alone in this," he murmured softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "We'll all take care of Aleksander. And we'll all take care of each other. Okay?"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
At five-thirty on a Tuesday morning, when the world is still blue-grey and half-asleep and cinnamon and burnt coffee mingle in the air, a police officer walks into the Little Palace.
Just a black coffee. No smile. No small talk. But he keeps coming back, and slowly—so slowly—the silence between them begins to speak.
Through stolen glances and careful conversations, through moments of vulnerability and quiet trust, something precious grows.
This is not just a love story. It's a testament to the strength found in vulnerability, the courage it takes to hope, and the profound beauty of simply being present for someone when they need it most. It's about black coffee at dawn, mismatched socks, and the way a single smile can anchor a drowning person.
Step into Shards of Darkness , a companion piece to Fragments of Light.
Not stories—wreckage. Splinters.
Debris, jagged and unfinished, echoes of prompts I may or may not return to one day.
The premise remains the same:
Alina has only recently arrived at the Little Palace.
Kirigan is a leader, not a villain. Complex. Enigmatic. Unyielding.
Burdened.
These are fragments of him. Of her. Of them.
There is far too much hurt/comfort, far too much breaking and not enough mending. Moments where the darkness wins ground, where strength falters, where all that remains is the struggle to endure.
Notes:
Extremely short. Definitely useless.
But maybe it’ll interest—or even inspire—you.
Hopfully this collection will grow over time. There are at least a 100 more to add.
Chapter 1
For five hundred years, he had fought. Searched. Bled and endured, century after century, carrying Ravka on his shoulders and shadows in his veins, never once letting go of the hope that she would come.
And now—now she was here. Living. Breathing.
If she were lost to him—by blades, by schemes, by the Fold itself—he would not survive another five hundred.
He knew it. The shadows knew it.
She did not.
Ivan’s out of patience. Fedyor’s past worry.
Alina’s barely eating. Kirigan’s barely standing.
He’s been bleeding for her in secret. She’s been blaming herself for every drop.
When the truth finally comes out, it’s not through confession. It’s in tears. In silence. In Ivan undressing a man too weak to lift his arms. In Fedyor combing the knots from Alina’s hair while she trembles.
This isn’t drama.
It’s aftermath.
And for once, they don’t have to carry it alone.
Notes:
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters. But I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
Midnight held the Little Palace in silence so dense, it felt like grief made stone. Moonlight draped silver over the domes and spires beyond the windows glinting off the smooth, pale shimmer of glass. Inside, only the distant rhythm of a patrol’s boots and the low hiss of a flame barely clinging to a wick disturbed the stillness. Stone and shadow had swallowed the day, leaving the halls barren of colour, hollowed of warmth.
And within that vast silence, a single figure moved.
Alina Starkov walked barefoot across the cold marble, each step a whisper. Her breath trembled as she exhaled into the gloom, forming faint clouds that quickly dissolved. The palace felt endless at night—its columns towering, its corridors yawning open like the ribs of some ancient creature.
She had wrapped herself in the soft, thick dressing robe Genya had given her a week earlier, cinched too tightly around her narrow waist, as if that might hold her together. Beneath it, her thin nightdress clung lightly to her thighs, the cool air brushing against her skin.
She hadn’t meant to leave her bed.
Truly, she had tried to sleep.
She had lay still for hours, curled into herself under heavy blankets, her head pressed so deep into the pillows, it felt like she might simply vanish into the bed. But the thoughts had kept spiralling; the weight of everything pressing down until she couldn’t breathe. Her chest had ached, and the tears had come—hot, silent, hopeless.
She hadn’t wanted to think of him.
Aleksander.
But the memories had broken through anyway—
the way his eyes had softened the first time he’d seen her light; with recognition; with awe.
As if her wielding this power wasn’t an accident—but something meant.
No one had ever looked at her like that before.
Not at the orphanage. Not at the First Army camp.
Most barely looked at her at all.
She hadn’t wanted to think about her journey to the Little Palace, either. The assault; how he had appeared out of nowhere, saving her from a fate too terrible to name.
How he had jumped from the saddle while the horse was still moving. And how in the next breath, her attacker had fallen—cut to pieces by shadow.
How he’d grasped her hand in the aftermath—firm, certain, lifting her in one clean motion; and how the terror had receded. Not gone, but quieter.
She had clung to him not just from fear, but because in that moment, he had become the only solid thing in a world that had come violently, terribly apart at the seams.
Since then, she'd been trying to hold on to that sensation. The certainty. The unshakeable steadiness of him.
He had been her anchor in those first whirlwind weeks at the Little Palace. The only one who saw not just what she might become, but who she already was beneath the surface.
The others fixated on her title. At the idea of the Sun Summoner. Too many with crushing expectations. Some with suspicion. A few with resentment.
And all of them with a quiet consensus—that the universe had probably made a mistake giving this gift to her.
But him? He had looked at her like she was the only one who could have belonged in that role. Not someone more skilled, more worthy. Her.
To him, she simply was light—as absolute and inherent as his own shadow.
His opposite.
His equal.
And he had never, not for a moment, questioned it.
But outside the moments that held her steady—moments with him—the rest of her life at the Little Palace felt like a gauntlet.
Praise was rare. Comfort, rarer still.
Botkin, her combat instructor, was fair to a fault, never raised his voice. But every correction felt like being flayed with precision.
The others moved like creatures bred for combat—fluid, fast, efficient.
Alina stumbled. Faltered. Her body never quite caught up with her will. Every small success came edged in pain. Every failure felt catastrophic.
It was relentless.
Then there was Baghra.
Alina flinched just thinking of her.
Her teacher’s cruelty was not the kind found in raised voices or punishments—it was quieter. Sharper. Wounds made with words. With disdain. Baghra called her pathetic, unfocused—a liability to the Second Army. “You flicker like a dying ember,” she had muttered last week after another failed attempt at controlled light. “And he’ll see it too, soon enough.”
He. Kirigan.
She had wondered what the consequences would be. Hadn’t dared follow the thought to its end.
And Zoya—
Zoya was another kind of torment entirely. Beauty weaponized. Strength sharpened into cruelty. She had made it her mission to ensure Alina felt small at every turn. Her eyes followed her in the training halls, in the dining chambers, and when she spoke to her, it was all knives and sugar.
“So sorry, Sankta,” the dark-haired Squaller had murmured two days ago, after tripping Alina in front of a full class of Etherealki. “Didn’t see you there. Perhaps if you glowed a bit brighter, hmm?”
Not many laughed—but those who did, cut deep. The rest watched in silence. Not one voice rose to defend her. And Alina, flushed and scraped, had said nothing.
Because what could she say?
She didn’t feel like a Saint. She didn’t even feel like a soldier.
She felt like a child stumbling around in someone else’s destiny.
From the first moment on, she’d watched the others with envy and shame—how easily they moved, how confidently they summoned wind and flame and water.
It was a different kind of loneliness.
At Keramzin, she’d always been the one assigned to chores the others refused, the last to be picked for games; too sickly, too thin, too Shu to be anything but tolerated. No one had expected much from her—and somehow that had hurt less than this: being expected to be everything and failing spectacularly.
Of course, not every day at the Little Palace was unbroken misery.
Marie and Nadia laughed with her often. They nudged her out of her own head—made her feel like a person instead of a prophecy.
In the mornings, before drills. Or at meals, when the hall felt airless under too many eyes. Alina was always quietly grateful when her friends took the seats beside her—flanking her, shielding her.
But even then, some days, she only pushed food around on her plate, untouched. Other days, she made it halfway through before the ache in her chest stole whatever appetite she'd scraped together.
And in those moments, when it all became too much, there was one person who always managed to make it bearable.
Genya.
Her laughter was soft, her friendship genuine. She had a way of pulling Alina out of her spirals without ever forcing it. With Genya, care wasn’t offered in words—it was in gestures. A cup of warm tea pressed into her hands. A quiet pat on the couch beside her. A soothing touch to her face, refining features not to impress, but to remind her she was still herself.
She helped Alina change into something comfortable, braided her hair without comment, or adjusted her appearance with those small, thoughtful touches no one else would notice—except maybe him.
It was a ritual by now. And Alina clung to it more than she dared admit.
But Genya was gone nearly every day—working Long hours at the Grand Palace, always at the Tsaritsa’s side.
When she was near, the place felt survivable. When she wasn’t, it felt like drowning in gold.
Fedyor was another anchor in her life—his smiles always warm, his words never careless. He had a way of reading her that had unnerved her at first.
As if he always knew when the ache behind her eyes wasn’t just exhaustion. Always knew when to show up—reminding her that kindness still existed. Always knew how to tease her gently, how to make her laugh when she didn’t think she could.
More than once, he’d shown up with a pastry in hand and that quiet look that said he knew she hadn’t eaten—or slipped a note under her door, something ridiculous scrawled across it just to coax a smile.
His workload had increased, lately; yet Fedyor always made it back to her. Even if only for a moment. And she hadn’t known how much that meant to her— until it became rare enough to ache for.
His husband, Ivan... was the opposite. Ivan unsettled her.
Even when silent.
Especially when silent.
Though sometimes she caught him watching her with an unreadable expression—not cold, just... assessing.
Lately, though, he too had been gone more often than not. Pulled into countless different directions, like Fedyor.
And strangely, his absence didn’t bring relief. On the contrary.
It was hard that even Ivan, for all his silence and scowls, had become a rare sight.
Harder still, that someone like Fedyor—kind, attentive, warm—was barely around anymore.
But hardest of all was the General.
Kirigan—the steady point in a world spinning too fast, the one presence that made all of this truly bearable—was no longer by her side.
In those first weeks, she’d seen him. Not often. But enough: a nod in the courtyard. A shared meal. A conversation over tea. A hand on her shoulder—never hidden, never disguised. He didn’t care who saw.
But now?
Now, it was as if he had been quietly erased out of her life, absent in every moment that counted.
He was called away constantly. Strategic meetings. Emergencies no one else could handle. Fires only he could put out.
She had tried to accept it. But it got harder every time; especially, when he came back hurt.
Once, she had witnessed Ivan carry him into the infirmary—unconscious, limp, blood soaking through the lining of his Kefta. Another time, she had been outside mid-drill when the shout rang out—The General’s riding in! She’d rushed toward him, heart lifting—only for it to crash when she saw the state of him. He had collapsed right there in the yard, ghost-pale and barely breathing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t even know where he was.
Each time, she had stood frozen, her stomach lurching with terror—because with every wound, every stumble, it felt more like a countdown. Like one day, he might not return; and she would be left listening for footsteps that never came.
Still, she had assumed this was just how it was. That it had always been like this when things were particularly bad.
A phase. A stretch to endure. Something that would pass.
Until she began listening.
Until she began piecing things together.
A snippet here. A glance there. Genya’s tightened jaw. Fedyor’s voice behind a nearly closed door—quiet, worn thin: “At this pace, something will give.” Ivan’s growl when he thought no one heard: “If there is a new assignment tomorrow, I swear I’ll march into the Grand Hall and wring the Tsar’s neck myself.”
Even Botkin, the ever-silent, had muttered once under his breath, “Fools send their best men to die by inches.”
At first, she thought they were speaking generally. About politics. Strategy.
But no. They were speaking of Kirigan.
And slowly, it had become clear why.
The Tsar was growing paranoid. Two Summoners—one newly arrived, untested, unpredictable.
And the other? Not born to influence, no. But gifted with an incredible power, forged in decades of command, sacrifices, and impossible victories.
He was everything the Tsar was not—and everyone knew it. That was why they resented him. And why they needed him anyway.
He had risen, not with favour—but with force.
A brilliant strategist. Unstoppable in battle. Indispensable in council.
Kirigan had carved out his place through intellect and determination—through sheer, unflinching resolve.
If Alina ever rose to match it, the balance would shift.
And that thought didn’t just unsettle the Tsar—it unnerved him.
So, he had turned the screws.
He had weaponized responsibility. Isolation. Pressure.
And it wasn’t Alina he moved against.
It was Kirigan.
Fortunately, the General’s value made outright elimination impossible—at least as long as the Fold remained a threat.
But the sovereign deliberately set out to wear him down and push him to exhaustion, so Kirigan would become less dangerous.
The King made him fight on multiple fronts. Gave him impossible demands and watched how long he could stand.
And Kirigan—Aleksander—was bearing it all.
Because of her.
Because of her.
He chose the weight. Accepted the enforced separation—because open defiance would mean punishment. Probably removal. Or worse.
If that happened, she would be left alone.
And he would never let Lantsov’s fear turn toward her instead. Of that, Alina was certain.
The realisation had settled a few days now—quiet, constant. But walking these halls tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
She felt her breath hitch, stumbling slightly as she turned a corner, one hand reaching for the wall to steady herself. The stones were cold against her palm. Real. Grounding. Her fingers ached. She hadn’t realized that she had been gripping the sash of her robe until her knuckles turned white.
You didn’t ask for this. That thought whispered sometimes, soft and traitorous. But it didn’t help.
She hadn’t asked, no. Choice had never been part of it.
Her path was drawn, the role thrust upon her. So she trained. Fought. Endured.
But even relentless effort didn’t change the truth.
She wasn’t strong enough yet to fulfil her mission. In fact, she’d never felt further from it.
The guilt had become a living thing in her chest, clawing and writhing. It spoke to her in sleepless hours: he is suffering because of you. He gets injured, over and over again, because of you. Because you still haven’t become what they all need you to be.
That was what had finally propelled her from bed.
Not just sadness. Not even fear. But desperation.
Because tonight, she knew he was in the palace. She had seen Ivan in the courtyard at sunset, overheard Genya speaking to a healer in the corridor. He’s back. For one night only. One night. One chance.
And she couldn’t bear it anymore. Not the silence. Not the waiting. Not the knowledge that he was breaking himself to pieces on her behalf.
She had to see him.
To speak to him.
To beg, if necessary.
Let them think I’ll never be enough. Let them think I’m not the Sun Summoner they need. Just stop paying for me. Just stop bleeding yourself dry to keep me standing.
And so she crept through the palace like a ghost, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the cold air biting at her bare feet, her throat raw from crying; headed toward the war room, because she didn’t know where else to go.
Still, something in her hoped she’d chosen right—
and she had.
A thin line of light spilled into the corridor, golden and wavering like the breath of a dying candle. Her steps quickened instinctively at the sight of it.
He was here.
Her chest clenched with sudden, aching relief.
But then—
Voices.
Low. Familiar.
Her breath caught as she leaned closer. The door stood open a crack, enough for her to catch a sliver of movement in the mirror on the wall beyond. The reflection of three figures— two in red Keftas opposite the General.
Ivan. Fedyor.
He wasn’t alone.
She couldn’t walk into that room.
And that hurt more than she’d prepared for.
But, for just one moment, she needed to be near him. Needed to hear his voice. To know that he was still upright, still speaking, still—if only barely—alright.
So she stayed in the dark, fingers clenched at her sides, and told herself it would only take a second.
Just one moment. And then she would go.
But what she heard pinned her in place.
“They’re pushing you too far,” Fedyor sounded quiet; uncharacteristically subdued. “And it’s starting to show – to more than us.”
Kirigan’s response came fast. Controlled. “I'm handling it.”
“No. You’re enduring it.” While saying this, Fedyor lifted both hands slightly, a calming gesture, even as his tone stayed firm. “I know why—Saints, I do. But there’s a difference.”
Ivan cut in, clipped, frustrated: “He doesn’t have a choice.”
“Sadly,” Fedyor agreed. “But there’s more to it.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “You're barely sleeping. Most days, you don’t find time to eat— unless we intercept you in the middle of whatever crisis comes next and press some food into your hands. You’re tearing through meetings, inspections, deployments— because you’ve decided you will. Because you’ve chosen to hold the line, so she has room to grow. But you’re not just hurting yourself.”
“Fedyor.” Kirigan exhaled slowly, the sound low and exhausted. “Don’t… just—I don’t need a lecture.”
“It’s not a lecture.” Fedyor’s tone was calm, not confrontational. “But you need to hear this. Because while you’re pouring everything you have into protecting Alina, it’s killing her to watch you unravel because of it.”
Alina froze. Not just from shock—but recognition.
Kirigan’s voice, as it came, was low—scraped raw from somewhere deep, like it physically hurt to speak.
“What do you mean?”
“She sees more than we realized,” Fedyor explained gently. “Pieced it all together. And she thinks it’s her fault. What you’re forced to bear. What this costs you. She’s convinced that if she were stronger, if she were better, you wouldn’t have to bleed for her.”
In the mirror Kirigan didn’t move.
Not even a flicker—motionless, breathless, until something in him seemed to collapse inward.
“I didn’t know.”
He dragged a hand over his face, slow and unsteady.
“I… I didn’t know.”
He sounded so tired it hurt.
“You couldn’t have.” Fedyor assured softly, without a hint of doubt. “You didn’t get the chance. And until a few days ago—I didn’t see it either.” He looked downright pained by now. “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t understand how deep it went. Not until now.” Regret flickered across his features before he sighed. “Alina hides her bruises like they’re secrets. As if she’s afraid that if we see them, we’ll hurt too. But she carries it all, in silence. Guilt. Deep and quiet. Eating away at her.”
She closed her eyes. Just for a second.
It wasn’t the truth itself that stunned her—
It was that he’d seen it. All of it.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Fedyor went on, quieter still. “But despite everything, she shines. And I don’t mean the light you can summon or see. It’s in the way she moves through this place—gentle, careful. I’ve seen her offer her bread to stable boys. Help a maid clean up after someone else’s mess.”
With that, Fedyor drew a slow breath—as if choosing his next words carefully. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I said once—she had to give up everything from her old life. But not that. Kindness. That, she’ll never let go of.”
In the mirror’s reflection, Alina saw Kirigan shift—he was about to speak.
But Ivan was faster; surging forward in his seat, voice sharp, impatient, like something in him had finally snapped free. "She never pushes back. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t fold, either. She just... takes it and moves on.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Thats not weakness. But she’s taking hits from every direction for it.” It was a growl, dark and angry. “Baghra’s cruelty—we expected that. It’s her way. But it’s the ones in our own ranks that make me sick.”
At that, Kirigan angled his head ever so slightly. A small, deliberate tilt that demanded clarity.
Ivan caught it immediately.
“Zoya, for instance—she’s still been targeting her, despite your reprimand. Barbs, insults; she doesn’t even bother to veil them. She thinks she can get away with it—because you’re not here enough to stop her.”
He gave a quiet grunt. “But I put her in her place today.” He leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with grim satisfaction. “She didn’t expect me to call her out. Didn’t see it coming. She knows better now.”
And Alina—she hadn’t seen it coming either.
Not from him. Not for her.
Kirigan’s voice was cutting as he finally spoke—low, hoarse, stripped bare. “Enough.”
The word was clean. Surgical. Not a burst of fury—a verdict.
He pressed long fingers into his eyes like he might erase the headache forming behind them. “She’s had her chance. I’ve made myself clear. If she doesn’t understand—"
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to.
The tone in his voice wasn’t anger. It was weariness laced with something darker. Finality dressed in exhaustion.
“I’m done.”
With that, he stood.
The legs of his chair scraped sharply against the stone—one clean, decisive motion.
Just outside the door, Alina flinched. The abrupt sound hit her like a slap.
She stumbled back a step, heel catching on the base of a column.
The noise of it echoed—louder than it should have. Too loud for hiding.
Inside, more chairs scraped.
Footsteps—fast.
The war room door opened fully, light spilling into the hallway.
And there she was, caught in the open.
All three men halted.
For a second, she stood frozen in the archway. Then her knees simply buckled under the weight of the tears, the shame, the staggering relief— too much for her weakened limbs, her thinned-out soul to carry.
They saw her. Still. Even now. Even Ivan.
Kirigan caught her before she hit the floor. His arms were steady around her, cradling her as if she were something precious.
She dropped into him like a final exhale—and he lifted her without hesitation.
Ivan stepped forward instantly. A few swift gestures followed—checking pulse, breath, all without touching her.
“Sleep,” he murmured after no more than a moment, his voice low, assuring. “She needs sleep. That’s all. No healers necessary. Just let her rest.”
Kirigan nodded once. Still without speaking, he adjusted his hold and began walking. Alina didn’t protest. Her fingers curled instinctively in the lapel of his coat. She could feel his breathing—measured, held in check—and how tightly he kept himself composed despite the unsteadiness in every step.
They moved through the war room to the door on the opposite side that led directly into an adjoining chamber.
It was dim, lit by a modest fire crackling in the hearth and a single oil lamp casting soft gold across the stone. Dark wood panelled the walls, softened by the amber light. Heavy curtains muted the world outside.
It was quiet, wrapped in peace. A stillness that felt safe, not empty.
And at the centre—a bed, wide, draped in soft grey and black — its heavy coverlet carefully turned down at the foot, inviting and warm.
His room.
Of course it was.
She cried even harder before they crossed the threshold.
Kirigan sat down on the edge of the bed with her still in his arms, his frame trembling as if the act of staying upright cost him more than he had left.
She felt it—every tremor, every shudder beneath her palms—and it broke her even more. She wept against his chest, loud, wracking sobs that shook them both.
She didn’t care that they saw. She didn’t care that her robe was slipping from her shoulders, that her hair clung to her wet cheeks, that she could barely breathe through the pain twisting in her ribs.
Kirigan held her in silence, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other hand gently resting on her head. He rocked her slightly—just barely—like a lullaby without a song.
Fedyor had stepped in behind them, quiet as a shadow. Something flickered in his soft expression. Not pity. Something heavier. Something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Ivan had followed, too, his features grim. His eyes swept over Alina—then back to Kirigan.
“I've seen cadavers with more colour than the pair of you.”
Only Ivan could deliver it like that—dry as ash, empty of concern, full of it anyway.
Kirigan didn’t respond. Just rolled his eyes faintly, exhaustion radiating off him.
Ivan gave a short, dry breath. “You sit there like some tragic martyr—”
Kirigan cut him off without even looking up. “I’m not moving from her side.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” Ivan muttered, just a touch of exasperation creeping into his tone. “But Saints, General—she doesn’t need a statue. She needs sleep. And so do you.”
He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “If you don’t lie down, the two of you’ll be passed out on each other within the next minutes, scaring the living daylights out of whoever finds you in the morning.”
At that, a shaky laugh—more a hiccup than anything—escaped Alina and even Kirigan snorted tiredly.
Acceptingly.
Fedyor crossed the room and knelt beside the her. He placed a warm hand on her back and leaned closer. His voice was kind, gentle. “I assume you’re wearing something under this fortress of a robe?” His eyes glinted with his soft teasing.
She nodded with a small, teary smile.
“Let’s get it off, then,” he murmured. “Make you more comfortable.”
With skilled, careful hands, he eased her from Kirigan’s arms and began to slide the thick robe from her shoulders. Then he shifted her gently, so she rested fully against his side.
Meanwhile, Ivan had stepped in from the opposite end of the bed. “Alright, General,” he muttered. “Up you come.”
He hooked his arms under Kirigan’s and lifted—more deadweight than resistance.
Kirigan didn’t protest.
As he was pulled onto his feet, his jaw locked and his shoulders squared—just for a heartbeat. Then the tension dropped, slow and grudging, like a man refusing to sag but his body overruling him.
Ivan undressed him in silence. No fumbling. No hesitation. Each piece came off with the kind of practiced ease that made it clear this wasn’t the first time.
And just like that, Alina understood:
He had done this before. Enough that his hands didn’t shake.
The thought hit sharp and cold.
How often had Aleksander ended up like this?
How many times had Ivan peeled off heavy fabric soaked in blood or sweat or sheer exhaustion, stripped him down to bone and silence, just to keep him upright?
And how many of those nights had she slept, unaware—while he fell apart in rooms she never entered?
While the questions hit one after another, Ivan removed the shirt, revealing ashen skin, stretched tight across muscle and bone.
Kirigan seemed too lean for a man of his height; his ribs showed. His collarbones looked sharp.
She hadn’t expected him to be this… fragile. His Kefta, the undercoat with its elaborate clasps—tailored to perfection—had hidden the toll beneath: bone-deep exhaustion, all angles and strain.
Scars mapped his body, old and new. Several still raw, fresh; too fresh. One of them, along his ribs, looked deep enough to have gutted him.
The dread struck merciless, once again.
He could have died.
He nearly had.
Yet here he was—a man scraped down to essentials, nothing left but sinew and will.
But still standing.
Still enduring.
Ivan didn’t pause.
He shifted his grip and sat Kirigan back down on the edge of the bed, steadying him with one hand as he slumped forward slightly, spine bowed, head tipping low.
But then, Kirigan straightened.
Not out of strength. Out of habit. Or pride.
Ivan seized the brief window of stability— bracing Kirigan’s knee and tugging off one boot, then the other. Leather thudded against the stone floor in quiet finality.
Alina thought she heard him mutter something under his breath. Something along the lines of feels like I’m undressing a damn corpse.
Kirigan let out a low sound—half a laugh, half a sigh. “Always so poetic, Ivan.”
It shouldn’t have helped.
But it did.
Something in their flat tone—unmoved, matter-of-fact—landed solid in her chest like an anchor.
It grounded her more than anything else had in days.
All the while, Fedyor held Alina close against his side. His body was a wall of warmth, steady and safe. One hand combed through her mussed hair with gentle rhythm, untangling it, soothing her nerves without a word. And even while cradled into Fedyor, half-collapsed, still trembling—she kept her eyes trained on Kirigan; kept watching.
How Ivan guided him down onto the mattress with careful control. How Kirigan’s frame yielded instantly. How his body sagged the second it touched the sheets, as if gravity had finally been allowed its due. How his head lolled sideways, neck slack with the weight of exhaustion.
She didn’t speak.
But she saw it. Not just how tired Kirigan was—but the way Ivan supported him.
The way his hands adjusted him without jarring; kept him balanced with every shift; handled him not like a burden but like someone who deserved gentleness; deserved care.
And Kirigan let it happen—too spent to help, too tired to pretend he didn’t need it.
His breathing was shallow, uneven.
But even through the haze clouding his eyes, his gaze kept finding her. As if whatever thread still tethered him to waking was her.
Ivan bent forward, worked the fastenings of his trousers, and slid them off with efficient hands.
Underneath, Kirigan wore thin linen pants. They clung to his too-lean frame, the fabric barely concealing the hard lines beneath—no softness left. Only taut muscle and sharp angles.
His body shivered in the cool air, shuddering unconsciously from the chill.
Ivan didn’t miss it. His gaze caught on the tremor, jaw tightening—then he moved. Crossed to the chest at the foot of the bed, retrieved a set of warm sleep clothes, and was back in seconds.
He re-dressed Kirigan like a medic after a siege: precise, calm, without ceremony. Just necessity, carried out with quiet respect.
Finally, Ivan drew the folded blanket out from under Kirigan’s long legs, adjusting him carefully afterwards—but he barely stirred anymore.
His eyelids fluttered. Flickered. He fought them. Forced them open once more.
Just to find her again.
Just her.
Next to him, Ivan straightened. His eyes met Fedyor’s— just the briefest glance between them, nothing more. But it was enough.
No words were needed.
In the next breath, Fedyor acted. Alina startled slightly, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her as she was lifted without ceremony and placed directly into Kirigan’s arms.
Not beside him.
Not near.
In his arms.
And he pulled her close without hesitation.
A long breath escaped him—shaky, bone-deep.
His arms curled around her with exhausted certainty, and she buried her face in his neck like she had been waiting all her life to do it.
Fedyor settled nearby, still and patient. Ivan folded his arms, unmoving.
They weren’t going anywhere—and they all knew it.
Strangely, Alina didn’t mind.
For the first time in days, she felt safe. Enough. Surrounded by people who weren’t just watching her fall.
They were holding the line.
Her tears had never truly stopped. Just softened, thinned out. Now, in his arms, they surged back—quieter this time but still shaking her small frame as they forced their way out.
She couldn’t stop them; didn’t try; simply trembled in Kirigan’s arms.
His scent surrounded her—clean linen, cedar, and something darker, like winter itself. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Could hear his heart, slow but steady.
His hand stroked her back. Again. Again.
And slowly, painfully, the sobs eased. Her grip loosened, breath by breath.
It took time. Long minutes. But eventually, she quieted. Not calm. Just quiet.
And then, finally, he let go.
It was his breath that changed first—deeper, heavier. And she felt it happen—the moment his strength gave out.
His repetitive motion faltered; then, stilled. His head dropped just slightly, chin coming to rest against her forehead.
He had fallen asleep.
She squinted up at him, unmoving, afraid to disturb the fragile stillness.
Aleksander looked younger like this.
Not just because the tension was gone—but because the weight was, too.
His features were softer, eased into something quieter. Almost gentle.
He looked spent—but peaceful.
Fedyor caught her gaze, reading the lingering worry in her eyes without a word. “He’s alright,” he whispered. “Just asleep. You can rest now too.”
She almost cried again.
But this time from something else.
Relief.
Love.
Sanctuary.
He had fought. Stayed awake long enough to hold her through the worst. Until her body could bear its own stillness.
But now he was gone, slipping under into unconsciousness like a stone sinking into still water.
She curled against him, cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest. Let go—let herself fall with him.
Her thoughts blurred. Her body surrendered. Sleep crept in, slow and certain.
Fedyor moved quietly, drawing the thick cover higher up over both of them. He tucked it around their bodies with a tenderness she felt even through the soft fog wrapping around her mind.
Then, just as gently, he leaned down and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
“Thank the Saints,” he whispered. “They’re finally resting.”
Ivan’s voice was gruff but low.
“No one comes in. No one. Not unless they walk over our dead bodies first.”
Fedyor’s answer came soft, but resolute. “Over mine twice.”
The door shut behind them.
And at last, the room was quiet.
Alina was wrapped in warmth.
Wrapped in his arms.
Safe.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
Only the feeling of Kirigan’s breath against her hair.
And the sense—just before the dark took her— that whatever came next, they would no longer carry it alone.
He nearly died.
She didn’t sleep.
Fedyor made it clear they all knew.
Ivan didn’t just look—he had made her stay.
And in the silence that followed, everything cracked.
Her fear. His restraint.
The illusion that this was secret.
There were no more masks. No distance left to keep.
Just pressure.
Just need.
Just the faultlines—finally breaking open.
Notes:
This Story is explicit! Please check the notes at the end of the story for more content warning!
This is Part 2 of a two-part story.
It continues directly after the events of "Seismic Shift (1)".
While this story can stand on its own, I highly recommend reading part one first for a deeper understanding and richer context.
You can find it here: "Seismic Shift (1)"
I made the conscious decision to post "Faultlines" as a separate story rather than as Chapter 2 of Seismic Shift, because I wanted the first part to remain suitable for Teen And Up Audiences. I didn’t want to change its rating just because this second part becomes significantly more explicit.
This kind of story clearly won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. So please know that I'm sorry if that's the case for you.
Thankfully, its easy to skip my text and go on to a different, hopefully better one. 😄
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters. But I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
The world was turning grey with the first light of dawn when Alina realized she hadn’t slept.
She was still wrapped around him—her body curved close, one leg hooked softly over his, her head nestled just beneath his collarbone where the slow thrum of his heartbeat pulsed steady and real against her cheek. One arm lay draped across his torso, her hand pressed lightly over his ribs—not just resting, but monitoring. Feeling. Counting. Making sure.
Lev had been the one tending to him— forcing him under, sealing the ruptures, mending the shattered ribs—and Ivan had made her stay.
Aleksander had looked barely alive after they’d finally eased him into this bed. Pale. Still. Blood on his face that wasn’t his. Sweat along his temples from pushing himself far too long past the breaking point. She had wiped it all away with shaking hands. Washed the dirt from his skin, cooled his brow, calmed her own panic by caring for him in every way she could.
And when he had started to stir—restless, surfacing from that deep, artificial stillness, breath catching on a spike of pain—she had moved. Instinctively.
He had whispered her name—rough and wrecked, more exhale than voice—as he stirred in that fragile, restless half-sleep, and the look on his face—drawn, hurting—had made her heart twist.
She had climbed under the covers beside him.
Tucked herself close. Laid her hand over his heart.
And he had… settled.
His breathing had evened. The tremors had eased.
It had been her. Her touch. Her body anchoring his.
So, she hadn’t moved. Not all night. She stayed—absolutely still—her hand feeling every rise and fall of his chest, her palm attuned to the faint but steady thump of his heart beneath the thin linen.
She hadn’t slept. Wouldn’t, couldn’t.
Not until she was sure. Not until that rhythm under her hand told her: he’s really on his way to recovery.
Each time he had flinched or had made even the quietest sound, her heart had lurched. She’d checked his pulse again, watched the subtle rise of his chest—counting, always counting.
The hours had passed in silence, broken only by the shallow rhythm of his breaths—and her own ragged thoughts, trying to hold the night together through sheer will.
But sometime in the last hour or two, something had shifted. His breathing had grown steadier. Deeper. He hadn't flinched in a while. The tension in his face had eased, and for the first time all night, he looked… peaceful. Not well. But not as broken as before.
Now, pale light filtered through the heavy curtains, brushing over the sheets like a hesitant hand. And in that dim hush, he began to wake.
It was subtle at first—a twitch of his fingers, a shallow breath drawn deeper than before. Alina stiffened, her own breath caught somewhere in her throat as she stared down at him. His brow furrowed faintly, lips parting on a broken, barely audible sound.
And then, slowly, Aleksander’s eyes fluttered open. And gods, her heart lurched. He was awake. Truly awake. It was such a small thing—but after so many hours of silence and stillness, it cracked something open in her chest. Yet, she didn’t cry. She didn’t speak.
For a moment, he didn’t seem to understand where he was. His gaze was unfocused, blinking slowly against the morning light. And then—he saw her. No. Realized. Realized that she was pressed against him—fully, intimately—her whole body curled into the cradle of his arm, her cheek warm against his chest.
The change was immediate.
Confusion gave way to something else—something raw and fragile, so unguarded it touched her deeply. His dark eyes locked onto hers, wide and disbelieving, and she felt her breath catch.
“Alina…” It was a whisper, rasped from a throat still raw, filled with something almost like awe.
He blinked once, twice—as if he couldn’t trust his own senses. As if he thought she was some fevered illusion, conjured by pain and exhaustion.
And Saints, the way he looked at her—it left her aching inside.
There was gratitude there, yes—but also disbelief. And deep beneath it, something almost… mournful. Like he didn’t understand how he’d ended up here, with her. Like he couldn’t fathom why she would stay.
Alina’s heart twisted painfully. She could see it all so clearly—the years of solitude, of command, of shouldering burdens no one else could see. Ivan and Fedyor were his shield, yes. But this—this was something else entirely.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
“Good morning,” she whispered, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.
Aleksander swallowed with difficulty, wincing faintly at the movement. His gaze never left hers. “You stayed,” he managed. The words sounded almost broken, like he didn’t quite believe them even as he spoke them. “You stayed all night.”
“Of course I did.”
He exhaled shakily and turned his face away, something wounded flickering across it. “You shouldn’t have had to.”
There it was again. That quiet ache in him, the belief that this—her presence, her care—was more than he deserved.
She touched his jaw, made him look back at her. “I wanted to.” Her voice was soft but sure. “I couldn’t have slept one minute, not without knowing you were okay.”
His eyes searched hers. Vulnerable. Wrecked. And so incredibly beautiful in his brokenness that it made her ache to see him like this.
They were silent for a long while, her fingers lightly grazing over his collarbone where his tunic had fallen slightly open. His skin was still pale beneath the linen, his breaths shallow but steady now. She remembered the panic of the night before. And now here he was—awake. Better.
She hadn’t let herself feel it yet, the full weight of that relief.
“I remember... you running off, getting help,” he murmured softly, eyes still locked on hers. “Before I passed out.”
Alina exhaled shakily, forcing her mouth into something like a smile, though her eyes shimmered with everything she was trying not to let out. “Yeah. That whole collapsing-unconscious thing?” She nudged his arm with the barest edge of reproach, her voice dry, brittle. “Not your most helpful contribution to the evening.”
He gave a quiet snort—half amused, half contrite. “Ivan?”
“Yes. Lev was here, too. They took care of you.” She swallowed hard, her voice softening. “You’re patched up. You’re going to be fine.” She hesitated. His lips looked parched—drained of colour, a little cracked. “You should try to drink something,” she murmured then, softly, more hoping than urging. “You haven’t had anything in hours.”
Very slowly, he nodded. Just once.
Relieved, Alina rose quietly, crossing to the narrow table between the window and the door, where a carafe and a glass had been left.
She poured some water, hands steady despite the tightness in her chest. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough to help—if he needed it.
But he was already pushing himself up onto one elbow. A flicker of pain crossed his face, yet he said nothing.
She handed him the glass, and he drank in slow sips, his hand steady enough.
When he was done, she took the empty glass and set it on the bedside table, watching as he eased himself back down without a word.
His eyelids immediately drifted shut again
And Saints, he looked still so tired.
Alina exhaled slowly.
He needed more rest. He needed quiet.
But he didn’t get it. Because at that moment, the door swung open.
"Good morning!"
Alina startled hard, nearly jolting upright.
And Saints—thank the Stars she was already sitting up.
If Fedyor had walked in just seconds earlier, found her curled up in Kirigan’s bed, pressed against his chest—she would’ve died.
Kirigan instead, probably because being half-dead the night before, barely reacted. He just let out a slow, deeply unamused sigh and cracked one eye open.
There, standing in the doorway with the brightest, most delighted smile she had ever seen, was Fedyor.
Arms full.
With a tray.
Alina blinked. “Fedyor?”
"The one and only," he replied cheerfully, nudging the door closed with his hip.
Alina barely had time to process his sudden, far-too-early arrival before he crossed the room, setting the tray carefully beside the carafe. The scent of warm bread, fresh fruit, and tea filled the air, and despite everything, her stomach tightened in response.
Kirigan, still half-buried under the covers, muttered something utterly unholy and tried to shift onto his side—only to wince sharply.
“Saints, don’t twist like that,” Alina scolded instantly, hands already on him, steadying, checking.
Fedyor sighed dramatically. “See? This is exactly why I’m here.” His expression softened then, his humour not disappearing but easing, making space for something else—something warm, something deeply fond. “General stubbornness, day in, day out. So, someone needs to make sure our fearless leader doesn’t accidentally kill himself attempting basic mobility.”
Kirigan turned his head slightly—just enough to fix him with a glare that would have sent anyone else scurrying.
Fedyor, of course, was immune.
“Before you say something particularly scathing, just know that Ivan explicitly instructed me to check on you. And he will check if I did, so unless you want me to send him instead—”
Kirigan closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare threaten me with Ivan at this hour.”
“Of course I would.”
Alina fought the urge to laugh.
Kirigan, on the other hand, let his head sink back into the pillow with a quiet groan.
"This is too early even for you," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and lingering pain.
Fedyor grinned. “It’s never too early to make sure our wounded leader doesn’t starve himself.” His gaze flickered to Alina, and his smile turned into something deeply fond. “And, to check on you.”
Alina blinked. “…Me?”
Fedyor’s gaze softened. "Of course, you. You stayed with him all night. I imagine you didn't sleep much in your worry."
Alina flushed, suddenly unsure where to look.
"I—" she began, then faltered. Her mouth opened again, but no words followed—just a helpless, breathless sound.
Fedyor gave her a knowing look, but his voice was gentle. “Alina, you don’t have to explain.”
Something in his expression was so earnest, so completely free of teasing, that she felt her breath catch.
“Ivan told me everything.” Fedyor moved to the window and pulled the curtains back an inch, letting in a sliver of pale morning light. Then he glanced at Kirigan with something that was mostly relief—but also a quiet satisfaction sharpened by mischief. “I’m glad you found each other. Finally.”
Alina’s throat went dry; beside her, she felt Kirigan stiffen ever so slightly. “Found—?” she managed.
Fedyor reached for the glass next to her and filled it with cool water again, letting it rest in his hands for a moment. “What do you think?” he asked lightly. “He saw enough.”
Alina felt something shift inside her.
She thought back to the night before—to Ivan’s expression, to the way he had looked her over, the way he hadn’t even bothered to ask what had happened. Later, the sheer, absolute certainty in his gaze when he had assigned her to watch over Aleksander.
It all clicked.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Fedyor smiled, warm and knowing. “Ah, there it is. That’s the exact moment you realized that Ivan simply decided you needed to stay.” He tilted his head, setting the water on Kirigan’s bedside table. "Because we’ve been watching you two orbit each other for weeks and he figured it was about damn time someone locked you in the same room overnight."
Alina’s face burned.
Kirigan just let out what had to be the slowest, most tired breath of his life. "Fedyor."
"Yes, moi soverennyi?"
A long-suffering look was all the answer he got. "Less talking."
Fedyor, clearly not at all impressed, simply turned to Alina with gentle ceremony—selecting the most delicate of the cups, holding it like an offering.
"Here. Drink. You need it."
Alina took it, mostly to have something to do with her hands.
Then, with great solemnity, Fedyor turned back to Kirigan.
"And you," he reached for the second cup, “will drink too. Because if I have to listen to Ivan complain about your self-neglect one more time, I swear on the Saints, I will knock you out myself and drag your sorry bones to the infirmary.”
Aleksander let out a tired breath. “Alina just gave me water.”
Fedyor waved that off with regal disdain. “Not enough. Ivan says you need fluids, plural. Now drink.”
Kirigan cracked one eye open again, gaze heavy with the kind of deep, unamused exhaustion reserved only for dealing with Fedyor at full capacity.
For a moment, it seemed like he might refuse. Then, with great reluctance, he took the cup.
“Ivan will never believe me.” Fedyor lifted his hands dramatically. “Mark this moment in the archives—he listens to me. Miracles do exist.”
Kirigan took a sip—slow, calculated, and without breaking eye contact, deadpanned, “The only miracle is that no one’s murdered you yet.”
Fedyor beamed.
Alina bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to disappear or laugh.
Then—there was a knock.
A familiar, firm knock.
Alina tensed before the door opened just enough to reveal Ivan.
The Second Army's deadliest Heartrender gave them all a long, unreadable look, then exhaled heavily.
“Fedyor.”
Fedyor, who had just set a small plate of bread and fruit beside Alina, turned toward him, completely unfazed. “Ah! Ivan! You’re just in time. I was about to start on my next speech about—”
"He’s alive. Awake, even. They have food. You’re leaving," Ivan interrupted flatly.
Fedyor pressed a hand to his chest. “So cold.”
Ivan arched a brow.
Fedyor sighed dramatically, then turned back to Alina and Kirigan with a warm, knowing smile. " Well. I suppose I should leave you two to your sickbed romance—."
Alina definitely did not choke on her tea.
Kirigan, still painfully exhausted, just muttered, “Get. Out.”
Fedyor laughed, ruffled Ivan’s sleeve on his way past, and strolled out like he had not just upended Alina’s entire sense of self-awareness.
Ivan’s gaze swept over Kirigan—clinical, precise, unmistakably assessing.
“Still recovering,” he remarked, then shifted his eyes to Alina with the faintest, most infuriating flicker of implication. “Try not to reopen anything.”
And then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kirigan stared at the ceiling for a long moment, jaw clenched tight. Then, finally, he let out a hoarse, exhausted breath.
“They are a menace.”
The dryness in his tone didn’t quite cover the tension behind it.
Alina forced a short laugh, her voice thin. “I think they both mean well.”
He turned his head then—just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark. Weary. And full of something unspoken.
“Unfortunately.”
Alina tried to smile. But her body was far from relaxed.
Ivan’s words were still echoing.
Saints, he knew.
He knew how close they'd come. What they’d done.
Alina didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her whole body was suddenly humming with memory—of his mouth, his hands, the unbearable friction that had nearly undone her.
Heat bloomed beneath her skin, as if her body had been waiting for permission to ache again.
She practically relived the way Aleksander had pinned her to that table with nothing but his mouth and the unbearable pressure of his body, hard and insistent between her legs. His hands—desperate. Her own moans—helpless. She had nearly come from just that. Fully dressed. Just from him.
Her thighs snapped shut, breath caught on a moan that didn’t make it out.
Now was not the time. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, drew in a long, trembling inhale through her nose—steadying herself, forcing the heat back down.
When she’d regained a sliver of composure, she reached over to take the cup from his hand, careful and slow. “Let me put this down for you.”
He didn’t protest—simply let his fingers go limp as she took it, brushing hers for the briefest moment before his hand dropped back to the bed. With a deep sigh, he sank further into the pillows.
She set the cups on the bedside table, then turned back to him. His colour had marginally improved, but the exhaustion clung to him like a shadow.
Without a word, she reached for the blanket, pulling it up over his chest.
Then, with a soft, tired exhale, she slipped back under the covers beside him, as if her place had always been here. Now that everything was out in the open—no secrets, no hiding—she let herself curl into him without hesitation, heavy with exhaustion.
His warmth bled into her where their bodies touched, laced with the charged scent that clung to him like ozone—cool, sharp, and unmistakably his. It prickled at her skin like static.
Her breath trembled as she settled beside him. She was exhausted.
Nevertheless, she wanted him again. Still.
She ached. Saints, she ached for him.
But she forced it down, biting her lips until they stung with the effort. He was still healing. He was weak. It would be selfish to—
“You’re thinking too loud,” Aleksander rasped suddenly, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
Alina blinked, startled. “What?”
His eyes opened slowly, dark and shining with something unreadable. “I can feel it,” he murmured. “The way you look at me. Like… you’re afraid you’ll break me.”
Alina’s breath caught in her throat as her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers twisting against the fabric of his shirt. The heat rising in her face was impossible to hide. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, voice tremulous, betraying the concern that burned through her.
His eyes softened, but there was something dark in them, something that drew her in.
“You won’t,” he assured her simply. “Alina… please.”
And it was that—his voice, so raw and honest—that undid her.
Not because it soothed her fear. But because she understood: it would hurt him more if she held back. If she denied him what he needed most.
She exhaled shakily, her fingers tracing down his chest, over the thin fabric of his shirt until they rested lightly at the ties. “If it’s too much… stop me.”
Aleksander’s breath stuttered, but he said nothing—only watched her with wide, dark eyes, his lips parted.
With slow, deliberate hands, she reached for the ties of his sleepshirt, fingers making quick work of the loose knots.
The fabric parted easily, falling away from his upper body, leaving his chest bare beneath her.
And Saints—
He was beautiful.
Alina swallowed, her throat tight, her breath catching as her eyes roamed over him—over long limbs, the elegant lines of his body, the contrast of pale skin against dark hair, his narrow hips disappearing beneath the last remnants of clothing.
She wanted to touch him. Everywhere.
She wanted to map every scar, every inch of him with her hands, her mouth, to learn the shape of him in a way that was undeniable, unforgettable.
The bruises were fading now, nothing but ghostly traces of what had pulled him from her arms last night.
But as her fingers traced over his ribs, feeling the faintest remnants of swelling still lingering beneath his skin, she hesitated.
She wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt him. Not again.
Her body was throbbing with need—tight, hot, unbearable. If she let go, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
So she made a decision: she would give, not take. It was safer this way.
Alina let her hand drift lower until her fingertips brushed the edge of his trousers. He gasped softly, his body jerking ever so slightly beneath her. One hand fluttered up, tentative, brushing her side, inching upward—toward her breast.
She caught his wrist gently. “Shhh…” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Not this time. You rest. I’ve got you.”
Her hand slipped beneath the waistband, the unexpected warmth of him startling against her palm. Aleksander’s breath stuttered—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed as she wrapped her fingers around him. He was already hard for her, despite everything. Long, heavy, straining against his pants.
She rose over him, nudging the fabric down, just enough, her movements steady, even as her hands shook.
And then she saw him—fully, for the first time. Long, flushed, beautifully proportioned— but in her small hand, almost overwhelming.
For a moment, she simply held him—felt the weight of him, the impossible heat. And Saints, it was almost too much.
Carefully, she began to stroke, slow and steady, watching his face the whole time. Watching how his lips parted on a soundless moan, how his brows drew together in something close to agony. She loved that look on him, raw and undone. Saints, witnessing him fall apart like this—it was intoxicating.
But after a short time, something changed. Alina felt it—saw it in the way his throat worked, the way his eyes clenched shut like he was fighting something off.
This was not pleasure. Not anymore.
Something was wrong.
She stilled her hand. “Aleksander?”
His eyes opened slowly, glassy with something fragile—restraint, ache, distress. “I—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want… just this.”
She froze.
“I want—” He struggled, words breaking apart. “Please, Alina… please don’t just… touch me.”
He didn’t need to say anything else.
She understood.
He needed not just her hands.
He needed all of her. He needed to be inside her. To feel her surrounding him. To lose himself in her completely.
The moment he asked—no, begged—for more than her hands, it unravelled everything. The hunger she’d fought so hard to deny surged forward again, merciless and total.
Every part of her ached for him in ways that terrified her. The night before, the fear of losing him had left an emptiness that only he could fill. Now, she needed him like air—desperately, hungrily. Her body screamed for him.
She leaned down, pressing her lips just beneath his jaw, feeling the way his pulse stuttered beneath her mouth.
Shortly, reluctantly, she let go of him for a moment and sat back—her hands moving to the hem of her dress. Quickly she pulled it over her head, then discarded her underwear, baring herself to him. Shifting forward, she rose onto her knees to straddle his hips.
Her skin was flushed, her breath uneven, her heart pounding a wild, unsteady rhythm against her ribs.
Aleksander’s dark eyes had gone almost black in the dim morning light; dragging over her body like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—like she was some miracle he wasn’t sure he deserved.
“Alina. You’re… luminous.” He stared at her as if she might vanish if he blinked. “Please, let me have you.”
It shattered her.
“I’m yours.” Her hands trembled as she traced the lean muscles of his abdomen, then lower—where they dipped into the sharp grooves above his hips. “Gods, Aleksander, I need you inside me. Now.” The words tore from her, shameless and wild, the kind she might've blushed for—once.
His hands twitched at his sides, still where she’d placed them before. He hadn’t moved them again.
But now she reached for them; guided them to her flanks with trembling certainty.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
Immediately, his long fingers skimmed up, reverent and slow, until his thumbs brushed the underswell of her breasts.
He hesitated, then cupped them gently, thumbs circling over sensitive peaks.
Alina whimpered. She was absolutely soaked by now—shamelessly slick, need gathering thick and hot between her thighs.
She ground down against him with a soft, broken cry. Her body was screaming, burning for him—craving to have him inside her, needing him deep in her core more than anything else.
Heat coiled low in her stomach, spreading through her limbs, pulsing between her legs as she carefully reached down, guiding him into place.
Aleksander’s throat worked around a sound he couldn’t voice, his fingers shaky against her.
His blunt tip met her, solid and flushed and much larger than her petite body was made for. She gasped sharply as his length pressed into her—barely inside—and already it was too much.
The penetration was overwhelming, shockingly exquisite. Her thighs trembled as she lowered herself further, each inch wringing a stifled moan from her.
Still, she pushed on — ravenous, unrelenting — needing him fully inside her.
But even through the haze, she had to make sure he was okay. She looked down at him, uncertain, her words catching somewhere deep in her chest. “Aleksander… are you—”
His voice broke through her worry. “Let me feel you,” he encouraged her hoarsely. “That’s all I need.”
He still didn’t engage, didn’t guide, didn’t thrust—just lay still and burning beneath her
He was letting her set the pace. Despite the way his chest rose and fell in jagged bursts. Despite the sweat already blooming at his temples. Despite the raw hunger blazing in his eyes.
He was trembling with restraint.
And gods, she loved him for it.
The strain of taking him was devastating now—blinding, ecstatic. She panted laboriously, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance as she struggled to adjust around the glorious, brutal intrusion.
Suddenly, her whole body jerked—sharp, involuntary—as he struck her deepest point before she was even fully seated on him. Flinching instinctively, her knee slammed into his still-tender ribs.
Aleksander hissed at that, the sound thin and strained as his hands spasmed on her hips —pain, clearly.
She froze instantly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, stricken.
But he shook his head, eyes dark and dilated. “Don’t be.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked with arousal. “Gods, Alina. Don’t—don’t apologise. You just—” He broke off, words trembling between the residue of pain and his obvious hunger. “You didn’t harm me. It’s just... intense.”
Still, the flash of his discomfort haunted her. She couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him—even unintentionally.
Even more careful now, keeping all her weight away from his ribs, she let herself melt around him. She adjusted her angle, forcing herself to relax, desperate to accommodate him fully.
Taking him deeper and deeper felt like something both overwhelming and necessary —but she wouldn't ride him fast, wouldn’t push herself down on him with abandon.
And gods, it was not because she shouldn’t, with his healing ribs—but because she didn’t want to.
This wasn’t about friction or speed. Her body ached for the constant pressure of him.
She didn’t want to pull away, didn’t want to give up this feeling of this unbearable, perfect fullness. The slow, satisfying ache of being pinned open.
Of having him in her, alive.
A low sound tore from Aleksander, half-strangled, his hands tightening on her hips. “Saints, you’re—” He faltered, whatever he'd meant to say swallowed by the rush of sensation. His hands gently steadied her hips, helping her to sink the rest of the way down until she sat flush against him. Until there was nowhere left to go.
Her lower body was deliciously overstrained. Split open around him. And he—heavens, he was buried in her so deep, so utterly—he didn’t just fill her, he pressed against her end. That raw, nerve-packed centre of her clenched around the intoxicating ache, and he was twitching hard inside her, every pulse of him like a reminder: he’s alive. He’s here. He’s in me. Filling her until there was no space left for fear, no air for doubt, no room for anything but him.
She couldn’t move. The pressure was too much—dense, burning, perfect. His size, immovable inside her, overwhelmed her—blissfully. It felt as if her lungs no longer knew how to move. “Gods, Aleksander,” she gasped.
In response, his eyes fluttered closed, jaw clenched tight as he fought for control. “You’re perfect,” he rasped. “So perfect… Saints, Alina…”
For a few moments, she stayed still, not able to do anything but catching her breath, shuddering. Her body trembled with heat and overstimulation, exquisitely caught between pain and pleasure, clenching around him with helpless urgency. Yet, she craved every merciless inch of him.
Eventually—because the unbearable fullness kept taunting her deepest place, and her need had outgrown the stillness—she started to grind—small, frantic motions, tiny rocking shifts of her hips against him. Just insistent, little movements that kept him pressing against that bruised, electrified spot inside her.
Her clit throbbed violently, untouched, crushed against his skin by the extreme friction. Her core clenched around him again and again, as if trying to pull him even deeper.
Yet, he lay still beneath her, his hands on her hips, letting her use him, letting her ride out her desperation.
His grip tightened slightly, one thumb brushing her side — a reverent, absent-minded touch, as if he couldn't help needing her skin.
It felt unbearably good. She panted in ragged staccato, each exhale torn from her lungs in uneven bursts. Keening, needy. She didn’t sound like herself. She didn’t feel like herself.
She wasn’t riding him—she was impaled on him. There was no rhythm, no elegance. Just mindless, molten fire.
Panting hard, her eyes flicked to his face—checking. Always checking. His jaw was clenched, but not in pain.
“I—gods, Aleksander—” she swallowed convulsively, “I need to come—like this—while you’re so deep inside me that I can't breathe—” her voice broke as her hips jerked helplessly, “—but I’m terrified I’ll push you too far.”
He shook his head instantly, a small, abrupt motion. “Stop thinking so much,” he rasped. “Just take what you need, Alina. I’ve never wanted anything more than to watch you fall apart on me.”
So, she kept grinding.
He was a tall man. She was impossibly small around him. But she needed it to be unbearable.
And he could feel it. She knew he could feel how relentlessly tight she was around him—how her body refused to let him go, as if trying to keep him buried forever.
But he didn’t stop her. Didn’t even flinch.
He moved instead—slow, subtle—adjusting her hips on him just slightly. Testing. Seeking.
And suddenly—her whole body jerked.
The angle had changed, and she cried out—sharp and strangled—as though lightning had struck her. Her muscles spasmed uncontrollably, her hands flying to his chest as she buckled forward with a sob.
“Alina—?” His voice was hoarse, raw from holding himself back.
“Again,” she begged, already moving for more, chasing that impossible angle. Her hands grasped blindly for purchase and ended up on his wrists, pinning them to the mattress. “Just—let me. Please!”
She was already spiralling.
That spot—Saints, that spot—every time she rolled her hips just right, it set her nerves alight. It was pain, it was pressure, it was perfect bliss. She needed it. Needed him right there, deep and hard and obliterating, while she broke herself apart on top of him.
She was shaking, her body taut with exertion. The sensation of him, pressing so deep—too deep—it was making her dizzy. She couldn’t breathe through it, could only pant against her sweat-damp air and pray her body didn’t give out.
And still she didn’t stop.
She kept going—still small motions— frantic little circles, mindless with need. She clutched his hands tighter, held them down like they were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.
And he let her—let her rut against him, let her torment herself on the depth of him because that was what she needed.
And how she needed it.
She knew he was trying not to move—but he couldn’t help the way his hips occasionally jerked up a bit to meet her. The way his fingers twitched beneath hers. The way his eyes fluttered shut when her body seized and clenched around him, already close to shattering.
“You feel incredible,” he rasped, barely audible.
She couldn’t answer. Could barely think. Just a raw, keening sound tore from her throat—half-moan, half-sob, like her lungs had forgotten air.
She was almost there. So close. Too close.
He tried to reach for her clit, wanting to help—but she pushed his hands back on her hips again.
“No,” she choked. “Don’t. Just… deep—. I need—deep.”
He understood.
His grip on her hips firmed. Another small shift in angle followed. The kind of adjustment only a man could make when he knew her body better than she did. And that was all it took.
She shattered.
No warning. No pause. No build.
Just the sudden, ruthless detonation of pressure, nerves, tension, need—all releasing at once.
Her body locked up, muscles clamping down hard around him, and she gasped—too stunned for words—eyes clamping shut, back arched. Deep inside her, unyielding, hot and solid, he pressed to her most tender point while she broke apart.
Her climax tore through her with such force she would have screamed hadn’t she been panting like she’d run for miles. Her body convulsed again and again—helpless, involuntary—every nerve ending on fire.
And beneath her, Aleksander’s restraint began to splinter. She felt it—in the sudden jerk of his hips as she clenched hard around him, in the way his breath caught on a strangled groan he couldn't quite suppress.
He was unraveling—slowly, visibly—his will ground down, one breath at a time, with each wave of her climax.
It didn’t stop.
And she didn’t stop.
She couldn’t.
Even as she gasped through the aftershocks, she kept moving—rocking, grinding, desperate. Her body wanted more. Needed more. She didn’t care that she was already spent, already shaking.
She needed to feel it again.
Needed to make herself come again.
The hard length of him pulsed inside her, buried to the hilt, unyielding; grinding against him drove her past the limit of what she could bear. He groaned, twitching beneath her, but he didn’t stop her.
And gods — he was shaking.
He looked ruined. Lips parted. Eyes unfocused. One hand still on her hip, the other sliding to her upper leg, fingers shaking, but not moving — just helping her, spreading her impossibly wide open.
She was trembling so hard now, she couldn't find the rhythm again. Yet, the painful, nerve-wracking arousal at her centre hadn’t dulled—it had only sharpened. She panted—high-pitched, ragged little sounds, each one like a cry for more without voice.
Her fingers dug into his forearms as she tried to move her hips; but her strength was practically gone now.
Aleksander recognized that.
He started to reinforce her spasmic movements. Encouraging. Relentless.
He wasn’t asking. He knew. Knew what she needed. “Keep going,” he urged, dragging her down against him—guiding her hips in intense, urgent circles, keeping her spread and full and speared exactly as she needed it.
Every stuttering pass scraped him along the most tender, swollen, hypersensitive edges inside her.
Her body jerked, caught between hunger and that sweet, merciless pain. She keened. Couldn’t stop it. And he made it possible; let her ride the edge again, even deeper this time, even more desperate.
She didn’t want to escape the ache—it was sacred. She needed to feel skewered, pierced with everything he had. Needed the proof that he was alive, that he was inside her, filling her; hers.
Aleksander’s hands tightened on her, unrelenting now, adjusting the angle of her pelvis with small, deliberate tilts. Each shift was precise, designed to torture that shattered, satisfying place deep inside her.
And when he found it—when he could mercilessly press into that devastating, soul-splitting spot again—she gasped like the air had been torn from her lungs, her whole body seizing.
It dragged a scream from her lips she barely recognized—high and strangled— and she folded over him, clutching his shoulders with trembling fingers, holding on as if she might fall apart without him.
He groaned—deep, involuntary—his body twitching beneath her, still trying to stay still. But it was costing him now. Every second stretched tight with restraint that trembled on the edge of collapse.
His jaw was clenched hard, muscles in his neck flexing like he was bracing against a tide. His control wasn’t just cracking—it was fraying fast.She could feel it in the way his arms trembled. In the low, broken noises escaping him, like it was killing him not to move.
And still—he held steady.
She had never felt this way with anyone. Never needed this depth—not just of his body, but of everything he was. And he gave it to her. Not because she asked. But because he understood.
But now—now she needed more.
Her entire body was trembling, overstimulated, nerves frayed. Her climax was there—right there—but she didn’t want to reach it alone. Not anymore. Not without him.
“Aleksander—” she gasped, her voice wrecked, “please—I need you to—” Her hands slid helplessly across his chest. “I need you to come. With me. Don’t hold back anymore—please—”
Her words landed like a blow—his eyes flew open—wide, dark, stunned—as if the world had narrowed to just her, just now.
And then his body answered.
A ragged, wrecked sound tore from his throat as his control shattered, and he thrust up—once—
deep and hard and final.
The sheer power of it wrecked her.
She screamed, high and breathless, undone by the brutal ecstasy—by the shocking, searing way he filled her, split her wide with pleasure so raw it struck like lightning.
His grip locked around her as he finally surrendered. His back arched, pain tightening his features from the sharp, devastating movement.
And then he came—violently, fiercely—spilling into her in thick, pulsing waves, his body twitching helplessly beneath hers. His face shone with something close to rapture, undone in a way she’d never seen before.
The sensation of him emptying inside her—so hot, so deep, so impossibly intense—shattered what little control she had left.
Her body locked around him with primal force, muscles clenching in erratic, stuttering pulses.
She keened, sharp and wordless, as her second orgasm tore through her—merciless, extreme full-body contractions. Her hips bucked, her core seized and shuddered, milking him with spasms so intense they bordered on pain—blissful, exquisite pain that felt like worship and ruin all at once.
She met every tremor, every throb of him as he came inside her—shuddering, emptying, unravelling. She dragged it out of him, and he gave it, groaning her name like a man who’d held on too long. His entire body convulsed with effort.
By the end, he practically shook with exhaustion—hips twitching feebly, chest heaving with what little strength remained.
Finally—he stilled, collapsing back against the pillows like a man undone; but Alina could feel him still pulsing faintly inside her, could feel the deep, liquid heat settling low in her belly.
She collapsed forward, forehead pressed lightly against the curve of his throat, sobbing quietly. She stayed there, arms loose at his sides.
Aftershocks racked her, made her whimper helplessly into his skin.
Every slight movement of her body—just her breath, the tremble of a muscle—sent fresh tremors rippling through her overstimulated core—his presence still inside her too much and not enough all at once. Her inner muscles kept clamping, desperate to hold him, to keep him there, longing and wrung out beyond reason.
For a while, only their laboured breaths remained—harsh, uneven, the room echoing with the sound of survival.
She stayed like that, straddling him in silence, until the tremors in her limbs began to settle.
Finally, she moved again. Palms upward, she slid her hands beneath his arms, fingers gliding forward and up— over the sweat-slick skin of his back, until her fingertips curled around the tops of his shoulders.
And with that hold—gentle but unshakable—she pulled herself down, inch by inch, until her chest met his. Until her whole front was pressed flush to his, skin to skin, heart to heart, with him still inside her.
She let her weight settle there.
Not collapsing—claiming; kissing his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
His hands came up, unsteady, reaching—one brushing her back, the other trying to graze her shoulder.
But he couldn’t.
His fingers slipped away. His arms dropped.
“I’m… sorry,” he whispered, barely audible.
Alina pushed herself up just enough to see him fully.
His face was pale and clammy, yet his cheeks held a hint of feverish colour. He looked completely overexerted; drained. The kind of exhaustion that came from giving more than the body was meant to.
And Saints, what he had just given her…
Her throat tightened with guilt and gratitude.
“No,” she whispered fiercely, leaning down to press a trembling kiss to his temple. “Don’t you dare apologize. Let go! Rest. Just rest.”
His breath stuttered. Still he tried—to stay, to hold on.
But it was too much.
His eyes drifted shut once, twice; then his body sagged under her.
He had nothing left to give.
With a broken sigh, his mouth parted slightly, lips soft and damp. His head lolled to the side—but Alina caught it gently, her heart cracking in two.
His respirations were still shallow, fast, and ragged. A sheen of sweat glistened across his chest, his neck, the sharp line of his collarbones. His limbs lay slack, utterly surrendered, stripped of every last reserve.
He looked... peaceful.
And terrifyingly empty.
Alina’s throat burned, but she didn’t panic. She laid a hand over his heart, relieved to feel it gradually slowing beneath her palm—still hammering, but easing now. He was all right. Just… depleted.
For a while, she didn’t move. She stayed right where she was—straddling his hips, monitoring his heartbeat, her eyes on his face. The sweat on his skin was beginning to cool, turning the heat of their joining into something more fragile, more quiet.
Yet, he was still inside her.
And gods, she could feel all of him. Every softened inch. He wasn’t hard anymore—his body had given all it had—but he hadn’t slipped free either. He remained nestled deep within her, their bodies joined in the most intimate way, even in rest.
She instinctively tightened her inner walls again, gently, not to rouse him—but to hold him inside a little longer. Just a little longer.
Because when he slipped from her, she knew it would feel like loss. And for that, she wasn’t ready yet.
She brushed a few sticky strands of hair back from his forehead. His skin felt clammy now; the heat of exertion leached away. The sheets beneath him were damp, his body cooling too fast in the open air.
She wouldn’t risk him catching a chill. Not like this. Not after everything. So, eventually, she had to move.
With aching reluctance, she lifted herself from him—slowly, carefully, her hands resting lightly on his chest, careful not to press down.
He didn’t stir.
And then she felt it.
That slow, aching moment when he slipped free from her — leaving her hollow, trembling, mourning the loss. She gasped, just a little. Not from pain—but from the absence. That emptiness. She clenched around it reflexively, but he was already gone.
She sat back on her heels, breathing shallowly as she felt the wetness seep down between her thighs, a slow, warm trickle that made her shiver—not from discomfort, but from how deeply he was still inside her, even now.
But she moved.
There still was the basin beside the bed, the cloth folded over its edge — the same one she’d used the night before to clean the blood and sweat from his face while he lay unconscious. She hadn’t wanted to leave his side then. She wouldn’t now.
She reached for the cloth without moving from where she sat, folded it gently, and began to clean him.
He didn’t stir.
Not even when she wiped between his legs, careful not to press too hard, using one hand to lift him slightly as she worked. He was soft, pliant, spent in a way that made her heart ache with something close to devotion. His lashes didn’t so much as flutter, his breath calm now and steady. His face looked stripped of all defences—unguarded, quiet in a way she’d never seen.
He looked young. Human.
Hers.
When she was done, she cleaned herself with the same care, then tucked the cloth away and returned to him.
He hadn’t moved. Still spread across the sheets like something undone, something surrendered. He slept now with calmness etched into his features.
She reached for the heavy blanket at the end of the bed and pulled it up and over them both, tucking it securely around his shoulders. Then she crawled in beside him.
He didn’t stir. Just a quiet sigh escaped him as she wrapped herself around his body, warm skin to cold. Her hand found his chest again, right over his heart, and she closed her eyes to its rhythm. Still there. Still strong.
She didn’t sleep. Not right away.
Her body was wrecked, but her mind stayed fixed on him—still listening, still watching, still ready to act if anything changed.
She kept her hand where it was, feeling every beat, making sure. Just a little longer.
He was still, utterly still—spent and slack in her arms, breathing shallow but even. And again, she held him like something breakable, afraid to move too much, afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over him.
But this time, it wasn’t injury that had emptied him.
It wasn’t pain or blood loss or collapse that left him lying so still in her arms.
It was choice.
He had surrendered to her—fully, completely.
He hadn’t fallen asleep in her arms out of weakness.
He had trusted her to hold him.
Willing. Quiet. And that meant more than anything he could have said.
What he’d given her sat heavy in her chest.
Her throat tightened; she drew him a little closer and just held on—needing the contact.
Eventually, her breathing began to slow. The tension in her shoulders eased. Her thoughts got harder to hold.
But even then, she didn’t let go all at once.
It took time.
Only when her body finally gave out—when staying awake stopped being possible—did her eyes stop flickering open.
Her lips brushed his skin—temple, hairline, something close.
And in the space between breath and sleep, too quiet for anyone to hear, she whispered it.
“I love you.”
And then, at last, she slept.
Content Warning:
This story contains emotionally intense and deeply consensual sexual content grounded in trust, love, and mutual surrender. Scenes include physical overwhelm, penetrative depth that borders on ecstatic discomfort, and repeated orgasms that blur the line between pleasure and overstimulation.
Descriptions include metaphorical references to pain—such as stretching, splitting, or skewering—that are expressions of desired intensity and not indicators of harm, distress, or non-consensual experience. Every sensation is rooted in reverence, mutual care, and bodily autonomy.
Reader discretion is advised for themes of overstimulation, raw emotional vulnerability, and the overwhelming need to feel one’s partner completely.
To the world, he was shadow and strength. To them, he was the man who bled in silence.
This story is an AU. It takes place long before Alina turns up.
Kirigan is not the villain he will be later in the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading
The Grisha camp sat low against the wind, a scatter of canvas and wooden stakes dug into half-frozen soil. The Second Army had been barely holding the northern line, and whispers of defeat hung heavy in the air. It had been in those moments of desperation that Kirigan arrived.
Whenever the Darkling came, the camp shifted. Not with fear—but with focus.
The air felt sharper, like something holding its breath, not out of dread, but anticipation. Soldiers stood straighter. Not because they feared being seen, but because they wanted to—by him.
Orders moved even faster. Actions had even more purpose. Because when he walked through the camp with shadows at his heels, it meant one thing:
They had a chance.
He didn’t stride past them—he moved with them. Sat where there was space. Ate whatever they had. Gave away more than he kept.
Fought like he had nothing left to lose.
Even the fiercest Grisha watched him—not like a storm about to break, but like the edge of one finally lifting.
With him came the quiet belief:
We might win this.
With him came hope.
Ivan shared that belief, too. But he didn’t look for hope anymore.
He looked for cost.
The wind at the front always smelled like blood and iron, even when the battlefield was quiet. Smoke lingered in the air like an unspoken threat. The grass never grew back. Ivan had stopped expecting it to.
He stood just beyond the outer ring of tents, watching the sun slip behind torn clouds. Orange firelight flickered on torn banners and weary faces. A few Otkazat’sya sat in the mud, silent. He didn’t know their names. They wouldn’t last long enough for it to matter.
Fedyor’s voice brought him back. “They will move the last wounded to the third tent. Do you want to oversee triage?”
The boy—he was barely a man, all lanky lines and friendly eyes—stood beside him, cradling a pouch of medical supplies. Still young, with quick steps and a bright laugh.
He had been assigned to Ivan weeks ago. Green, untested; eager. But he had grit beneath the surface. Kindness too, which was rarer than grit these days.
They made a good team. Fedyor saw hearts. Ivan silenced them. Between the two of them, they could drag dying men back from the brink—or end the fight before it began. Whether it meant saving a life or taking one, they got the job done.
Ivan snorted. “You know how to do it by now. The loud ones still have fight in them. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.”
Fedyor didn’t flinch. He never did. There was a steadiness in him that reminded Ivan of how he used to be—young, inexperienced, yet ready to prove his worth. He looked at Ivan the same way Ivan had looked at General Kirigan half a decade ago, eyes wide with admiration and trust.
Back then, Ivan had been just like that—not yet an adult, but sharp-witted, and already carrying more weight than he should’ve had to. He hadn’t been reckless, just willing. Ready to believe in something. Ready to believe in him.
Now, after five years on the battlefield, Ivan still believed in Kirigan—but the way he observed him had changed.
The General’s actions, his methods, the weight of the choices he made—these were things Ivan had started to notice more clearly. They all came at a cost.
Kirigan hadn’t changed. Not in face, not in form. Not in behaviour. But Ivan had.
And he’d started to notice things others didn’t.
Three weeks had passed since Kirigan’s arrival. Three weeks of relentless skirmishes. Of snow that never melted. Of mud that clung like grief, of smoke that never cleared. Without him, they’d have lost the ridge the first night. Lost the river crossing the next dawn. The General barely slept. Barely stopped. When his shadows moved across the battlefield, they carved a path like a second army. Not even the Fjerdans could match that.
But even the strongest could not outpace exhaustion forever. And Ivan had begun to catch it, thin and fleeting, in the rarest unguarded moments.
Like earlier that day. When the skirmish ended and the dead were counted, when the wounded screamed and the medics ran short on hands, Ivan had seen Kirigan walk through the field with blood on his collar, shadows pooling around his steps. The General hadn’t spoken. He never did after a battle, not unless he had to. But his jaw had been tight, his steps slower than usual. No one else noticed. They never did.
Except Ivan.
And Fedyor. That was the strange thing—how quickly the boy had learned to see through the mask of power, how easily he mirrored Ivan’s own silent watchfulness.
It was nearly dusk when Ivan realized Kirigan hadn’t been seen in over an hour. Not at his desk, which was visible through the open flaps of the command tent.
Not at the infirmary, checking on his people. Not even by the edge of the camp, where he sometimes stood for a moment to clear his mind.
Ivan and Fedyor had been making rounds—quiet, observant, watching for gaps in coverage, listening for pain behind canvas walls, anything that needed their hands. But this... This felt wrong. Too quiet, like a storm was to break out.
A pressure building in the air. Unfamiliar. Heavy.
Ivan paused beside a row of stacked crates, gaze cutting through shadows as he scanned the stretch of tents and flickering fires beyond. Something uncoiled in his chest. A knowing.
“I don’t like this.” He exchanged a glance with Fedyor. “Come.”
The command tent stood near the centre of camp, tall and dark. Inside, the main area was dim. Empty. Kirigan’s desk sat still untouched, the maps folded with sharp, impatient creases. No sign of movement.
A curtain hung at the back—thicker than the rest of the canvas, drawn halfway shut. The kind meant for privacy, though Kirigan rarely allowed himself either solitude or rest.
"General?” Ivan called low, waiting half a heartbeat. “I’m coming in."
No answer. Only the heavy stillness.
Gritting his teeth, he ducked past the curtain, bracing for some harsh command, a reprimand—anything but what he found.
Kirigan lay collapsed on his cot, one arm flung over the side, shadows pooled beneath him like smoke stripped of purpose. His breathing was shallow, ribcage barely rising. His face was ashen. His body unnaturally still.
Not weak. Never that. But diminished, folded in on himself, as if the weight he carried had finally driven him to the ground.
Ivan didn’t speak; didn’t breathe, for a moment. Just crossed the space in three hectic strides and dropped beside the cot, his powers flaring to life. “He’s unconscious,” he murmured, hands gesturing sharply. “But not from injury. Not bleeding out.”
No signs of internal trauma. No collapsed lung or anything dramatic like that. Just countless bruises, muscle strain, cold limbs, and his heartbeat like a candle guttering in wind. Not dying. Not wounded enough to accept a Healer. But completely drained.
More than that—spent.
Ivan’s gut twisted. He had seen the signs—subtle, almost invisible; the hours Kirigan carved from days already too thin; the blanket Ivan had once folded at the end of his cot, still lying in perfect corners days later, because no one had touched it—but Ivan had chosen to believe that a force like Kirigan could not falter.
Chosen wrong.
Fedyor had knelt beside him, silent. His hands hovered, checking what Ivan already knew. “His temperature’s too low,” he whispered softly. “Circulation’s slowed.”
“He’s practically frozen,” Ivan growled. He shoved his hand beneath damp fabric, flat against Kirigan’s chest—cold, wet skin, trembling as if in shock.
Beneath it, the pulse fluttered like a moth trapped in glass.
“I’ll get blankets.” Fedyor rose in one swift motion. “And a real pillow.”
Ivan only nodded, hands already moving to undo the Kefta, stiff with soot and blood. Not his own. Mostly. “Hurry. Then help me. Before anything else, we need to get this off him.”
Fedyor was back within the minute.
Together they peeled the heavy garment away. The fabric stuck where blood had dried, where sweat and dirt had mingled and clung. They moved slowly, supporting him as they worked the sleeves down his arms. The tunic underneath was no better—drenched, half-darkened by moisture.
“We have to get him dry. He will never get warm otherwise.”
They eased the sodden layer away, revealing the bare skin beneath it.
What they saw stopped them.
Kirigan was thinner than he should be. Too lean, worn down to the edge. His ribs stood out in stark relief, skin drawn tight across bone. Old scars mapped the terrain of his chest and sides—jagged things left by claws and weapons of every kind. Layered above them—small, dark circles, ringed in sharp-edged bruises: bullets caught mid-flight. The Kefta might stop penetration, but not the force behind it.
And scattered between them—fresh wounds. A shallow cut across his flank, still sluggishly bleeding. Another near his collarbone, the skin torn in a perfect, deep circle, like a bolt had been ripped out without care. Thankfully not infected. But raw.
But what drew their eyes now most was one fresh, huge mark over his ribs, blooming black, blue, deep violet.
Ivan’s jaw clenched. He recognized the clustered impact—blunt trauma, not from fists. A boot. Heavy. Deliberate.
“Damn.” That kind of mark didn’t happen to Kirigan. “Who got close enough to do that?”
Fedyor didn’t speak. His mouth was a flat line. He shifted, reached beneath Kirigan’s shoulder. “Help me turn him.”
They did—just enough to glimpse his back.
It was even worse there.
A deep, curving bruise swept across his lower flank, taut beneath the skin, the swelling pulled tight and discoloured. As if he had struck something with full force—stone grinding through fabric and flesh alike. Ivan winced at the sight; he remembered it clearly now. The explosion. It had thrown the tall man like a ragdoll, slammed him into the ridge with bone-jarring impact. That much force, that angle… he should have been unconscious the moment he landed.
But instead, Kirigan had gotten back on his feet—silent, shadows still shielding the rest of them. Still commanding.
Now, seeing the damage, he didn’t know how.
“Saints,” Fedyor whispered.
Frustration burned low and bitter in Ivan’s chest. He had stood at the General’s side through every battle, every gruelling night—and still he had missed how far the damage ran.
It was a bitter confirmation of everything Ivan had suspected but hadn’t dared voice. He had watched Kirigan bleed strength drop by drop, and done nothing but move forward, trusting that the General would always have more to give.
And now—now there was nothing left. No reserves left. What remained was barely enough to keep him breathing.
He would never want to be seen like this. So no one would.
“Nobody comes in here.” He stood slowly. “Not unless I say.”
Fedyor nodded. “We’ll keep them out.”
Then he slipped out of the tent. A few minutes later, he was back, the battered medical kit clutched in his arms.
They worked in grim silence, cleaning the shallow cut along his side, treating the bruising along his lower back, bandaging them both.
The worst was the torn wound beneath the collarbone where the bolt had struck—they covered it with a thick padding, binding it carefully to stem any further bleeding.
Through it all, Kirigan didn’t stir. He didn’t flinch even when the wrappings pulled taut across battered flesh.
Ivan’s jaw clenched. That kind of pain should have brought him gasping back to full awareness.
Once the worst of the wounds were bound, Fedyor retrieved the thick clothes he'd set aside earlier—a shirt and an undercoat, soft, worn pieces of fabric, warm to the touch.
They worked the clean garments over him gently, guiding his arms through the sleeves. His body still gave no resistance—only the faintest rasp of breath, and even that was wrong.
Kirigan was keening now, faint and high in his throat. Each breath drawn with effort. Ivan could see the muscles along his ribs tense, struggle, try again.
Fedyor flinched. “It’s getting worse.”
“We need to prop him up,” Ivan ordered. “Now.”
Fedyor grabbed the pillow, a proper one this time—thick, firm, reasonably clean. They lifted Kirigan’s shoulders together and wedged it beneath his upper back, angling his chest to give the lungs room to expand.
It wasn’t perfect. But the wheeze softened, turned shallow instead of sharp.
Fedyor layered a woollen blanket over him, then reached for another. Carefully, he tucked them around Kirigan’s lean frame with a gentleness few would have dared in the clear light of day—doing his best to wrap him in every bit of warmth he could find.
The minutes passed.
Yet, his skin still appeared pallid, the chill clinging to him in a way that wouldn’t ease. So Ivan took his own coat and added it for good measure.
Fedyor didn’t comment—just placed a warm, damp cloth against Kirigan’s brow, something he’d quietly heated while they waited. His hand lingered for a few seconds longer than needed.
Ivan stood unmoving. Just studied the General’s too-pale face.
He looked young. Pale and drawn, features softened in sleep, like someone burdened long before they should have been.
And yet Ivan knew better.
Kirigan had been leading the Second Army already when Ivan was still a child. He had survived wars Ivan had only read about. And still, lying here now, he looked like someone who should have been protected.
Not because he was weak. But because no one should have to bear that kind of burden alone for such a long time.
There were lines of exhaustion under his eyes that hadn’t been there last week. A faint tremor in his fingers, even asleep.
His shadows hadn’t moved since they arrived, hadn’t stirred even now. They clung to the floor like spilled ink, slack and formless. That more than anything chilled Ivan.
He couldn't remember the last time he’d seen Kirigan sleep. Maybe never. Rest, yes - those quiet moments after battle, that wordless stillness at dawn. But not this. No real sleep. No surrender.
And in this silence, Ivan thought, this is what it looks like when the most powerful Grisha burns himself out.
They didn’t need to speak. Not out loud. But between them passed a quiet understanding.
They spent the next hours handling the messengers, directing supply runners, offering vague explanations about where the General had gone. They took shifts watching over him. Always one of them close enough to listen. Heartrender training made it easy—reading every shift in breath, every flicker of pulse.
Ivan sat near the entrance, writing reports. Fedyor crouched by the cot, fingers occasionally brushing Kirigan’s forearm, the touch light and fleeting—no more than the slightest connection, but enough to reassure, enough to anchor without a word.
They had placed a brazier near the foot of the bed, its coals glowing low and steady—just enough to ward off the chill. Fedyor had tucked a pair of warmed stones against Kirigan’s flanks beneath the blankets—and every few hours, he swapped them out in silence, never once waking him.
The boy stayed cross-legged beside the cot, shoulders slumped, fatigue etched deep into his face. But his gaze remained fixed on the General. Always monitoring him, ready to act.
Ivan, ever the sentinel, remained at his post, too. He wouldn’t sleep—no matter how observant Fedyor was, he wouldn’t leave the boy alone with this.
At some point during the night, he rolled his shoulders, stood to stretch, and crossed quietly to the brazier. Carefully, he fed it another handful of coals.
Behind him, Fedyor had slumped forward, not quite asleep. One arm folded beneath his head, the other still resting against Kirigan’s slender wrist.
Ivan stayed where he was. Watched the coals settle. Watched the rise and fall of Kirigan’s breath.
Tiredly, he exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Resigned. He knew what would come next.
As soon as he woke—he’d stand. Act like nothing had happened. Start again.
Then, a sudden sound stirred the air.
Kirigan twitched violently in his sleep, gasping painfully. Maybe a nightmare.
Fedyor didn’t speak—just adjusted the blanket and smoothed the warm cloth on his forehead with a soft, steady press.
He made a quiet sound, barely audible. A low “shhh”. Like he would calm a frightened animal. Or a child.
But Kirigan moved again. Eyes still shut, but his hand had curled into the blanket at his chest, knuckles white with strain.
His lips parted—barely. A breath. A sound. Not words. Just a strained, broken murmur.
A flicker of something like agony twisted across his brow, and the noise came again—disjointed, raw, unintelligible. Like commands torn apart by despair, or pain.
Fedyor leaned forward now, his expression gentling even more. “Rest. Please, it’s only a dream,” he whispered softly. “No one’s here but us.”
Kirigan didn’t reply, not with words. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. His breath stuttered, caught—then resumed, in another rhythm. Something closer to consciousness.
Fedyor shot him a brief, worried glance. “He’s trying to come back up,” he murmured.
“Too soon.” Ivan’s voice was quiet but firm. “Keep him under. For now.”
Fedyor didn’t protest. Not even a flicker of hesitation. He nodded once, then reached again—fingertips resting lightly above Kirigan’s sternum, the contact no more intrusive than snowfall. His power unfurled, subtle and slow. Not to manipulate, not to coerce. Just a quiet lullaby of pressure and calm, easing Kirigan back down into the dark.
Within seconds, Kirigan’s hand uncurled. His face went slack once more. Rest reclaimed him, deeper now.
Ivan exhaled and sat back on his heels.
“You’ve gotten good at that,” he acknowledged quietly.
Fedyor didn’t smile.
And Kirigan slept.
He slept through sunset, through the rumble of distant fighting, through the frost that crept in with the dawn.
When the General finally stirred, hours later, it was with a sharp inhale and a cough that racked through his chest. He bolted up but collapsed backwards nearly instantly, a hand pressed to his ribs. His eyes fluttered, unfocused.
“Stay the hell down.” Ivan didn’t even bother lifting his eyes from his paperwork. “You’re not impressing anyone.”
Kirigan blinked slowly. His voice, when it came, was barely there. “What—”
Ivan looked up now, sharp and direct. His gaze pinned him like a blade—assessing, steady.
“You were out cold.” He didn’t sugarcoat. He never did. “We found you unconscious on the cot. Unresponsive.”
He stood then, moved toward him without hurry—but with purpose.
Kirigan tried to sit upright once more. Sweat broke out along his brow almost immediately.
“I have to—”
Ivan was beside him in an instant, one hand braced against his shoulder. Not hard—but firm. He caught Kirigan as he swayed, steadying him. With his other hand, he helped guide Kirigan’s legs off the cot, feet down to the floor. Solid ground beneath him.
“Slow down,” he advised quietly. “Take a few minutes before you go full General again.”
He didn’t move back. Just let his hand rest where it was, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Kirigan’s face. The man was still too pale. Still trembling.
“You still look like shit.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but finally drew back, one shoulder cracking as he straightened.
“We made sure no one saw you like that.” His tone stayed dry. “So don’t go passing out in front of the others now. Would make the whole damn effort pointless.”
Fedyor had crouched beside the cot again, too. He held out a flask with fresh water, his voice quiet.
“You shouldn’t even be upright. Anyone else in that state would be confined to the infirmary. Full day at least. Two, more likely. You would insist on that.”
A pause.
“So just give yourself a few moments and breathe.”
Kirigan didn’t respond. He stared at them both, as if seeing them for the first time.
At last, he took the flask. Drank slowly.
A long exhale followed, nearly silent. He glanced down, fingers flexing once against the metal in his hand. “If you'd woken me... I’d have kept going.” he murmured eventually.
“Of course you would have.” Fedyor’s voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it now. Only certainty. “That’s exactly why we didn’t.”
Ivan didn’t say anything. Neither did Kirigan.
But the look he gave them before finally standing—wary, worn, but no longer guarded—was all the confirmation Ivan needed.
The rest of the day passed in silence. What had happened didn’t need to be explained.
A few weeks later, the orders came.
Reassignment. Little Palace. Immediate travel. No explanation, but the seal was Kirigan’s own.
Ivan had seen enough transfers to recognize this wasn’t demotion. This was the opposite. Quiet, subtle, permanent.
“You’re being pulled in,” one of the Corporalki murmured, eyes wide. “Into his inner circle.” There was something close to awe on his face. “Congratulations.”
Ivan said nothing, just folded the letter and looked across the tent to Fedyor, who beamed.
They left the next morning.
The wind at the Little Palace didn’t carry the same smell. The grass still grew. The halls echoed, but they didn’t groan.
And when Ivan stepped through the doors of the war room for the first time not as a soldier, not as a tool, but as someone the General trusted—he saw Kirigan look up, eyes shadowed but steady.
They all called him a legend. A force. Something not quite mortal.
But Ivan had seen him bleed. Had seen him sleep like dead, and wake gasping. Had seen him fold in silence and still rise the next day to carry them all.
That wasn’t the result of some unearthly power—it was sheer, human endurance, driven by will and determination.
He nodded once. The General nodded back.
No orders. No speeches. No need.
The team was born in silence.
And silence, Ivan thought, made room for loyalty that no command could ever demand.
None of them would have survived alone.
None of them had to.
Notes:
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with respect to magic, medical details and the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
The late afternoon sun bathed the Inner Courtyard of the Little Palace in honeyed light, warm and soft, as if the day itself had no intention of ending. The breeze carried the sweet scent of lilacs and warmed stone, the trees in full leaf, their shadows swaying gently across the flagstones. Botkin’s training group lingered by the archway, a mix of young and seasoned Grisha still lounging together after drills. Genya leaned against a pillar, her arms crossed, her copper hair catching the light in strands of flame.
Alina sat nearby with a few younger Grisha, coaxing a Tidemaker into shaping patterns in the fountain’s surface. Laughter rose, easy and unguarded. It was the kind of day that felt stolen from time.
Then the quiet fractured.
Hoofbeats—not frantic but dragging. Heavy. Wrong.
Genya looked up, and her heart dropped.
Two horses emerged through the western arch, their riders hunched, their mounts moving with a jerky, exhausted gait. There was no formation, no elegance. Just survival.
Ivan led, pale as parchment, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His horse limped slightly, foam crusted at its bridle. Ivan held Fedyor in front of him, cradled tight against his chest. Fedyor’s Kefta hung open, his arms limp, head lolled back, hair matted with sweat and something darker. His lips moved slightly, as if dreaming, but he didn’t wake.
Several paces behind them, General Kirigan’s black stallion stumbled to a halt, flanks heaving. It stood there, trembling, as Kirigan sagged forward in the saddle like a broken thing, his hand still wrapped around the pommel as if sheer will alone kept him upright. He didn’t even lift his head.
And then—he fell.
It happened in a slow, sickening arc. His body tipped forward, unresisting, and for a breathless moment Genya was sure he would crash headfirst into the stones.
But from nearby, Botkin moved—faster than seemed possible for a man of his bulk.
There was no grace in it, no time for precision.
He lunged. Threw himself into the fall.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, arms thrown wide as he practically slid beneath the falling General—just in time to block his head from hitting stone. Kirigan’s upper body slammed into His chest, folding over him in a boneless collapse.
For a breathless moment, they were just a tangle of limbs and momentum—Kirigan slack, unresponsive, one leg still caught in the stirrups before slipping free and thudding to the ground.
A young Squaller rushed to their side and gripped Kirigan’s torso, helping the instructor shift and sit up.
Then the heavyset man found his grip.
One arm under the shoulders. One beneath the knees. A clean, practiced lift, and with a grunt, Botkin stood.
Kirigan’s head lolled backwards, throat exposed, face the colour of ash. Sweat plastered dark strands of hair across his brow.
He didn’t move. Not a sound. Not even a groan.
Just dead weight, held fast in arms built for carrying what others couldn’t.
The courtyard had gasped as one when Kirigan fell, the shock hitting the moment Botkin had broken into a sprint.
Genya had already started running, too.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Alina; frozen, her hand half-raised, her face gone stark with fear.
No sound. Just a breathless, broken stillness.
“Warn the Healers—they're coming in bad!” Genya shouted, voice like a blade.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alina jolt into motion—no hesitation this time, no paralysis. The girl ran. And Genya felt something in her own chest ease, just a little.
Two Grisha had reached for Ivan as he half-slid, half fell from his saddle, fumbling to keep hold of Fedyor. His legs buckled as soon as he touched the ground, but someone caught his arm. Fedyor was lifted from him with care, two pairs of hands cradling him between them, but Ivan didn’t let go right away.
His fingers remained clenched around Fedyor’s arm, too tightly, like his body hadn’t yet registered that the danger was past.
One of the others had to gently pry his hand free.
Botkin was already halfway across the courtyard with Kirigan in his arms. Behind them, Ivan was being steadied between two Inferni, walking with stiff, dragging steps. Blood soaked through the side of his Kefta. Fedyor, in the arms of two others, twitched once and murmured something incoherent.
They looked like survivors of something far worse than a single skirmish.
Genya didn’t wait to ask.
They moved as quickly as they could with what they carried.
She stayed close to Botkin, who held the General firmly against his chest. Kirigan hung motionless in his arms, his Kefta soaked and torn, long limps dangling loose with every movement. He didn’t make a sound.
Ivan limped behind, jaw clenched, staying upright through sheer force of will. His gaze flickered helplessly from Fedyor — sagging between his helpers, his skin drained of colour — to Kirigan's unmoving form.
Far ahead of them, Alina shoved the infirmary doors open with both hands.
Botkin stepped inside and crossed to one of the beds. He lowered Kirigan down with a care that Genya had rarely seen in him—deliberate, quiet, every movement slow. The General didn’t react. His arms lay where they fell. No flicker of awareness.
The Healers moved immediately. Two of them broke from the others and closed in, eyes sweeping over the torn Kefta, the slack limbs, the blood.
One Healer extended both hands above Kirigan’s chest. The air shifted—tightened. Magic, pulled sharp and focused like a drawn wire.
No physical touch. No whispered incantations. Just power, directed with absolute precision. Genya felt it hit the space behind her eyes, the unmistakable pull of Corporalki work threading through blood and breath and bone.
The second Healer sliced through the remains of Kefta and tunic, exposing Kirigan’s chest—and now, shockingly visible, the damage bloomed on pale skin, cruel and painful looking.
Not just bruising.
The scorched edge of a huge burn licked across one side of his ribs, a sickening heat-blistered crescent where the Kefta had failed to insulate. Dark slashes of ruptured capillaries fanned outward from an impact point near the solar plexus. The contusions were deep and fresh, blunt trauma.
Shrapnel—thin, metallic—still protruded from one side of his abdomen in three places, each one ringed in blood that seeped sluggishly, as if the body were too tired to keep bleeding fast.
Without his voice, without the weight of his presence to fill the room, he looked—
Not fragile. But stripped bare. Not young, not exactly; but without the armour of command, without the grimness that made him the Darkling.
His face, pale and drawn, had lost its sharpness—no tension, no guarded edge. Just a man, without the weight he always carried, his handsome features softened in deep unconsciousness. Long lashes rested against blood-streaked cheekbones, his expression strangely peaceful.
It was the kind of beauty that hurt to look at. Because it wasn't right.
Because it meant something vital was missing.
This wasn’t rest.
This was the body clinging to the border between holding on and letting go.
The silence was worse than screaming.
Genya had learned to brace for blood, for wounds. But not this stillness.
She wanted to reach for him, to anchor him somehow—but there was nothing she could do.
So she watched.
Ivan was half-dragged to the next cot, silent, his expression locked tight until his legs gave out. The moment he sat, he went deathly still, gripping the cot’s edge as if anchoring himself there, even as a Healer began to draw power over the wound at his ribs. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak.
Across the room, Fedyor whimpered as he was settled, a wet sound from the back of his throat. One of the Healers placed a hand gently over his ribs and immediately turned toward another with a sharp nod—silent urgency, not panic. Fedyor didn’t move—but Genya saw the way his fingers spasmed, twitching faintly against the blanket.
Not gone.
But hurt. Badly.
A second Corporalki stepped in beside the first, and the air above Fedyor shimmered faintly as power surged—controlled, precise. Burns marred his arms, his shoulders, the line of his collarbone— ugly and raw where the Kefta had been scorched away. But Ivan’s blood had soaked into Fedyor’s Kefta too, dark and clinging, smeared in broad, ragged streaks by the rough jolt of the ride.
Fedyor’s head turned slightly on the pillow, lips parting. He murmured something low and indistinct—something with weight behind it—but his eyes stayed shut. His breathing, at least, was steadying now.
Ivan didn’t look at him; didn’t look at anything anymore. He just sat, fists clenched in his lap, shoulders like stone. The Healer beside him had coaxed the torn Kefta aside and was working silently, both hands splayed over the side of his ribs. Genya saw the wound: deep, jagged—bone-deep, maybe—but clean. The work of a blade, not a bullet. Something fast and personal.
He remained utterly still, though the tremor running through his arms betrayed him. Finally, when the Healer pressed lightly against his side, he slumped without protest, guided down onto his back with slow, careful hands. His breath caught, sharp and involuntary; it seemed, he couldn’t have stayed upright a moment longer.
Genya turned her eyes back to the bed in front of her.
To him.
Kirigan hadn’t moved.
Not a twitch. Not a sound.
His body was slack against the mattress, too still to be safe. The rise and fall of his chest—what little there had been—had grown uneven, fragile.
Too light, too far apart.
Fading.
Genya's eyes flickered to Alina, her friend's unease too evident to ignore. The tension in the air was palpable, Alina’s fingers trembling as she held her breath, a creeping panic rising that Genya could feel.
The two Healer worked even faster now, their magic tightening, movements sharp and focused, urgency crackling between them.
Ivan felt it too.
He forced himself upright on the cot, one hand braced on the edge, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on his Commander.
And then it happened.
Kirigan stopped breathing.
Ivan swore violently and threw himself off the cot. The sound he made was pure pain—but he didn’t fall.
“Yevgeni!” he snarled.
The Healer didn’t flinch. “I’ve got him!” he snapped back.
They moved as one.
Yevgeni pressed both hands against Kirigan’s ribs, sharp and focused, channelling power in a brutal, steady pulse. The other anchored Kirigan’s throat and temple, forcing a fierce, relentless current into the failing body.
Kirigan’s spine arched off the bed. A horrible, wet choke broke from him; blood spilled from his lips, thick and dark, running down over his cheek into the pillow.
That was the moment Alina bolted toward the bed.
Genya caught her wrist.
“Alina—” she gasped. Not loud. Not steady. But enough to hold her back.
Kirigan convulsed again, his entire body seizing in a brutal, uncontrolled spasm. The Healers didn't stop. They worked through it, faces tight with strain, forcing the power deeper, fighting to pull him back from the edge he was slipping toward.
Alina began to cry without sound.
Ivan stood white as bone, gripping the bedframe like he could hold Kirigan there by force of will alone.
Then—
A breath.
Shallow. Broken. But in.
Another.
Another.
Still faint. Still fragile.
But steady.
The room exhaled.
Ivan nearly folded where he stood, all the fight draining out of him at once.
Genya broke from Alina without hesitation, lunging to grab his arm; Alina moved to the other side, catching him under the shoulder.
His head slumped forward heavily; his voice, raw and torn, rasped out between breaths:
"That bastard better not do that again."
Then he simply gave out, his body slumping without warning as they eased him down on the cot.
No one spoke.
But the worst had passed.
The quiet in the infirmary wasn’t silence.
It was the stillness of magic working its slow precision. The subtle crackle of power as Healers wove their intent over the injured. The faint hum of life being coaxed back into balance. The waiting.
Genya stayed near Kirigan’s bedside, a basin of cool water and a cloth in her lap. She’d already done what little she could—cleaned away the worst of the blood, eased the pull of bruises across his face. His chest still rose shallowly, but the rhythm was there now. Not perfect, not strong. But steady.
The Healers had said he would wake soon. That whatever internal bleeding Kirigan had suffered had been repaired under their careful mending. But that it would take time. And stillness. No riding, no fighting, no reckless strain—not for several days at least.
Genya wasn’t holding her breath, but she hadn’t stood either.
Alina sat across from her, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on the General. Her hands had stopped shaking. Mostly. Botkin stood in the corner like a statue carved of wariness, arms folded, eyes narrowed as though watching the room itself might prevent further disaster.
Ivan lay stretched out on a cot nearby. His breathing was even, but his face remained tense, exhaustion etched deep into his features. The worst of his injuries had been healed—but pain lingered in the way his fingers flexed faintly, one arm across his ribs.
He still hadn’t said much. Just one-word answers, his gaze fixed almost constantly on Kirigan. And every few minutes, he shot a tired, silent glance toward Fedyor.
Fedyor, who had been the first to wake.
He’d come to groggily, blinking through a haze of exhaustion, then managed to ask—slurred but lucid—if anyone else was as dead as he felt. Alina had immediately assured him they were alive, that they had all made it back. He had given a small, painful sigh of relief and slipped back into sleep.
Since then, he’d stirred occasionally, murmured half-formed thoughts, but now lay quietly, a faint flush returning to his cheeks.
The hour passed. Then another.
And then—
A rasp of breath.
Genya’s eyes snapped back to the bed. Kirigan’s brow furrowed. Not deeply, just the barest flicker of discomfort. A moment later, he inhaled again—a breath that sounded like it dragged nails through his chest. One hand moved, fingertips curling slightly into the blanket.
Botkin noticed, too. “He wakes.” His voice was gruff but low.
Alina was already on her feet, eyes wide, like she didn’t dare believe it.
Genya leaned forward instinctively. “General?”
Kirigan didn’t open his eyes at first. But his lips parted, dry and faintly cracked, and a voice rasped out like gravel dragged across stone.
"Someone tell me we won."
A breathless, startled laugh escaped Genya before she could stop it. Relief crashed through her like a wave.
Alina covered her mouth, half-laugh, half-sob.
Kirigan’s eyes opened slowly—just enough to squint at the room.
He blinked a few times, taking stock of faces, ceiling, the sheer number of people in his immediate vicinity. And Genya saw it— the moment he caught the edge of their fear. The way his mouth tightened, just briefly, as he registered Alina’s shaking hands and the way Botkin hovered close.
“Call off the funeral,” he muttered, and Genya could have kissed him for it.
“No plans to bury you yet,” she assured him smiling, voice softening. “Welcome back.”
He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t. But his gaze drifted briefly over them again—with the faintest brush of warmth in it.
Then his focus sharpened. Searching.
He found Ivan first, and something unspoken passed between them, brief. Intense. Next, Kirigan’s eyes dragged to Fedyor, who lay half-submerged in rumpled blankets, motionless.
“Fedyor?”
“I’m alive,” came the groggy reply, voice muffled by the pillow. “Though I might request a dramatic retelling of my near-death experience later. Preferably with alcohol. Strong alcohol.”
Kirigan’s lids slid closed. “Gods help us.”
“Don’t be mean,” Fedyor slurred slightly. “I saved you.”
Kirigan opened one eye. “You were on fire.”
“Details.” Fedyor shifted against the pillows, sitting up slightly with a wince. “And I still saved you.”
Kirigan didn’t confirm. But he didn’t deny it either.
Just closed his eye again, and exhaled like it was the most he’d offer.
“Arguably, I saved you,” Ivan grumbled from his cot across the room.
“You nearly passed out on me,” Fedyor shot back, flopping back again with a groan. “You bled on my face.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Only after I stopped you from bleeding out.”
“Stop talking,” Kirigan rasped, voice dry as old parchment. “All of you.”
But there was no real heat in it. None of the iron-cold authority Genya had heard in a hundred war councils. Just exhaustion. And a kind of dry, guarded affection beneath it.
Fedyor let his eyes drift shut, a long breath shuddering from his chest. His mouth curved in a weak, almost triumphant smile. "I like when he gets bossy. It means he thinks he's fine."
"I am fine," Kirigan muttered.
"He’s definitely not fine," Fedyor countered, almost cheerfully, without opening his eyes again. "But at least he’s not actively dying anymore."
Kirigan didn’t even make the effort to answer; just the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips.
Genya and her companions shared a quiet chuckle, torn between amusement and relief.
But Ivan— Ivan was silent again. He didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. There still was something unreadable about him, a tightness Genya couldn’t place.
She turned toward him.
"You're awfully quiet. Everything still attached?"
Ivan only looked down at his hands, staring at the blood dried in the cracks between his fingers.
Genya frowned. "Ivan."
He lifted his head then, his face carved from stone.
"Attached. Aching. Intact."
A pause.
“Because of him.” He nodded toward Kirigan. “He jumped in front of it. An explosion. Shadows went out like a shield.”
Genya’s stomach twisted. “That’s why—?”
“Yes,” Kirigan interrupted, eyes still closed. “Let’s all not recount how I made a terrible decision for noble reasons. It won’t help my case when I inevitably insist I’m fit for duty tomorrow.”
“Oh, scratch that. At least four days,” Botkin countered firmly.
“A week,” Genya protested.
“A month,” Fedyor suggested, grinning.
“Shut up,” Kirigan groaned.
Genya glanced at Alina, who gave a faint, tearful smile. Across the room, Fedyor let out a small chuckle. Even Ivan allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch, just once.
And then—without a word, without needing one—they all let it go.
The conversation, the laughter, the relief.
They let the quiet return—because they knew he needed it.
The worst had passed. The dark tide had crested, and here they were—bruised, bleeding, burnt and stubborn—but here.
Alina, who had stood quietly this whole time, finally moved again.
Her gaze dropped to the cloth in Genya’s hands. She hesitated, then looked up for permission—and when Genya gave a small, encouraging nod, she took it.
Dipping it into the basin, she wrung it out with trembling fingers, then pressed it gently to Kirigan’s brow.
Her movements were careful, almost painfully so, as if she feared even a feather-light touch might do harm.
He didn’t flinch. But when Alina’s gentle touch brushed over him, a low sound escaped him—a quiet, broken sigh, like tension leaving bone-deep. For the barest fraction of a second, his eyes cracked open, dazed and unfocused—just long enough to find her. They slid closed again immediately, the effort costing too much; but his head tilted almost imperceptibly toward her care, as if seeking it.
And Genya smiled despite herself, warmth blooming in her chest.
Across the infirmary, Ivan leaned his head back against the wall, finally closing his eyes. His fists unclenched where they had been white-knuckled against the blanket. The tension bled out of his frame by inches, grudgingly.
Relieved, Genya watched it happen—the slow unwinding of a man who had been holding too much for too long.
Fedyor still breathed.
Kirigan would live.
Ivan would be fine.
Outside, the evening had tipped fully into night.
The golden light had faded from the infirmary windows, replaced by that soft, still kind of quiet that only came after dusk.
Inside, no one moved.
Not the Healers. Not the ones standing guard.
And not the three who mattered most.
For now—just for now—they rested.
In the stillness before dawn, Kirigan collapses. What follows isn’t battle, but care—and the quiet weight of being seen.
Notes;
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
It was past three in the morning when General Kirigan pushed himself away from the desk.
The war room was silent; had been for hours now. A few candle stubs guttered low in their sconces, casting sickly amber light on the mountains of parchment still waiting for him. Shadows clung to the far corners of the room like smoke that refused to dissipate. Outside the tall windows, the world was dark and frost-bitten—Ravka sleeping restlessly under a fractured sky.
Kirigan stood slowly, muscles resisting the movement, then crossed the cold floor with the same deliberate silence he used in battle. No flourish, no dramatics. Just necessity.
He settled onto the chaise longue without ceremony.
His bones ached—not in the sharp, clean way of injury, but in the slow, grinding groan of a body dragged too far past its limit; not from any blade, not from battle, but from the weight of Ravka.
The pain had crept in weeks ago and now lived in him, behind his eyes, beneath his ribs. Every breath felt heavier than the last. A headache had been lodged in his skull for days—no, longer—and he had long since stopped distinguishing between pain and baseline existence.
His hands had started to tremble slightly; tonight, it had taken effort to lift the kettle for tea. Effort to sign the final page of the dispatch to Kribirsk. Every task measured not by complexity but by whether he could do it without this tremor giving him away.
He could endure it. He always had. But lately, he’d begun to hate the effort of it. Those fleeting moments where he had to pause and steady himself before someone saw.
He hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, and it showed—though not to anyone but himself. A flicker in the mirror earlier. A paleness that was unusual even for him. The taste of iron behind his teeth from too many hours awake. It was fine. It would pass.
It always passed.
He’d trained himself for this centuries ago. To bear, to endure, to lead no matter the cost. He could outlast the cold. Outlast enervation. Outlast the way his own body betrayed him.
There was no glory in it. No nobility.
But the war did not pause for fatigue. And his people—his Grisha—looked to him for reassurance, for certainty. Steady hands. Clear orders.
That had been always enough.
For centuries, their need had been his purpose. The weight that kept him upright. The fire that kept him moving.
But lately, there was another reason to persist.
Alina.
She brought something different into his world—light, yes, and hope. But there was more.
She carried a steadiness, a warmth he hadn’t expected. Something he felt when she looked at him—not with awe, not with fear, but with quiet intent.
He leaned back with a tired sigh. The air bit into his skin. The fire had gone out hours ago. The candles would follow soon. The cold would wake him, as it always did. And when it did, he’d return to the desk and finish what was needed—reports for the Tsar, threat assessments from the southern border, another round of protective protocols for Alina.
Every day brought new attacks, rumours, attempts on her life. She didn’t know half of it.
The late hours, the hidden reports, the dispatches he burned—they weren’t just precaution. They were protection.
She had enough to carry. If he could keep even a fraction of the truth from reaching her, he would. There were threats she didn’t know existed; and he never intended her to. She was already under siege every hour of the day. What he could do, for her, he did.
These recent months, the weight pressed harder than ever before.
But she made it bearable.
He didn’t remove his boots, didn’t lie flat, didn’t even loosen the tight clasps of his undercoat. He merely slumped back a little, upright enough to be ready if summoned. Just long enough for the trembling to stop. Just enough to pretend he still had control.
It wasn’t for comfort—never had been. Rest belonged to the innocent. He had forfeited that centuries ago.
He simply needed to stop moving. Just for an hour. Just long enough for the dizziness to pass.
He’d done this for lifetimes, when weariness lapped too high against his spine to fight it off.
He closed his eyes. For a moment.
Just a moment.
He wasn’t sure when the world had changed.
The first thing he registered was that there was no pain.
Not the grinding ache between his temples. Not the full-body soreness from weeks of stolen hours and skipped recoveries, the slow, punishing wear of never quite stopping. Not even the merciless chill in his bones that usually followed these midnight breaks.
No. This time—this once—he felt warmth.
He was wrapped in it. His body, sluggish and half-unwilling, registered the weight of it: several blankets layered with care, tucked around his shoulders, his legs, even beneath his hands. His undercoat was loosened slightly, though not violated. The top clasps undone with care. Not for show. For breath.
His head fell heavily to the side, muscles slack with exhaustion, too weak to hold him upright.
With effort, he forced his lids open—heavy, uncooperative—and blinked slowly, once, then again.
The room was different. Brighter. The curtains had been drawn to block most of the sun, but even so, daylight diffused warmly across the stone floor. His eyes, raw and gritty, adjusted slowly to the soft glow. Late morning, at least. Perhaps even noon.
A small tray sat on the nearby table. Tea, steaming faintly. Fresh bread. A bowl of clear broth.
His brow furrowed—subtle, puzzled.
With more effort than it should have taken, he dragged his head back toward the room.
And then he saw them.
Alina. Seated on the chaise, next to his feet, chin resting lightly on one fist, eyes tired, worried; attentive.
Fedyor, further off but still near, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. His expression unreadable, but softer than usual.
The last thread of hazy confusion snapped in Kirigan’s mind like a frayed wire. He was not alone.
He tensed sharply, trying to rise, but the effort sent a white-hot lurch through his skull.
Alina was up in an instant. "Don’t," she whispered, almost a plea, reaching and pressing a hand flat to his chest to hold him down. "Please. Just for once… don’t." She looked as though she’d barely breathed in hours. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with the dull red of tears held back too long.
He stilled. Not because she commanded it. But because her body language radiated something stronger than insistence. It radiated fear.
Fedyor moved then, closer, his tone serious but not unkind. “She found you around four. Unresponsive. Cold to the touch.”
Kirigan sank slightly back against the pillows, jaw tight; then he looked away. “I must have—”
“Don’t,” Fedyor echoed. But it was gentler. “Alina woke us. We checked for fever, for injuries—even though we knew we wouldn’t find any.”
“You…” She swallowed, tried again. “You didn’t wake.” Her fingers moved unconsciously over his chest, tracing the fabric where she’d pressed him down. “It scared me.”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and saw what she wasn’t saying. She’d been sitting by him for hours. Hadn’t left, even after realizing he wasn’t dying. Not just out of duty. Something deeper. Something fragile and unspoken that pressed between them now.
He didn’t know what to do with it—with her.
So he looked away.
“You should have let me be,” he murmured hoarsely. “I would’ve come to soon enough.”
Alina’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her voice was fierce, steady—and still afraid. “I would never have left you like that. Not for a minute.” She shook her head, too fast, too sharp. “You were completely limp, shaking violently. You didn’t respond to anything.” Her breath caught. “That wasn’t sleep.”
“She’s right.”
Fedyor folded his arms again, not stiff—steady. Not guard—guardian. “You were out for nine hours.” He paused, gaze flicking over Kirigan with quiet, clinical weight. “Your pulse was erratic—borderline arrhythmic—because of you letting yourself freeze half to death. Ivan didn’t wait. He intervened before you spiralled further.” He pressed his lips together briefly. “That wasn’t normal rest. That was collapse.”
Kirigan blinked once, slowly.
Nine hours.
He hadn't slept that long in… he couldn’t remember. His throat tightened.
Fedyor didn’t fill the silence. Not immediately.
When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. Softened—lowered, like someone who’d sat beside that bed too long, watching.
“You didn’t choose it. We know that.”
No judgment. No demand.
“We just wish it were different.” He breathed once, not sharply—just steadying; then he continued.
“Ivan’s had his hands full making sure you weren’t disturbed. The Grand Palace sent two inquiries. The Apparat dispatched a runner. Not to mention about two dozen Grisha, dignitaries, messengers, First Army officers and half the palace staff who tried to speak to you.” He glanced toward the door, jaw flexing once. “We kept them all out. This room has been sealed since the moment Alina found you in that state.”
While Fedyor listed the disruptions, Kirigan’s sluggish mind had begun to drift slightly—to the sound of Alina’s breathing beside him, the way her hand still rested on his chest, unmoving. She hadn’t spoken again, hadn’t stirred. She was silent, but not unmoved. Not waiting for his permission to care.
Now, she reached forward. Not abrupt, not hesitant—just with purpose. She took the teacup and handed it to him. "You need to eat something, too. You haven’t touched a thing since yesterday morning. Don’t bother denying it."
That last part settled over him like a second weight.
They knew.
They’d caught it.
He looked down, ashamed—not of needing rest, but of having been seen in it. The war room was his place of command, of control. This—this vulnerability didn’t belong here. And yet.
“You shouldn’t have had to do this,” he murmured, not sure whether he meant the meal, the carefully layered covers, or the worried hours beside him.
Alina didn’t answer with words. She tucked one edge of the blanket closer to his side.
Fedyor sighed, quietly. “You carry your Grisha and the whole of Ravka every damn day, moi soverenyi. Please, let someone carry you for a few hours every now and then.”
That cracked something under Kirigan’s ribs. Not shattered. But unmoored. He felt it sharply—this foreign weight of care, something he didn’t know how to carry.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” Alina insisted, her eyes dark with certainty. “And we’re not going to let you do this alone anymore.”
The silence afterward wasn’t empty. It was filled with something that took his breath.
Not command. Not obligation.
Affection. The raw, unguarded loyalty of people who saw him. Who chose to stay anyway.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. Instead, he tried to lift the teacup Alina had placed in his hands. It barely made it halfway before his fingers began to tremble—subtle but unmistakable.
Alina said nothing.
She reached forward silently, steadying his grip with one hand beneath the porcelain, her other guiding the edge of the cup. Not with fuss. With ease. She didn’t comment. Didn’t flinch. Just helped him drink, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
When he finished, she eased the cup from him and set it aside.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was quiet like snow. Like breath.
Fedyor sank down with a sigh. Alina stayed where she was; beside him, one warm hand resting gently on his chest. Neither of them made to leave.
For a few quiet minutes, nothing moved. Kirigan didn’t either. Stillness had become its own kind of effort—each breath heavy, each muscle reluctant, as if even shifting would cost more than he could afford.
Then the door creaked faintly, and Ivan stepped in—composed as ever, posture straight, face unreadable. But the shadows underneath his eyes told the rest of the story.
His gaze locked on Kirigan — narrowing, slicing down from face to shoulders to the slow rise and fall of his chest. Measuring. Calculating.
Fedyor, seated cross-legged in an armchair at the foot of the chaise, glanced up at him, shrugging. “Well.” His tone was light, as if they were all gathered for tea and gossip and not guarding a commander who’d collapsed from exhaustion, “We did our best, but he still looks like he was dragged through the Fold backwards. Twice.”
“Maybe not your best work,” Ivan affirmed dryly, “but then, you’re not Genya.”
He scanned Kirigan once more, and Kirigan could feel it this time—the low thrum of power beneath his skin.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be. Ivan’s force swept through him with surgical precision, merciless and exacting, like fingers wrapping around his heart and examining it; gauging the rhythm of his pulse, the frequency, the strength of each beat.
Kirigan gasped—a sharp, guttural sound, his back arching slightly. The intrusion left a strange ache in its wake, like the echo of something too forceful held just a second too long.
Ivan didn’t even blink.
“Stable enough. For whatever that’s worth.”
The corner of Fedyor’s mouth twitched.
Alina turned slightly toward Ivan, faint amusement in her eyes, but didn’t interrupt.
Ivan only stepped in further, arms folded.
“You look like death warmed over,” he observed flatly. “Which is an improvement.”
Kirigan bristled faintly, the last scraps of pride rising before exhaustion dragged them down again. His breath shifted—caught, then steadied. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep so deeply.”
“You lost consciousness. That’s not the same as sleep,” Ivan snapped. A breath followed—rough, as if he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. “Sat there like a corpse someone forgot to bury.” He snorted, the edge dulling, the bite retreating. “We had a bet running about when you’d wake up. I lost.”
But Kirigan didn’t react to the quip. Not really. Because, absentmindedly, Alina had laid her hand gently against his temple, fingers carding slowly through his hair.
He hated how much it soothed him—how he didn’t want it to stop, how little strength he had to pull away.
“You scared her,” Ivan added after a moment, his eyes on both of them. “Which takes some doing.”
The words hit harder than any reprimand. Not because they were cruel—but because they were true. And far too quiet to ignore.
Restless, unresolved—he shifted. Or tried to. The motion was barely more than a twitch, a subtle tilt of his shoulder, all he could manage. Not pain. Just the weight of remorse, heavy and unspoken; the weight of too much unsaid.
Of knowing what it had done to her, finding him like that.
Alina felt it, he was sure of that.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of her lips, soft and quiet. It was as if she understood what weighed on him—though it seemed to pain her that he carried it.
And Ivan stepped in before the guilt could settle too deep.
“You’re not getting up yet,” he informed him. “You’re going to rest again. Even if we have to sit on you.”
Dry—too dry not to be deliberate. Kirigan recognized the tactic for what it was.
“Alina first!” Fedyor chimed in, immediately catching on. He was practically beaming now, visibly entertained.
Alina leaned back slightly, resting her hand once more gently on his chest. Her eyes sparkled, mischief dancing in them. “Gladly.” There was a spark of levity in her voice that hadn’t been there all morning—something a little brighter, a little more sure. A bit of tension in Kirigan’s chest eased, almost imperceptibly.
He let out a dry breath, just short of a laugh. His head lolled weakly against the pillow. “You make terrible nurses.”
Ivan didn’t miss a beat. “We don’t do ‘nurse.’ We do triage and threats.”
“I noticed.” The words were slow and uneven, by now even speech took more than he had to give.
Ivan didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered a second longer than it needed to. Then he nodded, once, as if completing an internal monolog. “You’ll stay down until you can walk without the wall.”
Kirigan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The wall had helped him more than once this week. Steadier than his legs. Less perceptive than his subordinates. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to hide how deeply that comment had struck. “I wasn’t going to.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Not yet.”
Ivan nodded once. “Good.”
Kirigan drew one leg up slightly beneath the blanket, a slow, heavy motion— his body settled deeper into the chaise, desperately seeking the smallest relief from the weight of his exhaustion.
“I didn’t think it would hit like that,” he confessed. The moment words left his mouth, he was surprised he’d said them. But honesty, just this once, felt easier than evasion.
“Amazingly, you usually get away with toeing that line between reckless and just-barely-manageable. Yet, this time, it went spectacularly wrong.” The remark hit like only Ivan’s could—insult, insight, nothing wasted—so sharp in their precision that Kirigan almost huffed.
He turned his head just enough to fix Ivan with a look, dry and half-amused.
Ivan didn’t even acknowledge it. He shrugged, entirely unimpressed. “Don’t be too harsh with yourself. It happens.”
Kirigan’s mouth barely moved. A trace of a breath, not quite a laugh. “Is that your idea of comfort?”
“No,” Ivan didn’t miss a beat. “It’s the truth.” He didn’t blink. “You’re welcome.”
His gaze then swept over the table—the bread, the nearly untouched tea, the broth gone cold. “You’ll eat,” he added, “when it doesn’t require a Heartrender to keep you upright.”
He paused. Then, quieter, no less firm:
“But first, you sleep. A few more hours. You need it.”
Kirigan said nothing. His eyes drifted closed again, but it wasn’t escape. It was agreement.
Ivan stepped back and folded into the armchair near the hearth, close enough to keep watch too, far enough not to crowd.
No one left the room.
No one moved to speak again.
And for once—for just one morning—Kirigan let the quiet hold him.
Alignment training was meant to be straightforward: coordination, control, clarity. But when Alina’s light fuses with Kirigan’s shadow in perfect unison, something far more dangerous ignites.
Power answers power. And the body follows.
Notes:
Content Warning:
Contains intense, emotionally charged sex with themes of magical fusion, physical overwhelm, and complete surrender by choice.
All acts are explicitly consensual and grounded in trust, but the emotional and physical intensity may be triggering for some.
Reader discretion advised for overstimulation, slight pain-as-pleasure, and hints of total bodily submission (requested and cherished).
Just a little heads-up:
As with all my stories, I mostly wrote this one for myself—which means I like it, but I honestly have no idea if anyone else will. Especially when it comes to the smut. It’s my first time writing anything this explicit, so if it turns out clumsy, cliché, or completely off your vibe… please know I’m sorry.
Thankfully, you can always just stop reading. 😄
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters and the depiction of the Light and Shadow powers, which differ wildly from the original canon. But I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
Chapter 1: Perfectly Aligned
The moment the doors shut behind her, Alina felt her breath catch.
The training hall looked the same as always—vast, open, filled with the sound of movement and murmured orders—but today it felt different. Cool air filled the room, and the high windows let in the late afternoon light, spilling across the floor and casting gentle shadows. The space hummed with energy, but there was a quiet, almost palpable tension in the air.
But maybe that was just her perception—she was here for something new.
Not drills. Not technique. Alignment.
With him.
General Kirigan stood near the centre, several Grisha clearing the space around him, stepping back with wordless deference. Today, he wore no Kefta. No undercoat with elaborate clasps. Just a slim black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbow.
Without the heavy layers, he looked even taller. Even sharper.
Her stomach tightened painfully as she studied him; a familiar ache swelling in her chest. He was devastatingly handsome. The lean form, the way he carried himself—controlled, unreadable, powerful; every motion was measured, every glance deliberate.
She had admitted it to herself weeks ago—begrudgingly, unwillingly, as if saying it aloud, even in the quiet of her own mind, would make it worse; that she was in love with him. That she had been for some time.
It wasn’t convenient. It wasn’t wise. But it had happened anyway. The feeling had settled inside her like something inevitable, growing heavier with every glance, every lesson, every moment spent too close to him.
In the beginning, she had fought it. Truly. She had told herself it was nothing—just admiration, just fascination, just the lingering effect of his power against hers. But she had known.
And the worst part? Now, every time she was near him, it was unbearable. Not a fleeting attraction. Not a passing infatuation. But something deeper. Something that refused to be ignored.
And yet, she had no idea what he was thinking. No idea if he felt even a fraction of what she felt for him.
And that uncertainty was tearing her apart.
Because she couldn’t stop looking at him, couldn’t stop wanting more—more of his attention, more of his voice, more of the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long before sliding away. And she couldn’t tell if it meant anything. If she meant anything.
It was ridiculous, how much it hurt. How much it clawed at her. How much she hated herself for needing to know.
She swallowed hard. Focus.
But that was difficult. She felt his presence in the space, felt the way the shadows seemed to lean toward him. There was no visible reason to explain it—but the dark near him always felt denser, like it obeyed him before he even asked.
The sight of it made her feel unsteady, as often, but she walked on.
Stopping a few paces from him, she raised her chin.
He looked at her.
And that—that look—was worse than any silence. Dark eyes scanning her face, steady, unreadable, not cold but impossibly calm. Maybe he was pleased to see her. Maybe he was just… observing. Assessing. She hated how much she wanted to impress him.
“We’ll begin with controlled strikes,” he instructed, finally. “Your light. My shadow. No contest—just direction.”
Alina nodded, throat tight. “Yes, General.”
A flicker passed over his face. Approval, perhaps. Hard to say.
They turned together, facing the far side of the hall. Targets rose: simple wooden dummies at first, stationary. Easy.
Her first orb of light flared to life without trouble. She launched it, and just as it struck the dummy—turning it slightly—he followed with a whip of shadow that spun it the other way. It was clean. Practical. She kept her breathing steady.
But as the pace increased—as the targets moved, spun, began to fire small bursts of force in return—their coordination deepened. She didn’t have to think anymore. She just moved.
She didn’t wait for his signal, didn’t even look for it. She felt it. The pressure of his power when it surged. The stretch of his shadows as they reached. And her light responded.
Counterbalancing. Completing.
Their strikes landed almost simultaneously—his shadow just after her flare, her shield forming right beside his reach. Always distinct. Always two halves moving in tandem.
The rhythm of it thrilled her. The way they read each other, timed each movement like a step in a dance.
Separate. Aligned. Perfectly so.
Until her light struck just as his darkness carved through the same target—not seconds apart, but the same instant.
Two forces, opposite by nature, meeting not in collision—but in union.
Before this, they had been distinct. Aligned, yes. Perfectly timed, yes. But always apart. Always separate.
Not anymore.
They didn’t just coordinate.
They fused.
And in that moment, something inside her opened.
Power.
Not just hers. Not just his. But something greater, vaster—something perfect. It wasn’t violent, wasn’t force meeting force. It was precision. Harmony. Two notes struck in perfect unison, ringing through her with a resonance so pure it stole her breath.
Again. More.
The dummies moved faster, but so did she. So did they.
Her dome of light expanded in a rush, effortless, instinctive—and he was already there, shadows sealing over the edges, dark filling the spaces between, reinforcing what she had made. It was intoxicating. They built something together, something real, something felt—a fortress of light and dark, gone in seconds but absolute while it lasted.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. They were unstoppable.
They struck in tandem, one seamless assault after another, never colliding, never hesitating. Their powers wove between one another like two elements of the same force, distinct but indivisible.
And Saints, it felt exhilarating. Like flying. Like falling. Like something vast and boundless had unfurled inside her, and she never wanted it to end.
Until—
“Together,” he announced quietly, stepping up behind her.
She didn’t understand at first.
His hand lifted—not abruptly, just enough to hold her forearm, guiding the line of her wrist.
“Not separated,” he murmured. “At once. We join them while releasing. Light and shadow—as one.”
His fingers lingered for the barest moment longer than needed. Skin to skin.
And something in her snapped.
It wasn’t just the contact—it was what came next.
She drew light to her palms. He summoned shadow. And this time, when they cast forward, the powers didn’t trail each other like ribbons in the wind. They fused. Merged immediately. The beam that left her hands was not gold, not black—it was both. Blinding and dark. Smooth and edged. A spiralling force that struck the target with such weight it split the dummy down the centre, scorched and shattered.
But Alina didn’t really see the result.
Because she couldn’t. Because her body was reeling.
It wasn’t just the force of it—it was what it did to her. The moment their powers had met, something had coiled tight inside her, low and sudden and searing.
It felt like his shadows weren’t just touching her power—but her. Inside her. Curling deep into places that had never been reached.
And her light welcomed it. Craved it.
A heat bloomed under her skin, hot and helpless and entirely involuntary. Her breath caught, her spine arched ever so slightly, and the rush of it—Gods, the rush—was like being lit from within.
Not by her own magic.
But by the place where hers met his.
It was wrong. Impossible.
She blinked. Swallowed. Summoned again.
He didn’t touch her this time—he didn’t need to. The connection was already forged. Her light knew where to go, and his shadows curled through it, folded inside her power like they belonged there.
And every time they released it, her body answered.
Another blast. Another flood of heat. It coiled tighter with each pass, low and persistent. Her skin flushed. Her pulse jumped so fast she almost thought she might faint—not from exhaustion, but from this growing, humming tension deep in her core that had nothing to do with fatigue.
It wasn’t just her anymore. It felt as though something outside of her was taking hold, pulling at her in ways she couldn’t stop, couldn’t understand.
And still he stood beside her—utterly composed.
The sweat clinging to her back, the shaking in her arms—all invisible to him. He gave her a single nod of instruction, eyes already on the next target, never once lingering.
It was a breath of space—just a second.
And in it, her eyes caught him.
The way his shirt stuck lightly to the planes of his chest. The way his shoulders flexed under it when he moved. Every breath he took stirred the fabric across his ribs, drawing her eyes down. His throat glistened with sweat. Just a line. Just enough. His short hair was styled back, revealing the high, elegant cut of his cheekbones and the unmistakable strength in his jaw.
He looked... devastating.
And she was unravelling.
Her next release came too quickly—too bright—but his shadows caught it anyway, smooth as ever. Yet, when they merged mid-air, the reaction hit her even harder. A shiver passed through her legs. She had to shift her weight, subtly, so no one would notice.
Because she noticed. Every part of her noticed. Her whole body throbbed with it.
The power. The contact. Him.
And it was only getting worse.
She kept moving. She had to.
Another target, another command. Kirigan’s voice was low, unwavering—never sharp, never harsh, just a cool thread in the storm inside her. And still, she burned.
Each time she summoned light now, it came faster. Hotter. Her fingers trembled in the aftershock, and not from strain. Every new collision of their powers curled tighter in her gut. It wasn’t just arousal anymore—it was need. Dangerous, dizzying need.
And he—
Saints, he didn’t even seem winded.
A fine sheen of sweat glinted on his temple, just barely catching the last of the daylight filtering through the tall windows. But his breath was steady, his voice precise, and the way he moved—calm, deliberate—was nothing like the frantic energy vibrating through her.
She couldn’t stop staring at the shape of him. The cut of his narrow waist beneath his shirt. The curve of muscle shifting under fabric as he gestured toward the next dummy. The flash of shadow curling from his bare hand. Power, raw and effortless, dancing across skin she had never dared to touch.
But how she ached to…
More targets. More focus. She told herself to think, to breathe. But her body was far ahead of her now, humming and helpless. Her thighs brushed as she stepped, and the friction nearly undid her. She clenched her jaw, forced herself forward.
The connection between them wasn’t just powerful—it was consuming. Every strike, every collision of their forces, sent a new surge through her, lighting up her nerves, winding her tighter and tighter until she was burning from the inside out.
She couldn’t stop it—couldn’t rein it in. But she couldn’t lose control—not here, not now.
Especially not in front of them.
Because there were eyes on them. And they would see.
In addition to those already present, more spectators had begun to trickle in—quiet at first, then bolder, drawn by the spectacle unfolding before them. She hadn’t noticed when it started. But now she heard the murmurs at the edges. Saw the different coloured Keftas against the walls. Heartrenders. Squallers. Even Botkin stood by the far entrance, eyes narrowed with interest.
And Ivan.
He leaned against a column, arms folded, impassive as ever. But when her latest strike—a fused light-and-shadow bolt—cut clean through two targets at once, his gaze met hers.
He nodded.
A small gesture. Barely anything. But from him, it might as well have been a standing ovation.
Alina nearly dropped her next summon. Her body was trembling too hard.
Not much more. She couldn’t do much more. Not without—
“Enough.”
The word sliced through the air, smooth as silk. And every breath in her lungs rushed out in relief.
Kirigan lowered his hand. No urgency. No fanfare. Just finality.
“Very well done,” he acknowledged, quietly. Just for her.
She managed a nod. She hoped it passed for calm.
It felt like anything but.
Around them, voices murmured—approval, admiration, astonishment. A few Grisha lingered, whispering. One of the Inferni clapped.
But Alina barely heard any of it.
Her blood was too loud in her ears.
Her knees were trembling so badly she wasn’t sure how she was still standing. Every muscle in her body ached, overworked from channelling too much power, from moving too fast, from holding herself together far too long. Her thighs were slick with heat, her pulse out of control, and the throbbing between her legs hadn’t lessened by even a breath.
The General turned away, issuing quiet instructions to the others, not looking back at her. Not once. And still her eyes stayed on him—the long lines of his back, the sleek darkness of his shirt, the way his shadows whispered around his fingertips like they missed the contact already.
Her breath shuddered.
She couldn’t stay here.
She needed …distance. Silence. Water. Anything.
She slipped through the far archway into the side chamber just off the training hall—a narrow, stone-lined space meant for cooling down. A wooden bench ran along the wall, worn smooth by years of use. On a low stone shelf sat a basin of clear water and a stack of folded towels.
The air was cooler here. Still.
Private.
She braced her hands on the edge of the basin, her breath ragged. Splashed water on her face.
It didn’t help.
Saints.
Her body was still shaking—from the effort, from the heat, from something else she could no longer name without blushing.
The ache didn’t fade. It was still there, deep in her stomach, between her legs, a pulse she couldn’t stop.
She had nearly—
No.
She wasn’t going to finish that thought.
Her breath hitched. She pressed her thighs together again, just barely, but even that small friction sent another wave through her.
Too much. Too sharp.
She felt overstimulated by everything — the memory of his voice, the lingering heat of where his hand had touched her arm, the fusion of their powers, the stretch of every nerve that still hadn’t recovered.
Her fingers curled against the basin.
She couldn’t stay like this. She couldn’t—
Then—
She heard the door.
It didn’t creak. It didn’t slam.
It just… closed.
Her hands clenched.
Her heart stalled.
He was there.
Chapter 2: I Felt It Too
Kirigan stood just inside the doorway, the noise from the training hall muted behind him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Only watched her.
Alina didn’t breathe.
Her palms were still damp from the water. Her skin still flushed. And now he stood there — still, silent. No command. No question. Just the full weight of his presence in a space suddenly too small.
Her throat worked around a swallow.
He hadn’t taken a step forward, but somehow, it felt like he was closer than he’d been all afternoon. Like the space between them had simply decided to disappear the moment the door closed.
The shadows behind him shifted faintly, restless, as if they too waited for something. No reaching. No creeping forward. They seemed to hum, impatient and expectant, like they were aware of the tension in the air, but not of what was causing it.
She straightened slowly, forcing her fingers to release the edge of the basin. She hadn’t turned fully. Couldn’t. Not yet. Just shifted enough that she could see him in the corner of her vision.
The stillness thickened between them. His eyes were no longer simply steady—now they were searching. Intent. It was as if they were trying to pierce through her, to understand the way her body trembled, the quiet chaos within her.
Her breath caught again. She hated how easily he could do that — unravel her with a glance. A silence.
And still he didn’t speak.
The stillness stretched, weighted and waiting.
Her fingers curled at her sides.
Alina turned then, slowly, facing him fully. Her eyes found his — dark as ever, but no longer unreadable.
There was something there now. Not quite fire. Not quite storm.
But it was watching her. All of her.
And her body betrayed her again. The ache. The flush. The sharp pulse that had started in the hall, coiling lower and lower with every fusion of their powers. It surged again. Worse now. More dangerous. Because there was no one left to see. No one watching. No one to stop this from tipping over.
He still said nothing.
And she couldn’t stand it.
The not-knowing. The not-moving. The way his eyes stayed on her like they could read everything.
Something had to break.
So she did.
Her voice shook. “What—”
“I felt it too.”
The words cut clean through her question.
He didn’t move as he said it. Didn’t tilt his head. Didn’t break eye contact.
But she felt them. Like a hand at her throat. Like a current pulling at her ankles.
She blinked, mouth parting.
“I—”
“The moment it fused,” he clarified, voice low and even. “Your light. My shadow. It was… incendiary.”
Alina’s heart pounded.
It was the calm in his tone that undid her — like none of this rattled him. Like he could name it, dissect it, without flinching. But she was shaking, raw and bare and still humming from the contact.
“You know what I’m talking about.” He spoke softer this time.
It wasn’t a question.
Her mouth was dry.
“Yes,” she whispered, hoarsely.
His jaw moved — a muscle tightening just once. A shift so slight she might have imagined it. But the shadows behind him thickened. Just a little. Just enough to make her pulse stutter.
She licked her lips. Immediately regretted it when his gaze dropped — not far. Just for a second. Then back to her eyes.
Saints.
He took a step.
One.
The distance narrowed. Her back found the stone of the wall behind the basin — not hard, not trapping, just real. Unforgiving. Unlike him.
He was still looking at her like she was a question he already knew the answer to.
Another step. Close enough now that she could see the sheen of sweat on his throat. The damp strand of hair near his temple. The slight rise and fall of his chest — calm, steady.
She wanted to touch him.
Saints, she wanted—anything. Everything. Just something to make the ache stop.
Her hands twitched at her sides. She couldn’t look away from him.
“You taught me how to reach for the power,” she tried to sound steadier than she felt. “But this— That— It wasn’t just summoning.”
“No,” he agreed. “It wasn’t.” Then, after a moment, quieter: “It transcended every form of magical convergence I’ve ever encountered.”
His voice had dropped further, rougher now, like it scraped something raw in him to admit even that.
She heard it anyway — the catch in it, the slight pull at the edge of restraint.
He wouldn’t say it. Not outright.
But she could feel it.
That it had undone him, too.
She shivered.
He saw it. She knew he did.
Still, he didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Just stood there, shadows coiled at his heels, his hands loose at his sides — no barrier, no distance left in his eyes.
Her breath hitched.
“You hid it well,” he observed, voice quiet. “But I saw. Because I knew what to look for.”
She closed her eyes for a beat, heat curling tighter inside her belly. Because it had happened to him, too.
Her thoughts were useless now, tangled up in every pulse, every rush of heat from earlier, every time their powers had merged and something deep inside her had answered.
And now—
Now she had no more air left for pretending.
Slowly — slow enough for him to stop her if he wanted to — she lifted her hand. Just one. Just enough to brush her fingers over the edge of his jaw.
The contact was feather-light.
But he went still.
The shadows paused.
So did the space around them.
Chapter 3: Fused
He let her touch him — didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t breathe.
Her hand brushed his cheekbone—and then lower, fingers curling around the back of his neck.
Then she rose onto her toes.
And kissed him.
It was a whisper of a kiss, trembling and hesitant — and yet, it was hers. She gave it. Freely. Boldly. A breath of defiance and longing all in one.
And he didn’t move away.
Quite the opposite.
Kirigan stilled — as if frozen by the very audacity of her touch, her lips on his. But then she felt it: his breath stuttered, his hands flew to her sides, and in the space of a heartbeat, he kissed her back.
No — claimed her mouth.
Alina gasped against him as he responded—not gently, but with a hunger that hadn’t been born of heat of the training, but of restraint finally abandoned. And she felt it—that this wasn’t new. He had wanted her. He had chosen not to act. Until now.
His hand found the small of her back, dragging her against him until she could feel every rigid line of his body. Her fingers curled in his collar as she melted against him, the wall at her back grounding her only barely.
Then his hands were in her hair, cupping her skull, tipping her mouth just how he needed it — and he kissed her like he was starving. No patience. No restraint. The kind of kiss that left her breathless, undone, already burning.
One of his hands drifted lower, brushing over the curve of her breast with a reverence that belied the urgency in his kiss. His thumb grazed her nipple through the fabric — once, then again — and she reacted immediately, a soft sound escaping her throat that only deepened his groan. He filled his hand with her, slowly, deliberately, as if committing every contour to memory. Her body arched into him on instinct. Her core, already drenched in the wetness of her nearly painful arousal, pulsed in rhythm with the overwhelming need building once more within her.
And when his lips moved down to her jaw, then her throat — when his teeth grazed the delicate skin just under her ear — she whispered his name without thinking. A plea. A benediction.
He groaned low in response, and the sound shattered something between them.
Gripping her waist hard, he pressed his body into hers in full. She felt it — the sheer force of his need — the way his body bore down on her with barely contained power, but he never hurt her. Never pushed beyond what she gave him.
Her fingers worked to undo the buttons of his shirt, her breath coming in quick gasps as she exposed his chest. She needed to feel him, needed his skin against hers, and as the garment finally came loose, she pressed herself closer to him, her hands splayed across his ribs, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
His other hand had wandered lower now, slow and sure, curving over her hip, her thigh—until it slid between her legs. But suddenly, his kiss slowed.
He eased her slightly away, his gaze locking onto hers, his voice low, tight, almost raw: "Are you sure?"
Her answer was a breath, a pulse. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
And then there was no stopping. Through the thin layers of her dress, he found her heat, her wetness, and when his fingers met the undeniable evidence of her desire, he exhaled sharply against her neck. “Saints,” he breathed, voice thick. “You’re already…” He couldn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
She was soaked. And it obviously undid him.
He captured her lips again, more desperately than before. His hands moved to her Kefta, opening it, tugging it from her shoulders with a smooth, practiced motion. The moment the garment dropped, he broke the kiss, just long enough to look at her —cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and completely open.
The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but the thin dress beneath. She barely had time to catch her breath before his hands were on her again—pulling at her clothes, dragging them up and over her head in one fluid, desperate motion. Cool air kissed her skin, but it was his gaze that truly laid her bare.
Then his mouth was on hers again, hungry and hot.
His fingers dipped between her thighs once more, bolder now without the barrier of fabric. He found her slick and open, and when his thumb brushed her softly, precisely, she cried out against his mouth. “I want to make you come,” he murmured hoarsely. “Please, let me take care of you.” His hand moved with agonizing precision, yet every motion tender, reverent.
That masterful, deliberate touch—it would undo her, yes—but not the way she needed. Not the way she ached for.
So, she took control once more.
Answering in kind—fierce, breathless, she pushed her hands between them, too. She fumbled at the fastenings of his trousers, her fingers clumsy, greedy, trembling with need.
The quiet rasp of fabric filled the air as she tore at them, the sound sharp in the silence between their bodies.
She nearly ripped the garment open—and then he was there, heavy and hot, springing free into her hand.
A wave of heat rolled off him, his skin flushed and warm beneath her palm, and for half a second, she froze—startled by the size, the weight, the sheer reality of him.
His scent hit her next—dark air, salt, the faintest trace of pine and something uniquely him—and it made her dizzy.
But then—her grip tightened. Deliberate. Certain.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide but blazing, and held him like she had every right to.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Now.”
He froze at that, just for a heartbeat, his breath catching violently.
“Alina, please.” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers, his breath short and wild. “Are you sure you really want this?”
“Yes.” She gave a frantic nod, her fingers tightening around him. “I need you to take me. Hard.”
In response, he lifted her.
It happened so fast she gasped — his strong arms wrapping under her thighs, pulling her effortlessly up against the wall. Her legs dangled for a heartbeat before instinct took over and wrapped around his hips, and she felt it: the hard length of him, pressed against her, seeking, demanding.
And then—he entered her. One hard, devastating thrust.
The shock of it stole her breath.
Alina had thought she knew desire. She had lived with the ache, dreamed of this moment, burned for it.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the raw, obliterating reality of him inside her.
The sheer width. The depth. The sudden, brutal fullness.
She came. Instantly.
No warning. No build-up. Just the overwhelming, helpless, unstoppable release of want, need, tension and the raw energy that had been coiling within her since the training.
Her body seized around him, a white-hot explosion that rocked through her with such ferocity it bordered on agony. Her walls clenched tight, clinging to him like they didn’t know how to let go, and she sobbed as the pleasure consumed her. He was too much. Too big. Too deep. The stretch of him was unbearable, but the unbearable was exactly what made it perfect.
Through the haze, through the crashing heat and the convulsions of her orgasm, she heard it.
A sound.
Barely a breath, just a low, guttural groan from deep in his throat — as though he had to struggle to hold himself together.
It hit her harder than anything. She wanted to sob again, just from the rawness of it.
But she couldn’t even breathe.
He had buried himself inside her with a force that had stolen the air from her lungs. And now, he started thrusting into her—not cruel—never that—but rough, urgent, unrelenting.
She clung to him, but her strength was failing fast. She was still spasming uncontrollably from that fierce, endless climax—but already he was driving her higher again, even though her body hadn’t stopped contracting around him—relentlessly, unceasingly; because of it, she was helpless—wide open and unravelling.
But she didn’t want him to stop. Gods, no.
She wanted him like this—unleashed, devouring her, claiming her. Wanted to feel all of it, every desperate second of him losing control.
And for a moment, she thought he had.
Not just in his rhythm—but in something deeper. Unsteady. Shaking.
He let out a low, broken breath—like a man holding himself together by force and failing.
His next thrust stuttered. Just once. A pause, a tremor—then he drove into her again, harder than before, as if chasing control he’d already lost.
He moved relentlessly. No pause. No reprieve. He was penetrating her over and over, hard and deep, dragging gasp after gasp from her with every motion.
Her body was nothing but nerve endings, strung tight and burning.
Her limbs had no strength left. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Just feel.
Every thrust drove another ragged, shuddering sound from her—raw and urgent, each one a plea she couldn’t shape into words. Harder. Deeper. More.
“You’re close again,” he rasped against her throat, voice frayed and dark. “Please, Alina— Let go. I want to feel it.”
And with that, he braced her tighter, one arm a vice around her back, the other gripping her thigh to keep her spread, vulnerable, filled. Every thrust carved her open, made her his— until suddenly her spine arched.
She came again, hard, helplessly, her entire body locking around him. She cried out, incoherent, her face falling forward onto his shoulder, while he rocked her whole body with his thrusts, the sensation like fire and lightning pouring through her limbs.
And he didn’t let up, continued impaling her on him with every savage stroke. Unyielding, unchanging, brutal in its consistency. No more, no less. He was simply there, inside her, giving her exactly what she had begged for — and it was too much. He hit spots so deep inside her it hurt, but the ache only made her shudder harder.
Her legs hung limp entirely, useless around his waist. Her arms had long since dropped; her head tipped back bonelessly, eyes fluttering closed.
She was gone. All she could do was let herself be taken.
He kept her lifted easily—one hand under her, the other gripping the wall behind her for leverage and kept driving into her. Each thrust slammed her back and up against the wall, again and again, lifting her slightly with the sheer power of it.
“Please—” she panted.
But it wasn’t a plea to stop. It was more. It was everything.
She was his to hold. His to move. His to fill.
And Saints, he filled her completely.
Every thrust was a shock. A demand. A surrender. She whimpered, moaned, gasped through the pleasure—louder than she meant to be, louder than she knew she could be. His movements were relentless, each drive of his hips taking her further, pushing her closer to something she couldn’t control. She would come again soon, was already spiralling toward that edge she couldn’t even begin to stop.
And he wasn’t untouched by it. She could feel the tension building in him, in the shallow hitch of his breathing, the tightening of his grip, the way his rhythm held steady, but his body betrayed the effort it took.
“Saints, Alina—” he gasped hoarsely, voice breaking with strain, “you feel like nothing I’ve ever known.”
His head dropped to her shoulder as he groaned again, almost violently this time. “You don’t even know what you do to me… The way you come around me—”
He broke of in a low, guttural growl that rumbled from his chest, and the rawness in his voice set her nerves on fire again.
Her body no longer obeyed her, and with each thrust, each move he made inside her, she felt herself slipping even further, falling, helpless to anything but the want to feel him finish, to feel him break with her. His quiet sounds were almost frantic now, the heat of his breath heavy against her clammy skin.
And his rhythm — it was falling apart. The thrusts were no longer even. They staggered, punched out of him like he couldn’t keep the pace anymore.
He still slammed into her hard, deep, but not with the same control as before. It was desperation now, broken and messy, like his need had taken over.
“I can’t— Saints—” he rasped, every thrust a fight to stay present. “Give me one more. Let me feel you break again.”
That sound—his voice, fraying with need, the raw ache in it—it was unbearable. Beautiful.
She clenched hard around him, instinctive, hungry, her body aching to give him what he wanted. Gods, she wanted to come again. Wanted to fall apart one last time around him.
But more than that—more than anything—she wanted to feel him fall.
The thought of him breaking inside her, of feeling every uncontrollable pulse of his climax buried deep, made her dizzy. She needed it.
Not later. Not after.
Breathless, aching, limp, she whispered, “I need you to come inside me. Now.”
He lost everything in that moment. Every ounce of control, of restraint—obliterated by her plea.
With a raw, primal groan he drove into her, one last time—deep, unrelenting, until he bottomed out, hitting her deepest point with a force that made her jolt.
She cried out, legs jerking, the breath punched from her lungs. It was too deep. Too much. Too perfectly devastating.
Her body wasn’t made for this.
And finally, he came.
And she felt it.
All of it.
The sudden jolt of heat inside her, sharp, hot, deep—he was spilling into her, with no care, no hesitation. Thick and fast, again—again—and it was too much.
She came, too.
No resistance left. No breath to cry out. Just that final, brutal snap of sensation ripping through her already wrecked body.
Arching violently, her body clenched taut one last time, useless from exhaustion but still reacting, still needing—tighter than she thought possible, drawing him in even deeper.
She spasmed uncontrollably, her muscles locking around his release, as though trying to keep him inside forever. Her mouth fell open in silence. Her limbs twitched, weak and spent. But deep inside, she was still clamping around him, milking him through every raw, helpless pulse of his climax.
He groaned — a sound so primal it felt like it came from somewhere far below speech.
And she felt it all. Every beat. Every surge. Every shudder of him breaking apart inside her.
His whole body jerked against hers, buried so deep she could feel every pulse, every twitch. He was still holding her up, but just barely. His arms shook. His back bowed over her.
And then, finally, he went still.
Breathing ragged.
Spent.
She sagged into him, chest heaving, soaked in sweat, every nerve ending flayed raw. Her head dropped to his shoulder, too gone to move. Too gone to think.
They stayed like that. Locked. Shaking.
For a few moments, he simply held her. Still deep inside her, impaled on him. His arms—shaky, but strong—kept her steady, kept her close.
And gods, it was still too much. Not the stretch, not the ache—
But the way it had felt to be filled by him.
She sagged in his hold, limp and trembling, barely conscious of anything but the weight of him inside her. Her whole body was buzzing, warm and dazed and wrecked. She couldn’t separate her own heartbeat from his. Couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
All that remained was the lingering thrum of him—his breath, his warmth, the memory of everything he’d just given her.
Eventually, he moved. Gently.
He brushed her damp hair back from her temple, still trembling inside her.
“Look at you,” he murmured hoarsely, as he was finally able to speak again. “I’ve never seen anything more perfect.”
His voice was raw now, reverent. “Broken open. Ruined. Mine—”
He hesitated—just a breath—then added, quieter:
“Because you let me.”
Alina’s throat worked around a breath—too full, too raw. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
She only tightened faintly around him, a last, helpless hold.
But then, slowly, he pulled out.
She whimpered—the emptiness, the slow warmth of him spilling out of her—
She couldn’t stop it.
Couldn’t think.
Yet, he was there—quiet, steady, already moving to tend to her.
With quiet care, he eased her away from the wall and laid her softly down on the bench. He fetched water from the basin with a cloth and cleaned her gently — not a word, just soft touches and a gaze so full of tenderness it broke her all over again. She watched him clean himself as well, his movements slower now, more deliberate. She could see the tremor still in his hands. He was just as undone.
When she finally looked up — dazed, limp, spent — her gaze landed on the door.
It was then that the realization hit her like a thunderclap: someone could’ve heard them. Someone could’ve walked in.
Her lips parted in shock and she began to straighten, a sudden jolt of tension rushing through her limbs. “Saints, what if—”
In that moment, shadows started curling. Kirigan's shadows, which had obviously been sealing the cracks around the door, withdrew, melting back into the dark.
“No one could hear us,” he murmured softly, smoothing her hair back with a tender, almost uncharacteristic gentleness. "No one could enter. I made sure of it."
Relief flooded through her — so sudden and overwhelming that she nearly collapsed back onto the bench. He was beside her in an instant, steadying her.
With a firm yet gentle touch, he helped her sit upright, guiding her body carefully until she was no longer slumped, but truly upright — supported, balanced.
Then, still without a word, he reached for her discarded dress.
Lifting the delicate fabric, he gathered it carefully before drawing it back over her head in one smooth, cautious motion.
His fingers ghosted over her skin as he adjusted the neckline, smoothing the garment down over her shoulders and arms with the same deliberate grace he used in battle — except now, it was all softness.
He took up her Kefta next, and helped her into it — one sleeve, then the other, his knuckles brushing her skin with every movement.
When the heavy fabric settled around her once more, he straightened the collar at her throat, then carefully fastened the first few buttons.
He didn’t stop until she looked — well, almost like herself again.
Alina’s breath was still uneven, her skin still too warm. She could feel the dampness at her temple, the trembling in her hands as she smoothed down the folds of her Kefta. Kirigan had meanwhile rearranged his own clothes until he looked as composed as ever. But when he glanced at her, his eyes betrayed him.
He was not unaffected.
Slowly, she pushed herself up from the bench, testing her balance. He lingered just beside her, silent but ready—close enough to catch her if she faltered, but not touching. Not yet.
She exhaled. “I’m fine.”
He studied her for a second longer, then gave a single nod.
The training hall beyond the door was quiet now.
Still, Kirigan stepped out first, scanning the open hall with practiced precision. No one remained. The other Grisha had left—perhaps minutes ago, perhaps longer. She had no idea how much time had passed.
He turned back to her. “Come.”
Alina followed.
It was already dark. Winter had swallowed the sky whole, and what little light remained came from the low-hanging lanterns around the palace and the faint glint of moonlight on fresh snow.
They walked in silence. His boots made no more sound than hers, both pairs muffled by the thin layer of frost underfoot. Shadows stretched long ahead of them, cast by lanternlight and something more ancient, more intimate.
There were no words. There didn’t need to be. The air between them still crackled faintly, too full of everything they hadn’t yet processed to allow speech.
They passed the Grand Hall, empty now and echoing, then a handful of vacant rooms and closed doors. At last, the familiar stretch of her suite came into view, just past the carved arch with the weathered sunburst motif.
They stopped.
Her hand found the door latch but hesitated. She didn’t open it. Didn’t move. Her fingers remained on the brass, motionless. Her eyes stared ahead but didn’t see.
Everything was still too close to the surface — the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the unbearable gentleness afterward.
She could still feel the echo of it all in her bones.
And when she turned to look at him, really look—
He was already a step back.
Not retreating. Not quite. But hesitant.
His posture had shifted—not armored, not closed, but careful. Shoulders still straight, but no longer certain. Face still unreadable, but not because he was hiding—because he didn’t know if he was welcome.
He stood there like someone bracing for a door to close.
Like someone who had almost let himself believe.
Something inside her pulled taut.
She didn’t want him to go.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up.
Fingers closed around the edge of his sleeve—not tightly, not desperate, just… asking.
Her voice barely breached the quiet. “Stay.”
Kirigan froze.
He didn’t look at her right away. For a moment, he only stared down at where her fingers touched his arm, like he wasn’t sure it was real.
Then, slowly, his gaze lifted to hers.
And there it was—just for a heartbeat: the look beneath the stillness.
Not control. Not calculation.
Just him.
Surprise. And then—relief. Bare and unguarded.
His eyes softened. His breath came just a little less steady.
He gave a single, small nod.
And this time, when he stepped forward, it wasn’t as the General.
Some truths are not meant to be shared. Only carried.
A forgotten sketch. A familiar face. A truth buried beneath centuries of dust. When Fedyor unearths a secret too impossible to believe, he is forced to reconsider everything he thought he knew—about history, about loyalty, and about the man he has sworn to follow.
Notes:
Ok, how do I put this?
I don't like black and white. Because there is no such thing in a lived life. There's SO MUCH GREY in every single one of us.
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
The air in Fedyor’s quarters was thick with dust, stirred by the slow, deliberate movements of his hands as he sifted through the remnants of his family’s past. Late afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, gilding the cluttered space in a soft, golden haze. It caught on the curling edges of brittle parchment, danced over the tarnished glint of old medallions, and cast long shadows across the carefully wrapped bundles of heirlooms that had been passed down through generations.
He had not expected to receive these things.
His mother’s letters had arrived weeks ago, detailing how a distant relative—a far-removed connection Fedyor had never met—had passed away. A reclusive man, known to be eccentric, descended from a long line of artists and Grisha of various orders. He had left behind a house full of history.
There had been no direct heir, and so the contents had been divided among the remaining bloodline, fragments of the past parcelled out and sent across Ravka. Most of it, Fedyor had assumed, would be useless—decayed ledgers, forgotten trinkets, things with sentimental value only to ghosts.
He had been wrong.
Fedyor knelt on the floor, his palms braced against the worn wooden planks, surrounded by relics that carried more weight than he had expected. He had found handwritten accounts of the Lantsov reign before the wars. Old merchant records that hinted at the secret dealings of noble families. A pendant that bore the crest of a high house long since fallen into ruin.
It was all strangely compelling; as if the past was reaching out to him, demanding to be acknowledged.
And then, beneath a stack of fragile, yellowed documents, his fingers brushed against something strange.
Not parchment. Not another heap of crumbling letters. Something thicker, rougher.
Carefully, Fedyor eased it free.
Tucked between layers of wax-sealed wrapping lay something thick, a bundle of pages bound tightly together. He couldn’t see what they were—only that they had been carefully preserved. The paper smelled of dust and age but not decay. Protected. Preserved. And masterfully so.
Fedyor ran his fingertips over the edges, frowning. The wax-seal was seamless, the binding reinforced with something finer than plain glue or thread. This wasn’t the work of an ordinary archivist. A skilled Fabricator had to be responsible for this—someone who had known exactly what they were doing. Someone who had meant for whatever was inside to survive.
His fingers hesitated on the bindings, the wax-paper coverings brittle beneath his touch. Then, carefully, he loosened the twine and peeled them away.
The first thing he saw were dates.
Each parchment was marked in a careful, precise hand. He read the first—three hundred ninety-three years ago. The second—four hundred and two. His breath caught.
This wasn’t possible. His pulse quickened.
One by one, he smoothed them out.
Sketches. And they were stunning.
A landscape. Distant hills, the faint impression of trees bending in the wind.
The second. A palace. Familiar in its design, yet subtly different—an earlier time.
His mouth fell open in astonishment. Not just an earlier time. The palace wasn’t complete.
Scaffolding clung to the half-finished towers, wooden beams stretched across open halls. But the foundations—Saints, the foundations. He knew them. He had seen them before.
Because that palace still stood.
It had stood for centuries.
Fedyor exhaled sharply. Saints. He swallowed, his fingers tightening around the yellowed pages. The paper in his hands—thin, fragile—had seen four hundred years pass. And yet the lines were as sharp as if they had been drawn yesterday.
And then, as he reached the centre of the bundle, he found it.
Graphite strokes. Faint but precise, beautiful despite the passage of time. His brow furrowed as his gaze took in the details—two people.
A man and a woman, seated together in a way that suggested effortless closeness. The woman’s face was turned slightly away, caught mid-laugh, her expression light with amusement. But the man—
The man—
Fedyor froze.
It was Kirigan.
No, of course it wasn’t.
But still, it was. The same high cheekbones. The same elegant, sharp features. The same piercing eyes, rendered in careful, aged strokes.
Fedyor exhaled slowly, his chest tight. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
It was—it had to be coincidence. A trick of the mind, an artist’s ancient depiction aligning too perfectly with reality. There were always resemblances. Always echoes of the past in the present.
The man in the drawing was smiling. A true, unguarded smile. Not the carefully measured expressions Kirigan wore at court, not the calculated smirks he used in battle, not the unreadable calm that shielded him from the world.
This was something real. Something lighter.
This was happiness.
Fedyor stared at it, transfixed. This—Kirigan could look like this, if he weren’t a man weighed down by war and duty.
And for a fleeting, ridiculous moment, Fedyor thought of Alina.
What would it take, he wondered, for her to ever pull a smile like this from him? Would she? Could she?
He let out a low chuckle. Saints, he hoped so. That smile suited him well.
His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the edge of the drawing while scanning it for more details. The likeliness was uncanny. Even though the hair was longer, looser, swept back as if wind had caught in it. Even though the absence of a beard made the features sharper, younger. The man looked exactly like Kirigan.
His gaze drifted across the wonderfully detailed face. Searching, involuntarily.
And it caught; at something small, just beneath the left eye. A mark.
Fedyor stiffened. A slow, creeping sensation coiled in his stomach. The birthmark.
No. No, it had to be an imperfection in the parchment, a flaw in the graphite, an accident of the artist’s hand. An improbable alignment.
But just as he had convinced himself that was all mere chance, his gaze dropped to the man’s arm.
And the world beneath him shifted.
Because there—etched into the skin with unmistakable precision—was a scar. A cross-shaped brand, carved into the flesh of his forearm.
Fedyor’s blood ran cold.
He had seen this scar countless times—after battle for example, when Kirigan had landed himself in the infirmary; or in the rare moments of quiet when the General let his guard slip, just a little. When he shed his Kefta and rolled up his sleeves in a short moment of rest.
He had assumed it was a relic of darker times, branded into his flesh some years before Fedyor himself had been born; when Grisha had still been hunted like animals.
But to see it on this ancient parchment—
A wave of dizziness crashed over him, and for a moment, the room spun.
His hands clenched the picture so tightly the edges curled, threatening to tear beneath his fingers. His breath came faster, sharper, like his body was trying to reject what his mind was forcing it to understand.
The resemblance had been disturbing. Now, it was undeniable.
This was real.
This was Kirigan.
His mind scrambled for logic, for reason, for something that could explain away the impossible.
The drawing was old. He had seen the date. Four hundred years.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
If the drawing was real—if the date was true—
Then Kirigan was more than four hundred years old.
And if Kirigan was that old—
Then he was not the heir of the Black Heretic.
He was the Black Heretic.
The man who had created the Shadow Fold. The man whose name was spoken in hushed whispers, whose deeds had been twisted into myths of horror. The mass murderer. The reason thousands had died, trapped in eternal darkness, torn apart by the creatures that roamed the Fold.
This was him.
Fedyor’s fingers went numb around the parchment, his pulse pounding in his ears. Everything in him should scream in defiance, should fight against this absurd revelation, this impossible truth.
It had to be a mistake. It couldn’t be real.
Instead, all he could think was—
I knew.
Not the details. Not the scope. But he had always known, always FELT somehow, that the darkness Kirigan was carrying inside was something too vast, too deep, too endless for a single lifetime.
He had seen it in the quiet moments. In the weight behind his words. In the way exhaustion clung to him—not the tiredness of a man who needed sleep, but the exhaustion of someone who had been fighting forever. A kind of weariness that went beyond the body. That seeped into the bones.
But it wasn’t just weariness, was it?
It wasn’t just the weight of loss, of duty, of endless war. It was something deeper. Something older.
Something tainted.
He is a monster.
The thought slammed into Fedyor with the force of a blade to the gut, cold and merciless.
His stomach twisted violently. His hands shook, his breath shallow, fast, wrong.
He had trusted this man.
Followed him.
Fought for him.
Saints, he had believed in him. And he had been lying for centuries.
His chest tightened as horror clawed its way up his throat.
But then—
Something shifted.
Something small—a whisper beneath the roar of his own heartbeat.
Was it true? Was it?
He had seen Kirigan’s ruthlessness, his willingness to do whatever was necessary. He had seen the darkness in his gaze, the terrifying certainty in his orders. And yet—
If Kirigan was truly the Black Heretic—if he had truly done all of these things—
Then why was he still here?
Fedyor squeezed his eyes shut, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. His mind was a storm, colliding thoughts crashing into one another.
A memory surfaced, unbidden—Kirigan standing at the war table, pale and silent after the news of another massacre. Kirigan, during battle, bleeding profusely but refusing to stop fighting.
Kirigan, running a hand over his face when he thought no one was watching, his fingers trembling just slightly, betraying the exhaustion he never voiced. The tightness in his shoulders after every council meeting, the slow exhale he took when no one was listening—small moments, fleeting and fragile, but Fedyor had seen them. He had always seen them.
Was that the face of a monster?
Four hundred years. Four hundred years, and he was still fighting. Still battling relentlessly against a world that had done nothing but push him back.
But why?
With his power, he could have been anywhere. He could have disappeared—vanished into some distant corner of the world, lived in quiet seclusion, untouchable, unchallenged, free.
Or worse.
He could have burned it all. He could have drowned Ravka in an endless tide of shadow, torn down every king who dared sit on its throne, turned palaces to ruin, and left nothing but darkness in his wake. He could have taken his vengeance a thousand times over, turned himself into the nightmare they had always feared.
And yet—
He had done none of it. He had never reached for that darkest of magic again. Never used the power that had shattered the world once before.
Instead, he had remained here. In this one place, since this single moment in history, he had stayed. Not as a conqueror. Not as a tyrant. Not expanding his dominion. Not carving a kingdom of his own from the bones of his enemies.
Just here. Fighting. For them. For his Grisha.
Fedyor felt as though his very lungs were betraying him, refusing to draw in enough air.
This power—this immeasurable, world-breaking power—had never been used to take more. It had only ever been used to protect what little they had.
And suddenly, it was not only horror that made him tremble. It was this revelation.
For four hundred years, the man called the Black Heretic had never fought for himself. He had only ever fought for them.
And during these centuries of war, of loss, of endless sacrifice, he had searched. Hoped. Clung to the belief that somewhere, somehow, there was an answer. A way to undo the Fold. A way to change everything. A conviction he had never abandoned, sacrificed for, bled for. The Sun Summoner. The one hope he had never let die.
It was probably the only thing that had kept him going.
Fedyor’s mind reeled, trying to grasp the full weight of it, but it was too much.
How many kings had he served, only to watch them make the same mistakes?
How many alliances had he built, only for them to crumble?
How many times had he tried—tried—only for history to repeat itself, merciless and unchanging?
A tightness gripped his chest as the realization hit—every thought crushed beneath the heaviness of it.
Four hundred years of watching people he loved die.
Four hundred years of standing in the wreckage of his failure, in the remnants of the world he shattered; wiping the blood from his hands, forcing himself to rise again even when there was nothing left to rise for.
Still, he stood.
Still, he fought.
Saints. Saints, how was he still on his feet?
Fedyor pressed his shaking fingers to his temple, trying to breathe through the sheer enormity of it, trying to process what this meant.
Because this was not just an old story. This was his General. The man he saw every day. The man who, right now, stood in the war room, strategizing, calculating, fighting for a king that would never do so much as lift a finger for him. The man who had saved Fedyor’s life more times than he could count.
And now—now that Fedyor had seen the truth—
He didn’t know how Kirigan was still breathing under the weight of it.
His throat was tight. His heart pounded like it was trying to break free from his chest.
This was not a monster.
This was a man who had never forgiven himself and because of that had suffered for centuries.
A man who had sacrificed everything, again and again, and had gotten nothing in return.
And now, with the Sun Summoner in his grasp, anything that was left of him to give, he gave to her.
He trained her. Shielded her. Pushed her beyond her limits, not out of cruelty, but because he knew what was coming. Knew what awaited her in the Fold. Knew that, despite everything, she was not ready—not yet.
And every day that passed, every moment she needed, wore him thinner. The enemies were circling like Volcra, the threats growing exponentially. The Tsar grew increasingly impatient, while the Grisha clung to her as their only hope, just as desperate as all of Ravka, waiting for a saviour she was not yet prepared to be.
But she was his chance to finally end it. To end the Fold. To carve out a future for his Grisha beyond war, beyond fear. And for that, he would give everything. Even if it broke him.
So, Kirigan bore it all.
The endless war councils, where his voice had to be calm, measured, unwavering—where he had to negotiate, to strategize, to outthink men who would never truly trust him. The scouting reports, the movements of enemy forces, the shifting alliances—every detail absorbed, analysed, planned for before anyone else even considered them.
And then there were his Grisha. The wounded who needed reassurance. The frightened recruits who needed training. The commanders who needed guidance. Every decision, every failure, every death—it all came back to him. He was their shield, their sword, their foundation. He had no right to falter. No right to grieve.
He existed not for himself but for them alone, bound by duty as unyielding as the very shadows he commanded.
Fedyor thought of the untouched plates during late-night meetings, the cups of tea left to go cold on his desk, and the dark circles beneath his eyes—faint, mostly, but sometimes, in the worst of times, deep enough to seem almost bruised. The way his shoulders never truly relaxed, even in supposed moments of rest.
How could a man live like this?
There was never time. There had never been time. Because every second he claimed for himself was a second stolen from the war effort, from his people, from Ravka itself. He gave everything, again and again, until there was nothing left to give. And still, it was never enough.
Fedyor closed his eyes.
He didn’t know what to feel anymore, whether to be horrified; or whether, more than anything—
He just wanted to grieve. For him. For the truth. For the way the world had let this happen.
The paper felt like it was slipping through his fingers. His breath was unsteady, his thoughts too loud.
It looked real. It felt real. Every detail, every stroke of graphite, every brittle page spoke of centuries. The dates lined up. And yet.
Realistically speaking, it could be nothing. A mistake in the records. A coincidence so perfect it only seemed possible. Perhaps that was all this was—an illusion spun by time, by shock, by fear.
But what if it wasn’t?
He couldn’t let it rest. Not without knowing. Not without being sure.
There was only one person in all of Ravka who had the right to lay eyes on this. Because if this was real—if this was truly what it appeared to be—then this—this pain, this truth—belonged to Kirigan.
And so, without another moment’s hesitation, he stood.
The corridors of the Little Palace had never felt so long. Fedyor’s hands were cold, his grip tight around the parchment as he walked, his boots making rhythmic sounds against the polished floors.
He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t dive into this. But he needed to know. Needed to see it in Kirigan’s eyes, to hear it in his voice. Because if this was real—if this was true—then everything they had believed, everything they had fought for, had been a lie.
So, with a deep breath, he knocked.
"Enter," came the quiet, commanding voice from within.
Fedyor stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The war table was strewn with maps and reports, markers representing the armies and their movements scattered across the surface. The afternoon light flickered over the inked lines, casting long shadows across the tactical plans.
General Kirigan stood where he always stood—straight-backed, hands braced against the table’s edge, eyes moving sharply over the latest strategies, the latest struggles. Even here, in the fading afternoon quiet of the war room, he was intense.
Fedyor stopped just beyond the threshold. And suddenly, he saw him.
He saw the Black Heretic. The murderer of thousands.
The myth responsible for the Fold, for the endless darkness, for the screams that still echoed in the thoughts of survivors. He saw the villain of Ravka, the monster whispered about in terror, the shadow that stretched long and merciless over history.
And he saw—
the General.
Not just the General who had commanded them through countless battles.
But the Leader who, in all the years Fedyor had known him, had thrown himself into danger without hesitation, countless times, to save a single Grisha. Who faced the court with an unbreakable, infuriating patience, pushing against ignorance, against cruelty, fighting every single day for their people, against a world that did not care if they lived or died.
The Leader who stood on the edge of insubordination, over and over, because he refused to let the Tsar’s recklessness claim another life without resistance. Who gave everything so that Fedyor and his kin could at least live without being hunted as beasts.
Who, after centuries of fighting, of losing, of suffering?—was still here.
Suddenly, Fedyor could not breathe.
His fingers clenched around the parchment. He had no idea how to speak. How to even begin.
And in that silence, a thought struck him so hard it almost made him dizzy.
Am I out of my mind?
He was standing here, staring at the man who had buried a thousand secrets, who had erased threats without hesitation, who had become a living myth, forged from whispers and shadows.
He had seen what happened to those who stood in Kirigan’s way. Had seen the cold precision with which obstacles were removed—calmly, efficiently, without hesitation.
And now he was about to confront him?
Was he suicidal?
These thoughts lasted no more than a heartbeat. But a heartbeat was enough.
The silence had stretched too long; Kirigan noticed immediately.
He lifted his head, dark eyes pinning Fedyor where he stood. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift—his stance tightening, his focus sharpening in an instant. He knew that something was wrong before Fedyor had even opened his mouth.
He took a step forward, his voice, low and steady:
“Fedyor.”
That was all. Just his name. But the weight of it, the careful, measured way Kirigan said it, almost as if—almost as if he were concerned about him—
Fedyor couldn’t stand it.
There was no turning back now.
He swallowed hard, stepped forward in two quick strides, and held the parchment out for him to take.
At first, Kirigan’s eyes only caught the date, lingering there for a moment, unreadable.
But the second he unfolded the drawing, something seemed to cut straight through him; something bypassing all the walls, all the armour, leaving him standing there, exposed in a way Fedyor had never—never—seen before.
His face lost every trace of colour. Not pale. Bloodless.
His grip on the parchment turned white-knuckled.
Yet, he did not look up.
Did not speak.
Did not move.
But something in his face cracked.
A glimmer of emotion—so raw, so deep, that it left Fedyor breathless.
He wasn’t looking at himself. He was looking at her. The woman in the drawing. The one he had held in his arms. The one he had obviously loved.
The grief was endless. Bottomless.
Fedyor felt his own heart thundering in his chest. He had expected something—anything. Darkness bursting forth. A lash of shadows, lethal and unrestrained. The room swallowed whole in a tide of power. A strike before the world could collapse around him.
Or, at the very least—a flash of anger. A cutting remark. A denial so cold it would make his stomach turn.
Instead—
Kirigan swayed.
Not much. Just enough that Fedyor saw it. Just enough to know.
Kirigan wasn’t just exhausted. He was spent.
He had been hiding in plain sight—for centuries. Fighting, surviving, pushing forward when there was nothing left to push with. And now, here he stood, caught, revealed, everything he had ever buried dragged into the light.
He had nothing left.
He wasn’t bracing himself for a fight.
He wasn’t standing his ground, meeting this moment with fire and defiance.
No.
He was waiting for the blow.
Not with arrogance. Not with fury.
With resignation.
Fedyor saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his body coiled, stiff with expectation. A lifetime of battle, of betrayal, of knowing what would come next.
Screaming. Cursing. A blade in the dark.
Hatred.
Condemnation.
Because how could there be anything else?
Kirigan’s breathing was too shallow by now, too uneven. His body gave a sudden, sharp tremor and he swayed again, harder this time. His hand shot out to grip the war table.
This time, Fedyor moved.
No thought. No hesitation. He was there in an instant, reaching out, steadying, catching—
Kirigan flinched.
Not in fear. In disbelief. Not like a man expecting pain—but like a man who had forgotten kindness existed.
He did not pull away. He did not resist.
He did not understand.
Fedyor guided him, his grip firm but careful, and Kirigan let him. Let himself be led away from the table like—like he could not quite make his body move on his own.
He sagged into Fedyor’s hold, cold, skin clammy, his pulse hammering far too fast beneath Fedyor’s senses. His entire frame shuddered against him, every muscle wound too tight, staying upright only through sheer force of will.
But his limbs betrayed him. His strength was gone.
He collapsed.
Not just into the chair but under the weight of the moment; under the weight of centuries.
Into exhaustion so deep that Fedyor felt his own chest tighten just watching it.
And for the first time, in all the years he had followed Kirigan—stood with him, stood beside him—he saw not the power; not the command; not the legend.
Just a man.
A broken man who had been fighting too long. Who had carried too much, endured too much, lost too much.
Kirigan had sunk deep into the chair, his head tilted back against the wood, as if there was nothing left in him to hold himself upright.
For a long time, he did not look up.
And when he finally did—
Fedyor’s breath caught.
Because there was apprehension there.
Not so much of him. Not of what Fedyor might do.
But of what he might say.
Of the words that would come next.
Kirigan swallowed hard, as if the very act took effort. And then, hoarse, quiet, tired in a way Fedyor had never heard before—
“Just… get it over with.”
With trembling fingers, he extended the parchment, offering it back.
Not a challenge.
Not a demand.
A whisper. A plea.
Fedyor’s hands clenched at his sides.
There were too many answers.
Too much history. Too much grief. Too much suffering, tangled together so completely that Fedyor did not know how to unravel it.
So instead, he did the only thing that mattered.
He bent down, knelt before Kirigan, met his exhausted, wary, waiting eyes—
And pressed the parchment back into his hands.
“No one else should have this.” His voice was low, steady, unwavering. “No one but you.”
Kirigan did not move.
Did not breathe.
And then, slowly—so slowly— his hand, still holding the paper, sank into his lap.
Fedyor stood. Turned. Left before his throat could close up completely.
Because if he stayed, he did not trust himself not to break.
And behind him, Kirigan sat motionless, the slanting sunlight casting long shadows over the portrait of a life that had been taken from him centuries ago.
The night pressed heavily against the windows of their quarters, a suffocating kind of darkness that not even the flickering fire in the hearth could ease. Fedyor sat there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The crackling of the flames was the only sound between them, save for the occasional groaning protest of the old wooden beams overhead.
Ivan watched him from the bed. Silent. Patient. He had known—since the moment Fedyor had entered—that something had happened.
But he had waited. He always waited. Letting Fedyor move at his own pace. He never pushed, never demanded. That wasn’t Ivan’s way.
And yet, this time, Fedyor wasn’t sure the words would come at all.
It was too much. Too vast, too staggering to fit into something as small as speech.
But more than that, he was afraid.
Afraid of what Ivan would do. What he would decide.
Because Ivan was not passive. He was not the type to learn a thing and set it aside. If he believed it was wrong, he would act. And if he disagreed—if he saw this truth as something else entirely—then what?
Fedyor’s hands curled into fists. He had never feared Ivan’s reactions before. But this—this was different. This was not just a secret. It was a choice. A dividing line. And if they stood on opposite sides of it…
He swallowed hard. No more hesitation.
“I need to tell you something,” he began finally, voice hoarse. “And I don’t… I don’t know what you’ll do. What you’ll say.”
Ivan’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’re shaking.”
“I found something,” Fedyor continued, ignoring the comment. “Today. In that damned pile of dust and memories my family sent me.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh but was far too broken to sound like one. “I thought it’d be nonsense. Old letters. Useless trinkets. But it wasn’t.”
Ivan waited.
“There was a drawing,” Fedyor whispered, staring at his hands as if the parchment were still there, burned into his skin. “Of him. Of… Kirigan.”
Ivan didn’t move. Not a flicker. Only his gaze, steady, locked onto Fedyor.
“There’s the birthmark under his eye. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it,” Fedyor went on, his voice breaking now. “And that cross-shaped brand. The one he carries on his arm. It’s there. In the drawing. There’s no question. It’s him.”
Ivan frowned. “What are you getting at?”
“It’s not recent. Ivan—” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “It’s old. More than four centuries old. You might think it is a coincidence. But it isn’t. There’s no mistaking it. It’s old… it’s real. And it’s him.”
For a long moment, the fire was the only sound.
Then Ivan asked, low, almost too softly, “What does that mean, Fedyor?”
“You know what it means.” Fedyor’s voice cracked. “He’s not just a descendant of the Black Heretic. He is the Black Heretic. It was him. All this time.”
He expected—something. A sharp intake of breath. A flinch. A curse. But Ivan only inhaled slowly, just once, and let the breath out through his nose, leaning his head back against the headboard.
Fedyor’s heart was already pounding painfully in his chest before his husband finally spoke. “I was sure you’d figure it out one day, too.”
Fedyor froze. “What?” His heart stuttered. “You—what…?? You knew??”
Ivan’s mouth twisted—almost like a smile, if a smile could be drained of warmth, of joy, of anything but exhaustion. “I’ve known for years.”
Fedyor blinked. The words didn’t make sense. They sat there, heavy, wrong.
Ivan didn’t elaborate at first. Didn’t look at him. Just stared into the fire as if lost in a memory too heavy to speak of.
And then, finally, he started to explain.
“It was ages ago. You were still a boy. Training. I was already fighting at his side. Already… watching him tear himself apart for us.”
Fedyor waited, breath caught painfully in his chest.
“There was a mission. Some backwater skirmish no one even remembers now. But they got him. Poisoned blade.” Ivan’s jaw clenched. “I thought he was going to die that night.”
Fedyor made a sound—small, pained.
“I stayed,” Ivan continued. “Everyone else was already gone. It was dangerous there; we were too exposed. The Healers had given up, had moved all who could be moved. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave him.” His voice dropped. “He was burning alive from the inside. Raving. Bargaining. Begging. Pleading.”
“For what?” Fedyor’s voice was barely more than a breath. “For his life?”
Ivan’s gaze finally met his. Dark. Haunted. “No,” he whispered. “For ours.”
“To who?” Fedyor could only croak.
Ivan sighed. “To King Anastas.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him.
Nonetheless, the words landed like a blow.
Fedyor blinked, taken aback. “King Anastas? The one—”
“—who turned against the Black Heretic,” Ivan finished for him. “Yes. Him.”
The world went silent.
Fedyor’s fingers curled against his trousers. Saints. It was so hard to wrap his mind around it.That it had been Kirigan. Kirigan, who had stood before a king who had long since turned to dust, four hundred years ago. Had begged, had fought, had lost.
And then, in his desperation, had torn the world apart.
“First, I tried to convince myself he was delirious.” Ivan swallowed hard, his throat working around words that seemed to taste of ash. “That he was lost in fever dreams. But… it wasn’t that. I could feel it. The devastation. The despair. The fear. It was personal.” Ivan’s fingers twitched at his sleeve, his usual stoicism shattered. “He wasn’t dreaming. He was remembering.”
Fedyor’s heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“He fought for them,” Ivan whispered. “His Grisha. Pleaded for their lives. Offered his own instead. Told them to do whatever they wanted with him, just—just spare his people.”
His throat worked around the lump in it. “Then, he started screaming for a woman. Luda was her name.”
Ivan swallowed hard. “I heard it all. Every damned word. He was back there. Reliving it. Begging Anastas’ men not to do it. Not to take her.” Ivan’s jaw clenched and he looked away again. “And then he wept, Fedyor. Our General. He wept like a man already dead.”
He broke off, staring down at his hands. "I don’t know what happened after that," he finally admitted, tiredly. "He was dying, fevered—half out of his mind. But the way he sobbed, the way he writhed... he lost her. That much is certain."
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "And after that? The stories say he ran. That the king’s men hunted him like a dog. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s just legend. But I know one thing." Ivan’s jaw tightened. "Whatever happened that night, however it truly ended—he was alone. And when there was nothing left, when he had nothing—he turned to Merzost."
Fedyor closed his eyes, the image too clear, too vivid.
Ivan’s voice was low, shaking. “He didn’t mean to make the Fold, Fedyor. That was never his intention—he whispered so in his delirium, over and over.” He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, as if trying to ease the tension there. “He only wanted to save us. To protect what little we had left. But Merzost… it twists everything.”
Fedyor’s voice cracked. “And so, he damned himself.”
Ivan nodded. “Yes.”
Silence.
“Anastas did this,” Fedyor whispered bitterly. “He forced him into it. And the world… the world blames him.”
“They always will.” Ivan’s voice was quiet but edged with resignation, maybe, or something darker. “Because they need a monster. And he let them make him one.”
Fedyor’s hands shook. “And he’s been carrying that guilt—alone—all this time.”
Ivan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I saw it that night. It seemed like he... he wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of surviving. Of waking up again. Of having to carry it all one more day.”
He exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “I’ve seen men broken before. But not like that. Not like him.”
Fedyor’s world reeled. “Why… why didn’t you ever tell me?”
For a moment, Ivan didn’t speak—just stared past Fedyor, past the room, as if looking at something long buried. “Because some truths are not meant to be shared,” he finally answered, low and rough. “Only carried.”
Fedyor’s breath hitched, tears pricking at his eyes. “But no one else heard it? Just you?”
Ivan shook his head immediately. “Only me. Thank the Saints.” His voice was grim. “If others had known, it would have spread like wildfire. If people realized that our General is the Heretic… that he’s carried this—this curse for centuries… what do you think would have happened?” His jaw tightened. “The world already hates him. Already fears him. Imagine if they knew the truth. They would hate him even more.” He exhaled sharply. “Or worse…”
Fedyor swallowed hard, but no words came. What could he say?
For a moment, there was only the firelight, flickering over Ivan’s face, carving deep shadows into the sharp planes of his features.
And then, slowly, Ivan exhaled, as if shedding the weight of something unseen.
“I chose to stay,” he continued, softer now. “That night, I swore I would. I saw him at his weakest. At his truest. And I understood: he carries all of us on his back, Fedyor. Every Grisha. Every death. Every loss. All of it. And he keeps going. For us.”
The words soothed something in Fedyor.
He had feared telling Ivan. Had braced himself for outrage, for fury—not just at Kirigan, but at him. For choosing to protect a man the world called a monster. For making a choice Ivan was not willing to make. He had been prepared for a fight. For accusations, for a rift between them that he might never be able to mend.
But instead—
instead, in a few simple sentences, Ivan had put into words what had been unravelling in Fedyor’s mind for hours; the truth he had already chosen to accept but wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
“I gave him the drawing,” he whispered. “I put it in his hands. I thought… I thought he might deny it. Fight it. But he just… broke.”
Ivan didn’t answer. Just exhaled, long and slow, and dragged a hand down his face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. The walls pressed in.
“He told me,” Fedyor choked, “to get it over with. As if… as if he was waiting for me to scream. To call him a monster. Or worse.”
“And you didn’t?” Ivan asked quietly.
“No.” Fedyor blinked rapidly. “I couldn’t.”
Ivan’s face softened then, the faintest curve of something like pride flickering there. “Good.”
“I want to help him. More, more than we already do.” Fedyor turned to Ivan, fiercely. “I don’t know how, but Saints, I want to.”
“We help him,” Ivan murmured, reaching out, pulling Fedyor into his arms with surprising gentleness. “We stay. We fight. We survive. Because that’s what he’s done for us, all this time.”
The fire burned low, the shadows creeping closer.
Ivan’s grip didn’t loosen. His voice was only a whisper now. "No one else can know."
Fedyor nodded. "Never."
Silence settled between them, heavy but certain.
There was nothing left to say. No need.
She had thought she had lost him.
The silence after the battle had been too long, the Little Palace too empty, the fear too consuming.
But suddenly he was there—alive, standing.
Relief hit her like a blow. Desperation followed, hot and unrelenting. Before she could think, before she could breathe—she was moving.
Her hands found him, trembling against the ruined black of his Kefta. Solid. Warm. Real.
And then she kissed him.
Notes:
Ok, how do I put this?
Let's just say:
I've nerver done ANYTHING like this before.
And I most likely will NEVER DO anyting like this AGAIN.
Or, in short: SORRY if it's shit!!!
The war room was suffocating.
Alina paced the length of the chamber, her fingers twisting together, her stomach in knots so tight she felt sick. Afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the maps spread over the wide table. At some point, she had pressed her palms against the cool surface, bracing herself, trying to breathe through the rising terror clawing up her throat.
There was no reason for her to be here—nobody else was, especially not Kirigan. But the Little Palace was too vast right now, too hollow, and she couldn’t bear sitting alone in her chambers.
The war room, at least, kind of held his presence, even in his absence. It was in the lingering touch of his hand on the map edges, in the faint trace of ink where his fingers had once pressed. His essence felt like a tangible force here, like remnants of his power and quiet control, of something unwavering.
This morning, messengers had arrived at the Little Palace with grim faces, bloodstained Keftas, and desperate calls for Healers, bringing reports from an attack. A Grisha unit, led by the Black General himself, had been ambushed on their way back to Os Alta. Details were scarce. A slaughter. Casualties unknown. Survivors still making their way back.
Some had arrived by now—injured, bloody, half-conscious— but not him. Not the only one she needed to see.
Aleksander. Alina squeezed her eyes shut. The thought of his name alone made her chest ache.
Anxiously, her fingers skimmed along the edge of parchments, brushing against the maps he so often studied, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Always so composed, always with that unshakable presence that made her feel— safe.
And maybe that was the cruellest part—how easily she had come to rely on that sense of safety. How, in just a few days, she had let him become her anchor in a world that was too overwhelming in every regard.
At first, it had been the palace itself—its endless halls, only adding to the weight of responsibility, the expectations pressing in from every side. But soon enough, it had been him, too—Aleksander, in all his quiet intensity, in the way he pulled her in without even trying.
She couldn’t remember when exactly fascination had turned into something more—when she had stopped seeing him as just her General and started seeing… something else entirely.
Sadly, she didn’t know what she was to him. If anything at all.
Aleksander was always so calm, so impossible to read—his gaze lingering on her just long enough to steal her breath, only to look away as if nothing had passed between them. She couldn’t tell if it was duty, curiosity, something more… or nothing at all.
She had spent these last weeks wondering where she truly stood with him—and now she might never know.
With him gone—possibly never coming back—it felt like the ground beneath her was crumbling.
But... they would have told her if he had died. Wouldn’t they? She started pacing again.
She would know. Wouldn’t she? There was a bond between them, that was undeniable. And yet—
The panic inside her was agonizing by now.
What if the next stretcher brought in held him? What if he was beyond help? What if he was somewhere out there, alone, dying, and nobody —
In that moment, as if summoned by her worst nightmares and greatest prayers, he appeared in the doorway. Pale and exhausted, his normally commanding presence reduced to something quiet and fragile.
His breath was shallow, as if he hadn’t caught it in hours. The black of his Kefta was dull with dust, the fabric torn in places. A faint, dried mark darkened the corner of his jaw—not his own blood, she realized distantly, but someone else’s. His hair, usually immaculate, was wild, stray strands clinging damp to his forehead. And he looked so tired.
But he was on his feet.
He was alive.
Alina barely registered the sound she made—something between a painful sob and a sharp gasp. She didn’t think—couldn’t think—just closed the distance between them in a few frantic steps.
Pressing her shaking hands against his chest, she felt the solid warmth beneath the ruined Kefta, before the floodgates broke. Tears spilled over, hot and relentless.
He stiffened, startled, confused. His dark eyes widened, flickering between her face and her hands on his chest. And then, with a gentleness that sent a tremor through her, his fingers came up to frame her face.
"Alina," he murmured, voice low and hoarse. "I’m here. I’m all right."
And that was the breaking point. Something inside her gave way.
The fear, the panic, the unbearable relief—it crashed into her all at once, an unstoppable tide, and before she could think, before she could hesitate, she moved.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
For a moment, nothing existed except the feel of his lips against hers; then reality slammed back into her. He didn’t move. His lips were warm but still, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, as if the very concept of her doing this was beyond comprehension.
Oh, Saints, what had come over her?
Alina pulled back instantly, mortified. Heat flooded her face, her pulse roaring in her ears.
But then—
Then she saw the look on his face.
Aleksander stared at her like he had just glimpsed the sun for the first time in his life. Disbelieving, stunned—hopeful.
It struck her like a lightning bolt, the sheer force of it. The way his lips were parted slightly, the way his fingers trembled against her skin, the way his pupils were dilated as if he ached for more.
And in that moment, she knew.
He felt it, too.
Alina’s breath hitched. The fear, the doubt—it melted away instantly, replaced by something unstoppable.
She surged forward, capturing his lips with hers once more.
This time, he responded.
A low, almost shattered sound rumbled in his throat—half sigh, half something deeper—as he met her halfway. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her face up, angling the kiss to something slower, more intense.
He reacted to her like— like he had been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. Passion laced with tenderness, urgency and care all tangled together.
But then—he pulled back.
Not fully, not completely—his lips hovered just above hers, his breath warm against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers. His fingers curled ever so slightly where they cupped her face.
He was giving her a choice—a moment to step back, to change her mind.
Alina didn’t.
And then he kissed her.
It was as if something inside him had finally broken free.
There was no hesitation now, no restraint. He kissed her the way he commanded battlefields—with absolute control and devastating precision. It should have been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. It was steady. Certain. He pulled her closer, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other splayed across her waist, fingers pressing just enough to make her shudder in anticipation.
But even as he took, he gave—allowed her to set the pace, never pushed too far, never demanded more than she was ready to offer.
It was intoxicating.
Alina melted into him as his lips claimed hers with a kind of intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine. He kissed like a man starved, but still, somehow, he made sure she could breathe, made sure she was right there with him, every motion both possessive and unbearably tender.
His hands traced over her, fingertips skimming down her arms—featherlight, yet burning like fire.
Time unravelled, lost in the heat between them, in the way Kirigan held her—solid, warm, unrelenting. Every press of his lips was a question, a promise, a slow-burning confession sending a shivering pulse of want straight to her core.
His long, graceful fingers mapped the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat. It felt like he was memorizing her. Like he never wanted to forget the shape of her against him.
She had never been kissed like this.
And Saints above, she didn’t want it to stop.
She clung to him, fingers tangled in the thick black fabric of his Kefta, barely aware that her hands had already wandered beneath. She let herself sink into him, into the way his hands tightened at her sides, the way his breath stuttered when she pressed closer.
There was nothing careful about this anymore. There was only want. Fierce, undeniable, reckless.
Somehow, in the push and pull between them, they shifted, until—suddenly—her back met the war table.
Before she could process it, Aleksander reacted. His grip on her waist tightened, lifting her effortlessly—almost. A miscalculation, a moment of imbalance, her hip bumping the edge, drawing a soft, startled squeak from her. His breath shuddered against her lips, and he panted a hoarse 'Sorry,' into the kiss as he placed her on the polished surface.
But she barely registered that mishap, her mind too consumed with everything else. Gasping at the shift in height, her legs instinctively parted to make space for him between them.
Kirigan followed without hesitation, moulding himself against her as if he had always belonged there. He settled between her thighs, hands sliding along her hips, his own fitting perfectly against hers.
Alina’s heart thundered, an intense heat unfurling inside her. The friction coiled low in her belly, dizzying, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She needed more; needed him even closer.
She arched against him, pressing, grinding, craving to feel the full, undeniable weight of him.
She wasn’t sure who moved first—whether it was his arms tightening around her, pulling her flush against his obvious erection, or if it was her, sliding forward toward the table’s edge, knees widening even more. But suddenly, he was close enough. Close enough for her to act on the frantic, aching need inside her.
Her legs wrapped around his slender waist, locking him in place. Hooking her ankles together behind him, she dragged him in—hard, relentless.
At that, Kirigan groaned into her mouth sharply, his body jerking violently against hers.
She nearly came then and there. His visceral reaction sent a jolt of heat through her—heady, intoxicating.
A shaky moan broke from her lips. He wanted this at least as badly as she did. The realization only made her grip him even tighter, made her press against him more desperately— and he groaned again; a guttural, strangled sound that broke off into a breathless gasp as he nearly collapsed against her.
And then, slowly, through the haze, she realized.
That wasn’t pleasure.
That was pain.
Alina froze.
Aleksander didn’t.
His breath was ragged as he tried to pull her back into the kiss, as if he could simply pretend whatever had caused this wasn’t there.
But she knew better. Something was wrong.
She pulled away just enough to look at him properly.
His eyes fluttered open, dark and dazed from kissing her. His pupils were blown wide, his lips red and swollen—but his skin was ashen, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and his breaths were shallow and uneven; too uneven to be explained by their activities.
"Aleksander?" Her voice came out in a whisper, but he was too close not to hear it. "Are you all right?"
The second the words left her mouth, he stilled. It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed against her waist, the way his jaw tightened.
But it was the answer she’d been dreading.
Her stomach dropped, her heart slamming against her ribs for completely different reasons now. „Oh, no!" she breathed.
"It’s nothing," he murmured, already shaking his head, trying to lean in again, trying to kiss her and make her forget.
She didn’t even think. She simply pressed her hands against his sides, exactly where her legs had been wrapped around him.
And he flinched. Hard. His breath hitched, sharp and strangled, his whole body tensing against hers.
Alina yanked her hands away as if burned. Her mind reeled. “Saints!” The word was edged with something jagged, something close to panic.
With her hands on his shoulders, she guided him a step back, very carefully this time. Kirigan barely resisted, allowing her to do so. He swayed, just slightly, and that was the final confirmation she needed.
He was hurt. He was hurt, and he hadn’t said a word.
She couldn’t believe it.
“It’s nothing?” Her voice rose in disbelief. “You’re barely standing!”
His head snapped up at the sharpness in her tone. A flicker of surprise crossed his face—only just noticeable, but she caught it.
"It’s—just—" His breath stuttered, and he exhaled deliberately, carefully, as if willing himself to push through it. "A few broken ribs."
“Sit down,” she ordered, already grabbing his arm, already guiding him toward the sofa even as he protested.
“Alina, it’s fine—”
“SIT. Or I’ll make you sit!”
Something in her tone must have cut through his stubbornness, because he let her push him down onto the cushions, his jaw clenched, muscles trembling beneath her touch.
And that was when she realized—He wasn’t just in pain.
He had been struggling. To keep standing. To breathe.
Alina’s mind instantly filled with horrible possibilities. She immediately knelt before him, gripping his cold hands.
“You need a Healer!” Her voice shook.
Aleksander closed his eyes for a long moment. Then, quietly, he murmured, “They have enough on their hands right now.”
She could only stare, speechless. The pure, stupid self-sacrificing nonsense of that statement made her want to shake him. “Aleksander.” It came through clenched teeth, “you might have punctured a lung—”
“I haven’t,” he interrupted her wearily.
“How would you know that?”
At that, he exhaled through his nose, something wry and deeply exhausted in his expression.
“Because, my love,” he mumbled, voice quieter now, wheezier, “in my long, long life I have endured nearly every injury possible. I know how that feels. This is not it; I can breathe just fine.”
“Are you kidding??? You don’t seem to get enough air right now, sitting there!” Alina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t care how much you’ve been through in your long, stubborn, dramatic life. I refuse to let you suffer through this!”
His lips quirked a fraction. “Dramatic?” He seemed almost amused at her exasperation.
“Oh, shut up!”
It may have come out much harder than she intended, because at that, Aleksander deflated visibly. His body seemed to sink even deeper into the sofa.
“It’s not necessary, Alina,” he repeated, so very quiet now. “I just—don’t want to be locked in the infirmary for observation while there are others who need it more.”
For observation? A cold feeling twisted in Alina's gut. What was he talking about?
“Why...,” she swallowed, not sure she wanted to hear the answer, “why would you need to stay in the infirmary for broken ribs?”
Silence.
“Because,” he muttered finally, barely audible, "there might be something... bleeding, too."
The air around her seemed to still, the world tilting slightly off its axis. Alina’s pulse roared in her ears. “You have internal bleeding?” she screeched.
Aleksander winced. “Possible internal bleeding,” he corrected, as if that made a damn bit of difference.
She had to reach for the armrest of the sofa to keep herself upright, breath shallow, mind racing. He had internal injuries. And he couldn’t even be bothered to tell her.
“You—you—” Her voice shook, she could barely speak “You let me—” She gestured wildly toward the table, where she had wrapped her legs around him, pulled him against her—
“Please, Aleksander, what if I made it worse?!” She practically started crying again in pure despair.
Something exhausted and forlorn passed over his expression at her panic, and he sagged slightly, his head tipping back against the sofa.
“You made nothing worse” he murmured, “Please believe me. I know what dying feels like. And right now, I’m not.”
The words landed like a blade between her ribs, cold and slicing.
It might have been meant as reassurance, but it did nothing to calm her. On the contrary—it only made her stomach twist harder. It took everything in her not to follow that thought to its terrifying conclusion. How many times? How close had he come?
She sucked in a quivering breath, her pulse slamming against her throat.
He must have seen something in her face, because his gaze turned contrite. “Alina… I promise you—I’m fine.”
She wanted to believe him. Really, she wanted to.
But looking at him now—at the way he lay before her, broken, raw and utterly miserable—it was nearly impossible.
His voice was so low. So frayed.
And—honestly—just the tiniest bit whiny.
It was such a ridiculous contrast—Ravka’s Black General, sulking on the couch like a scolded child—that Alina almost laughed through her tears.
Almost.
If she hadn’t been so terrified.
Aleksander obviously recognized it. Because as he observed her, the fight drained out of him at last.
And then he did something that shattered her completely: he smiled.
A small, defeated, almost helpless smile. “Please don’t cry,” he begged tiredly. “I’m going to be fine, I’m healing already. I just want to stay here. With you.”
And something about the way he said it—soft, honest, unguarded—made her believe him.
She felt it in her bones, in the quiet certainty of his words. He wasn’t lying. He didn’t have the strength to.
Heavens, he looked so unbearably sad like this.
And just like that—Alina was done for.
Her fingers were moving before she could stop them. She reached out, brushing an unsteady hand through his dark hair, smoothing it back, as if that could do anything to ease the exhaustion carved into his face.
He wasn’t dying.
But he was still hurt. Badly. And she hated seeing him like this.
But then—She had an idea. The best idea.
She let out a deep breath, reaching out to take his hands in hers once more.
“Aleksander,” she murmured, “look at me.”
He did. Dark, weary eyes locked with hers.
For a moment, she just held his gaze, tracing her thumbs over his cold fingers. Then, she leaned in, her lips just barely brushing his ear.
“For what I plan to do to you,” she murmured, voice dangerously low, “you need to be in perfect health.”
Aleksander froze.
Then, slowly, he pushed her back just enough to search her face.
„...plan to do…?” He echoed, unsteady, eyes wide with something between disbelief and hope.
Alina grinned.
„You heard me. “
At that, Aleksander perked up. His lips parted in a small smile, his expression brightening.
For the first time since he arrived, a little colour returned to his face.
“Saints,” he breathed.
She smirked. „So. Are you going to let me call a Healer, or are you going to risk never finding out exactly what I mean? “
A long pause.
Then—
„…Fine. “
That settled it. She was getting him medical attention.
“Alright!” She had already jumped to her feet. “Stay there—and do not move—I’m getting help.”
Aleksander groaned slightly, but it was half-hearted, and Alina didn’t give him the chance to argue. She was already sprinting.
She barely registered her own frantic breathing as she ran. The walls of the Little Palace blurred past her, her pulse hammering louder than the sound of her own footfalls.
Internal bleeding—how could he be so stubborn, so reckless, so utterly, infuriatingly—
Her thoughts slammed to a stop when she rounded the corner to the infirmary doors and ran straight into Ivan.
He caught her before she could stumble, his grip firm, unyielding.
His face remained unreadable, dark eyes betraying nothing—but his fingers tightened ever so slightly around her arms, steadying her.
He was a soldier. A shield. A man who had spent years keeping Kirigan alive.
For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked over her—her hair, her lips—before locking back onto her eyes. Alina swallowed; he knew.
But he didn’t waste time with unnecessary inquiries.
"Where is he?"
“His rooms!”
Ivan turned on his heel and barked a single name, sharp as a command. “LEV!”
Further down the medical wing, a figure immediately broke away from the cluster of wounded; a tall man, broad-shouldered but lean, his greying dark hair pulled back into a rough tie. His face was lined, not with age alone but with the weight of years spent patching men back together. Sharp, questioning eyes locked on Ivan as he closed the distance without hesitation.
"It’s him."
Ivan didn’t need to say more. With a quiet “Damn,” Lev fell into step beside them, Kefta fluttering as they sprinted through the halls.
The door was ajar when they arrived, just as she had left it.
Alina didn’t bother knocking. She shoved it open and—
Her lungs seized. The world tilted beneath her feet.
Aleksander was still there. But he lay utterly motionless. He had slumped to the side, head lolling, his features slack. His long lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, unmoving against his white, bloodless skin.
And for one terrifying, gut-wrenching moment, she was certain he wasn’t breathing.
A strangled noise tore from her throat. Her vision tunnelled, the room warping around the singular, awful sight of him.
No.
She started toward him, hands reaching out, but Ivan was faster. His arm shot across her path, stopping her short.
“Relax, Starkov.” His voice was steady. “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”
Alina gasped, but it felt like her lungs had forgotten how to work. Her knees nearly buckled, her pulse hammering so hard it made her ears ring. Saints, she had thought—
She swallowed hard, shoving the thought away before it could fully form.
Lev was already kneeling beside the sofa, hands above the General’s chest, moving in intense gestures; searching, finding.
For the longest, agonizing moment, the man was silent; then he exhaled sharply.
“Spleen,” he murmured. “Ruptured. But the bleeding has mostly stopped by now, thanks to his superior healing abilities.”
Alina felt lightheaded.
He had been right. He wasn’t dying.
But he wasn’t okay either.
Ivan muttered a curse under his breath. “Anything more?”
“Several fractured ribs.”
The older Grisha shifted, glancing at them. “I need to put him into a deeper sleep. Otherwise, the healing will hurt too much.”
Alina nodded numbly but Lev had already turned away again and started gesturing once more.
Kirigan’s breathing stuttered. His body jerked once, then he went completely limp again.
The grey-haired man then turned to Ivan, giving him a grim nod. “Help me remove his clothing. I need to see what I’m dealing with.”
She watched with gritted teeth as Aleksander was shifted by the two men—carefully, gently. The shredded Kefta was eased off his limp frame, the dark fabric discarded carelessly on the floor. His tunic followed, exposing the extensive damage to his torso.
Alina gasped. His side was a nightmare of bruises and deep contusions that marred the skin like a grotesque tapestry. The bottommost ribs curved sharply inward, the skin there swollen, dark with pooled blood, the bruising spreading in deep, angry streaks along his flank.
For a moment, she couldn’t even breathe. Her stomach churned.
Lev wasted no time. A new surge of power flooded through Kirigan’s unresponsive body; bruises began to fade, as shattered ribs knitted back together, as the worst of the internal damage sealed itself shut.
Still, Aleksander didn’t stir.
Nonetheless, the tension in her chest slowly loosened.
Ivan had taken position next to her again, his expression carved from stone.
But Alina saw it.
The muscle in his jaw, tight with barely restrained tension. The way his gaze never once left Kirigan’s face. The way his hands curled into fists at his sides, then relaxed, then curled again—controlled, measured, but not calm.
He said nothing. Didn’t move. But his silence felt charged, coiled too tightly. And then, barely above a whisper, he growled something low under his breath.
Alina’s head snapped up.
Was that old Ravkan? It sounded like a… barely contained curse!?
“Excuse me?”
“Foolish Generals,” he muttered.
Now that she understood. But before she could react, Ivan continued.
“This one will never admit how much pain he’s in.” He barely spared her a glance. “I told him to get checked the moment we returned. He ignored me.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Alina’s jaw clenched. “He will be hearing about it.”
Ivan only snorted amusedly.
Minutes passed. Then, finally—finally—Lev sat back on his heels with a weary exhale. “That’s the worst of it.” He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “He’ll be weak for a few hours. Maybe a bit longer. The internal damage is healed. His ribs will still ache though, but they’re no longer broken.”
Alina’s hands, still shaking, curled around the edge of her sleeves, gripping the fabric as if it could ground her. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words barely made it past the tightness in her throat.
The Healer only nodded. He was already moving, rolling Kirigan carefully onto his back.
Ivan crouched beside him, movements uncharacteristically gentle as he reached for the General’s boots. One by one, he slipped them off with practiced care.
The trousers followed, replaced with the soft linen of fresh sleepwear—clothing meant for rest, for warmth, for comfort.
Aleksander didn’t move under their hands, his body unnervingly slack, the weight of unconsciousness having stolen even the smallest reflex.
Alina swallowed hard. He was so still. Too still.
Despite the careful way they dressed him, despite the absence of any true injury now, Alina couldn’t shake the hollow ache in her chest.
He looked—
Wrong.
Aleksander normally was a force. A man who commanded space, who seemed to fill a room simply by existing.
But now, he was limp in their grasp, yielding without a sound, his slender frame rocking helplessly with each of their movements.
And that was nearly unbearable.
When Kirigan was dressed, Lev’s gaze swept over him again with the careful attention of a man used to patching his commander back together.
Then, he glanced at Ivan. “Infirmary?”
Ivan shook his head once. “Bedroom,” he rumbled.
Lev gave a small nod, then they lifted him with practiced ease, moving with the kind of steady assurance that only came from experience.
Alina hurried ahead, pulling back the blankets.
They eased him onto the bed, his dark hair spilling across the pillows. He didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch as they adjusted his position, as Lev tucked thick covers around him.
When he was finally settled into layers of warmth, his body completely at rest, the relief in the air was palpable.
Alina exhaled slowly.
Ivan’s shoulders dropped slightly, tension easing from his posture.
Lev closed his eyes for a moment. A few careful gestures followed—deliberate, precise—as if he was double-checking for any sign of renewed bleeding stirred by their handling.
Only when satisfied, did he give Ivan a pointed look. “If he pulls something like this again—”
“Don’t worry. Not anytime soon,” Ivan assured him flatly. He jerked his chin in Alina’s direction. “She won’t let him.”
Alina blinked.
The certainty in his voice caught her off guard. Ivan wasn’t speaking to her—he was stating a fact. In his mind, this was already decided. She would keep watch over Kirigan now, too.
Lev gave her an approving, almost amused look before turning back to Ivan. “Regardless, he needs to be monitored closely through the night.”
Alina stilled. Because that was exactly what Kirigan himself had said earlier. He had been right.
Ivan, without hesitation, turned to her. “You’ll call me if anything changes.” It wasn’t a question.
Alina opened her mouth, but no words came out. The realization hit her swiftly: it wasn’t Ivan who would be keeping watch tonight.
It was her.
She had been tasked with this, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Ivan grunted at her silence, already heading for the door. “Check his pulse every ten minutes. If it speeds up, he bleeds again.” He hesitated only once, glancing back. “You’ve got that,” he assured her simply.
And then he was gone, Lev close behind.
Alina blinked after them, frozen for a heartbeat—staring at the empty doorway as if trying to make sense of what he had just left her with.
It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t a demand. It was trust. Trust that she would take care of their General. Trust that she could.
And coming from Ivan, Kirigan’s fiercest protector, it meant the world.
The room was quiet now.
Alina took a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at Aleksander’s handsome face.
His hair was a mess against the pillows, his cheeks still drained of colour. And yet… despite his exhaustion, there was a peacefulness to his expression that settled something deep inside her.
Carefully, she bent down, brushing her lips softly against his forehead. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled back, her fingers tracing the edge of his cheek.
His skin was still marked with faint traces of dirt, the remnants of blood on the corner of his jaw, the ghost of dried sweat at his hairline.
Before she even realized what she was doing, she reached for the basin of water by the bedside, dampening a cloth.
With quiet, deliberate care, she brushed it over his forehead, along his cheekbones, wiping away the remnants of battle. His breath remained steady, undisturbed, his features still unsettlingly slack and unmoving, despite the cool touch.
Satisfied, she finally set the cloth aside, folding it neatly over the edge of the basin.
For a moment, she just sat there, staring at him — this impossible, stubborn man who had scared her half to death.
So much had changed in such a short time.
Hours ago, she hadn’t known if he was still alive.
And now, here she was, on his bed, her body still tingling from the memory of his hands, his lips, the way he had yielded to her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
She had kissed him because it had been unbearable not to. And he had kissed her back. Wild with need, with reverence, with something so raw it had stolen the breath from her lungs.
Alina swallowed. There was no undoing this. No pretending they were only what they had been before. There were no more titles between them, no more careful lines.
That shift — Saints, it was seismic.
At least for her.
She let out a slow breath, her fingers brushing against his shoulder gently, carefully. Would he regret it when he woke?
Would he draw back, slip his mask of quiet command back into place?
The thought sent a strange ache through her chest.
But then — before she could spiral further — something changed; subtle, but unmistakable.
His breathing had shifted — still slow, still shallow, but no longer unnaturally even; his lashes started fluttering slightly.
This wasn’t the motionless heaviness of Healer-induced unconsciousness anymore.
Alina’s hand stilled as she watched him carefully. And then, suddenly, Aleksander moved.
His breathing hitched, and he let out the faintest, almost desperate exhale—he was suddenly restless, caught in the fragile space between sleep and unease.
His brow furrowed, his lips parted — and then, barely audible, rough and wrecked, he whispered her name.
"Alina."
It was nothing more than a breath, but it shattered her. There was no command in it, no control — only need.
For a second, she couldn’t move. She could only stare at him, her heart breaking wide open. His face was still so drawn, his features twisted in something close to misery — and even in unconsciousness, he looked like he was in pain.
Her throat tightened.
Lev had warned them — the ribs would still ache. And now she saw it.
Alina didn’t hesitate. She moved — quick, instinctive — slipping under the covers beside him, wrapping her arms around him without a second thought.
And the moment she did, the change was immediate.
Aleksander exhaled, a deep, shuddering sigh that sent warmth ghosting over her collarbone. His muscles loosened, the lingering traces of unease melting from his frame as soon as she held him.
Alina felt it happen— the exact moment his breathing evened out, the way his body softened against hers, no longer searching, no longer fighting the pull of rest.
Relieved, Alina adjusted her hold. She let her gaze trace over him fondly, and a quiet sigh escaping her. "Saints, Aleksander…" It came out shaky, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "you would’ve gotten me into your bed without that much drama, you know."
And yet, beneath that fragile attempt at humour, the weight remained — the steady undercurrent of responsibility.
She had to watch over him.
And she would.
Alina shifted carefully, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. One hand found his chest, palm flattening over the steady thrum of his heart, feeling the warmth of him through the soft fabric of his sleepwear.
Thankfully, his pulse was steady. No alarming spikes. No sign of new bleeding. Just… exhaustion. And the ghost of pain lingering at the edges of his rest.
She stayed still for a moment, feeling the weight of it all settle heavy in her chest — then, almost without thinking, she leaned in, pressing closer until she could feel every breath he took.
His presence surrounded her — calm, unshakable — and for the first time since this nightmare began, she allowed herself to breathe.
Slowly, her fingers brushed against his chest, careful, almost reverent.
"I've got you," she whispered, though he couldn’t hear it.
And she meant it.
She would watch over him, through this night and every night to come, for as long as he would allow it.
When Ivan fails to return from his mission, a cold dread tightens its grip on the Little Palace. As the days stretch on, his absence becomes a suffocating weight, pressing down especially on the one man who cannot afford to break.
Notes:
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
**Genya's POV**
Ivan’s absence was a glaring void that no one in the Little Palace could ignore.
A few days had passed since he failed to return from a crucial mission, and the impact was palpable. Ivan wasn’t just any Grisha; he was Kirigan’s second-in-command, a figure of immense importance and an invaluable asset. His disappearance wasn’t just a logistical nightmare—it was a blow to their morale.
Rumours swirled like autumn leaves in the corridors, whispering of Ivan being held captive, of him being used for vital intelligence. Everyone hoped he was still alive, believing that whoever had taken him needed him for information.
But beyond the strategic importance, there was an unspoken truth, that many maybe didn’t even realize, but Genya all the more: Ivan was what passed for Kirigan’s closest friend. Their bond was unique, marked by a rare sense of trust and camaraderie.
And because of that, Genya watched Kirigan unravel in ways only a few could truly see.
He held the Little Palace together with the effortless skill of a master tactician, balancing meetings with the Tsar and strategy briefings with senior officers, monitoring troop movements across Ravka, overseeing military logistics, and somehow—through all of it—organizing Ivan’s search. Most saw nothing more than the composed General of the Second Army, his jaw set in that fierce, determined line, his voice steady and calm. But Genya, with her eyes trained to notice the smallest details, discerned what lay beneath that polished surface.
It started as little things. Shadows darkening beneath his eyes, a paleness that even the dim candlelight of the palace couldn’t hide. She observed his hands trembling slightly when he thought no one was looking, noticed, how his cloak hung looser over his shoulders, as if he’d shed weight he couldn’t afford to lose. Every day, he was there to give the Grisha their orders, his presence commanding as ever, his voice unwavering—but each night, Genya heard his steps echoing in the halls long after everyone else had retired.
But she wasn’t alone in sensing the toll it was taking on him.
Alina seemed more and more haunted with passing time; she, too, perceived it all just as clearly. She noticed every strained step, every sleepless night; how tirelessly Kirigan worked behind closed doors. The difference was only that Alina wasn’t as close to the palace staff, didn’t know the guards as well as Genya, hadn’t caught as many of the gossips, especially those from the Grand Palace and the First Army. She didn’t know about the risks he took.
Most troubling were the nights when he left the Little Palace entirely to hunt down information himself—venturing into dark corners and dangerous places where few sane men would dare tread, as if no threat or danger could possibly outweigh his purpose. Those he needed to reach, to intimidate, to bribe, would certainly not come willingly to him, and so he went out to find them instead.
Sometimes, he returned just before dawn, his hair dishevelled, the gleam of his eyes sharper, fiercer, as though he had struck another bargain, made another promise, wielded another menace—all for Ivan. Most people remained oblivious to these things, never catching the subtle strain in his voice, never glimpsing the exhaustion he worked so hard to conceal. Genya did. She overheard stories whispered in the palace corridors, bits of intelligence passed between messengers. She knew what others did not, how he was leveraging allies both inside and outside the palace walls, paying the price in ways only a few understood.
Each time Genya caught sight of him, a pang of admiration—and dread—tugged at her heart. How much longer could he keep this up?
It wasn’t simply his dedication, his intelligence, or the way he manoeuvred the Tsar’s obstacles with a precision that was as ruthless as it was necessary. It was his willingness to do anything for Ivan, to pull every string, to use every connection. Kirigan hadn’t only ordered a search for his second in command; he’d orchestrated it to perfection, as if each lead, each strategy, each piece of intelligence came with its own invisible blueprint, a map to Ivan drawn by Kirigan’s mind alone.
One evening, Genya arrived at his office, a tray in her hands. She hesitated, balancing a warm tea and a bowl of soup. Through the door’s narrow crack, she saw him hunched over his desk, barely moving, as if the weight of his thoughts kept him trapped there. Dark, weary eyes scanned endless reports, and each time he found a detail, he would seize it with ruthless intensity, his quill a blur across the parchment. She knocked softly, entering without waiting for an answer.
“I brought you something to eat.” She kept her tone gentle but purposeful.
He glanced up, the look of surprise so brief she might have imagined it. “I’ll get to it later,” he murmured then, barely glancing at the tray, already turning to his papers again.
But she set it down firmly on his desk, close enough to catch his attention each time he reached for a new report. “Please, General,” she urged softly, her tone carrying a hint of insistence he couldn’t ignore. “Just a few bites.”
Reluctantly, he picked up the spoon, if only to stop her from lingering. She pretended not to notice his small compliance, though it encouraged her. From then on, she found herself bringing him something each night—a hearty meal, a mug of tea. Sometimes, he ignored them completely, but every so often, she would find the cup empty, the bowl scraped clean. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and she clung to these small victories.
She occasionally thought of Fedyor, who received Kirigan’s reports and updates in the field, who clearly recognized the brilliance in the man’s strategies. But he couldn’t guess the lengths Kirigan had gone to reach those insights; couldn’t know of the strings pulled, the threats murmured behind closed doors, the promises and the concessions Kirigan had made—all things he’d never let anyone see.
One night, unable to sleep, she found herself wandering the halls of the Little Palace. It was quiet, except for the distant sound of Kirigan’s voice as he instructed yet another group of messengers. Alina found her there, her eyes filled with the same raw worry that Genya felt. Together, they stood in the shadows, listening, realizing just how much of himself he still was pouring into this.
“He won’t stop,” Alina whispered, her words catching. “He… he won’t rest.”
Genya shook her head. “I know. He’ll drive himself to the edge if that’s what it takes.” She looked at Alina, her own voice thick with a mixture of fear and admiration. “And he won’t let anyone see it. He’ll show them the face of their General, confident and composed, but…” She hesitated, glancing back toward his office door. “If Ivan isn’t found… I don’t know what it will do to him. He’s holding on now, but without answers?” She trailed off, unable to voice the thought fully.
They both fell silent, standing witness to the man who bore his grief and fear in solitude, unwilling to let it crack the image of the invincible General.
Genya understood why—Ravka was teetering on the edge of chaos, and Kirigan knew too well what a single moment of visible weakness could cost. The Tsar would pounce on it, the warlords would exploit it, and even the Grisha, desperate for reassurance, would falter. He couldn’t afford to let them see the toll it took, couldn’t risk that his unshakable resolve might ever be questioned. And yet, in these quiet moments, away from prying eyes, Genya saw the truth. He was burning himself out, clinging to that carefully constructed façade with the last reserves of his strength—all for them.
Genya could do nothing to ease the heavy weight he carried. All she could do was keep bringing those small offerings of food and warmth, forcing him, if only for a moment, to care for himself.
Whatever the outcome of this search—whether Ivan returned or not—Genya knew that only a handful would ever truly understand what Kirigan had done, the lengths he had gone to for his friend. If Ivan came back, he might learn the full measure of the sacrifices made for him. But if not, the burden of that knowledge would remain with those few who had witnessed it. And they would remember it, even if Kirigan himself allowed himself no thanks, no respite.
**Alina’s POV**
Alina sat curled up in the corner of her room, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The faint glow of the single lamp cast long, shifting shadows on the walls, amplifying the eerie stillness of the Little Palace at this hour. She hadn’t meant to stay up so late, but true rest had eluded her ever since Ivan had gone missing. The dread seeped into her dreams whenever she closed her eyes, twisting them into fragmented nightmares. Even now, she felt the lingering chill of unease.
She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could endure. The uncertainty, the mounting tension, and the silent despair that seemed to infect everyone she held dear—it was suffocating. She had barely been here long enough to find her footing, and already, the ground beneath her felt as if it were crumbling.
The shock of Ivan’s disappearance had rippled through the palace like a silent scream, leaving everyone on edge.
Genya, who was usually confined to tend to the Tsar and Tsaritsa, had been spending more and more time in the Little Palace. It was as if her concern had overridden her usual obligations. She seemed to steal moments away from the demands of the Sovereigns - or perhaps she no longer cared about their displeasure.
The way she seemed to have an urgent need to be in the Little Palace spoke volumes about her growing anxiety.
Fedyor’s absence was another hole in the fragile stability Alina had tried to build around herself. He had always been a heartwarming presence, his easy laughter and gentle strength making her feel like things might actually be okay. But now he was out there, braving every danger imaginable to bring his husband home, searching for Ivan with nothing but hope and Kirigan’s relentless determination to guide him.
And then there was Kirigan himself.
He was everywhere and nowhere, a dark blur of command whose presence seemed to anchor those around him even as he disappeared into his work.
But beyond the calm authority he projected, she could sense the strain beneath the surface—the faint edges of weariness that nearly no one else seemed to notice. It was there in the way his presence brushed against hers, steady but taut, like a thread stretched too thin.
As the days dragged on, she couldn’t shake the subtle ache that settled in her chest whenever he was near. Outwardly, he was composed, always in control, but to her, the signs were unmistakable. His posture was just a little more rigid, the hollows beneath his eyes darker. He seemed to move through the palace like a shadow—present, but somehow diminished.
And she felt it. She couldn’t explain how, but it was as though a faint pulse of his exhaustion had settled within her, echoing through their strange, shared connection. Every day, it grew a little stronger, a little heavier, as though he was pouring everything he had into keeping himself upright. And it weighed on her in ways she didn’t quite understand.
She told herself it was just concern for someone carrying so much. But the tightness in her heart whispered otherwise.
And yet, Alina couldn’t help but be drawn to his strength, the quiet determination that seemed to set him apart from anyone she had ever known.
For Kirigan, this was more than duty; it was personal. Ivan was a high-ranking officer, an extremely important Grisha as his Second in Command, yes, but also something closer—a true friend in a world where trust came rarely and betrayal more often. She had observed them together, was sure that behind closed doors, Ivan was perhaps the only one Kirigan trusted with his silence, or his rare moments of honesty.
So Kirigan pushed, harder than anyone else would, and he did it in a way no one else could.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She hesitated, smoothing her hands over her rumpled shirt, then opened. Genya stood there, her face tired but kind, her fiery red hair falling loosely over her shoulders.
“You’re not sleeping.” It wasn’t a question.
“Neither are you,” Alina replied resignedly.
Genya slipped past her into the room and dropped onto the sofa with a weary sigh. “How could I? The whole palace feels like a powder keg. And I don’t know if it’s about to explode or just burn out slowly.”
Alina shut the door and sat beside her. “It’s like everything’s falling apart. Ivan is gone, Fedyor’s out there somewhere… and Kirigan—” She faltered, unable to finish the thought.
“—looks like he won’t make another day without collapsing,” Genya finished, the sharp edge of her honesty cutting through the air despite her gentle tone.
Alina nodded, her throat constricting as tears burned at the edges of her eyes. “He seems completely drained. But he hides it so well, it’s easy to forget how much he’s carrying—until you really look at him.” A helplessness she couldn’t mask bled through.
“He doesn’t sleep.” Genya rubbed her face then, exhausted, a completely uncharacteristic gesture from this normally so graceful woman. “He spends every moment he’s not attending to the Tsar or the war room out there, searching. I’ve heard some of the guards saying they’ve seen him slipping out of the palace, every night.”
Alina’s chest tightened. The day before, Genya had been telling her about how Kirigan had orchestrated an intricate campaign of moves in the past days, exploited every ounce of leverage he held.
But it hadn't occurred to her that he would leave the Little Palace to do so.
It was as if he were waging a one-man war against time itself, orchestrating everything with an intensity that seemed almost staggering; and now, after hearing he was out there on his own, a cold knot of fear formed in her stomach. The thought that he might get injured – alone, unable to get help—wrapped itself around her like a vice.
That night, she couldn’t sleep at all.
Everything had fallen into place after Genya’s explanations. Waking each night, tossing and turning, unable to shake the sense that something was off—those weren’t just fears for Ivan or Fedyor. It was something deeper. Kirigan’s absence, unnoticed until now, was what had made the nights so heavy, so stifling.
Lying awake in her bed, she found herself listening for any sound that might betray his return—the faint creak of the entrance doors, the sound of his boots in the empty halls. Hours passed, the moonlight shifting across her ceiling. And then, just before dawn, she felt it.
It wasn’t something she could name—just a shift in the air, a pull she couldn’t quite resist, as though her very senses attuned themselves to his presence.
She rose and padded to her window, pulling the curtain aside to catch a glimpse of him in the courtyard below. His figure was barely a shadow against the predawn light, his cloak billowing as he moved toward the palace doors. She couldn’t see his face, but his gait was slow, deliberate, as though each step cost him.
When he vanished from view, she returned to her bed, her heart heavy.
The next afternoon Alina found Genya outside Kirigan’s war room, balancing a tray of tea and carefully prepared food. The scent of herbs and spices wafted from the steaming pot, faint but soothing.
“Any news?” Alina asked, glancing at the closed door.
Genya shook her head. “He’s been on it for hours again. I don’t think he even knows how long it’s been. He’s… I’ve never seen him like this.” Genya’s exhaustion was almost palpable.
Alina’s gaze shifted to the tray. The details struck her—tiny sprigs of restorative herbs tucked into the tea, the meticulous arrangement of small dishes designed to tempt someone with no appetite. It was all so meticulous, so revealing of Genya’s own care, that Alina’s heart swelled and sank at the same time.
"How often do you bring him these?” She nodded toward the tray.
“Every day,” Genya replied, a gentle sadness woven into her answer. “I know he won’t eat much of it. But if he takes even a sip of tea or a bite, it’s something.” She paused, glancing toward the faint glow behind Kirigan’s door. “I can’t stand seeing him like this, running himself into the ground.”
Alina felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with something deeper that she didn’t quite want to name. “But doesn’t he have more people who could help him with this? Surely, he doesn’t have to do it all himself.”
“Of course he has. But they’re all out there, combing through everything he’s mapped out,” Genya explained. “So he’s going out himself.” She sighed. “He’s always taken on more than anyone else, but this—this is different.” She paused, glancing back at the closed door. “I think he feels responsible. Like if he doesn’t find Ivan, no one else will.”
There was something in Genya’s tone, a hint of fear that unsettled Alina. She could see that Genya’s concern ran deeper than duty. It was personal, bound up in the complex loyalty and unspoken affection she seemed to hold for Kirigan. Somehow, it was not unlike the General’s own worries regarding Ivan. The way he pushed himself tirelessly, driven by an almost desperate determination to bring Ivan back, mirrored the quiet, steadfast anxiety Genya felt for her General.
It was about saving a friend.
For a moment, they stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. “I just… I wish there was a way to help him,” Alina whispered finally. “He always does so much for all of us, and now…”
Genya’s hand tightened around the tray. “I know. Believe me, I know.” Her voice was barely audible, grief woven into every syllable. “The problem is, no one else can do what he’s doing. The moves he’s making? Those are unique to him. He’s spent years building alliances, gaining leverage, and now he knows exactly which strings to pull. He’s the only one who can make it work.”
Alina exhaled slowly, the weight of Genya’s words sinking in. “But still, I wish he’d listen to us more—take breaks, eat, look after himself.”
Genya’s gaze hardened, filled with a mixture of determination and worry. “We just have to be there for him, support him however we can.”
Alina nodded, her heart heavy.
She understood now, more than she had before, why Kirigan had become a figure of such fierce loyalty to those around him. He carried their burdens as if they were his own, weaving them into the fabric of his quiet, relentless strength.
And yet, right now, she couldn’t shake the sense that he was slowly, silently unravelling beneath that weight.
As they stood together, Genya reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Alina’s hand. “He’ll find Ivan,” she whispered, almost as if she were convincing herself. “I know he will. He’s done the impossible before.”
**Fedyor’s POV**
Every day had been another test of patience, of belief. Fedyor read every update, every note from Kirigan with a fierce, no, desperate focus. Each message held a sliver of hope—a new trail, a hint, a whisper of where Ivan might be.
Fedyor clung to them as if they were lifelines, his heart pounding with each report brought by weary messengers who, like him, hardly slept.
Kirigan was relentless, sending word from the Little Palace at least two or three times a day. It was as if the general could feel Fedyor’s growing despair across the distance and was determined to pull him back from the edge, to keep him going. His notes carried more than information; they carried weight. Each word was a command, a plea, and a quiet reassurance—that this mission mattered, that Ivan mattered.
Kirigan was fighting alongside them from afar, his fierce determination echoing through every detail. And Fedyor matched it step for step. He had to. He owed Kirigan that much. He owed Ivan that much.
Days blurred together, hope and dread clashing with each new update. Kirigan’s work was tireless, the string of reports unbroken, marking every detail he had uncovered or guessed. How the general managed to find these leads from so far away, Fedyor couldn’t fathom. All he knew was that he was grateful. Grateful beyond words, beyond even the feverish thoughts that ran through his mind late at night when he was alone. Fedyor had always trusted Kirigan’s leadership—but this was something more. It was personal, a loyalty that transcended duty. The general was pushing, reaching, stretching his resources to an extraordinary degree for a single man. For his Ivan.
Out here in the wilderness, the physical toll was relentless. Endless tracking, bitter weather, and the constant threat of danger had worn him and his team raw. Their faces were hollow, their limbs shaking from exertion and lack of sleep, but none of them faltered. They endured because they believed—not just in Fedyor, but in Kirigan’s faith that Ivan could be found. The general’s unwavering trust in their abilities was a fire that refused to die, even as exhaustion clouded their vision and hope wavered. His guidance was more than orders—it was a promise that no one would be left behind. Every update from him was a reminder that they weren’t alone, that he was with them in every step, every struggle. It made the impossible feel achievable.
Then came the message. The one that sent Fedyor’s heart into a frenzy, breath shallow with fear and hope so sharp it hurt. Kirigan had found something. No more vague trails, no rumours, but something solid, something real. Fedyor’s hands shook as he read the message over and over again, his eyes skimming every word like a prayer, urging Ivan to be alive. He could barely focus, barely keep himself steady, as they moved toward the site Kirigan had pinpointed.
They travelled in silence, the urgency in every step matched by the unspoken determination to succeed. The barren landscape blurred past them, but Fedyor’s focus was razor-sharp.
He had been running on sheer willpower for days now, his Kefta heavy on his shoulders, damp and tattered from the journey. His body ached, his hands were numb with cold and exhaustion, but none of it mattered. They were close—so close—and the thought of his husband being just out of reach spurred him forward.
When they arrived, Fedyor’s calm, gentle demeanor was gone. His team moved with cold precision, with an intensity that matched his own fury and desperation. They encountered resistance—those who held Ivan and thought they could keep him. And for once, Fedyor showed no mercy. He fought with a single-minded, unwavering ferocity, striking down every last one who stood in their way. The quiet, peaceful Fedyor was nowhere to be seen; here, in this desolate corner of the world, he was a man driven to the edge, prepared to face any darkness for the sake of the one he loved.
By the time the last opponent fell, Fedyor was shaking, his breathing ragged. He barely registered the blood on his hands, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His team flanked him, their expressions grim but resolute. They were just as drained, but their resolve unbroken.
The group spread out, moving through the camp carefully, the Heartrender stretching their senses as far es they could. Every corner was checked, every shadow inspected, their breaths tight with anticipation.
And suddenly, Fedyor felt it—a whisper that surged through him, a pulse of recognition.
He barely had the strength to move, but the feeling was so achingly familiar, yet so weak, that his body sprang into motion before his mind could catch up. The sharp, astonished shouts of his comrades faded as his limbs carried him forward with desperate speed.
And then, Fedyor found him.
Ivan lay sprawled on the uneven floor, his body broken and battered beyond anything Fedyor could have braced himself for. The dim light of the torches flickered over his face, casting jagged shadows across pale, sweat-slicked skin. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a fragile, agonizing reminder of just how close Fedyor might be to losing him. Blood—some of it fresh, some crusted—streaked his arms, his jaw, his torn uniform.
Heavy iron cuffs encased his wrists, cruelly biting into swollen flesh, robbing him of access to his power.
Fedyor’s panic surged as he realized how fragile Ivan’s pulse was. He dropped to his knees beside him, his legs giving way beneath the weight of his fear. The sound of him hitting the ground barely registered; all he could hear was the labored rasp of Ivan’s breaths.
His trembling hands immediately formed sharp, controlled gestures in the air as he reached out with his power. He focused everything he had on steadying the erratic rhythm, willing Ivan’s heart to beat stronger, his breath to come easier. It was all he could do—to buy time, to keep his husband tethered to life until the Healers could save him.
Desperation surged within him like a tidal wave. He threw his head back and bellowed, thunderous: “I NEED HELP! NOW!”
Then, he turned back to the man on the ground. "Ivan." The name caught in his throat, raw and broken, as if dragged out against the weight of his despair. His trembling fingers reached for Ivan’s face, barely daring to touch the bruised cheek, and recoiled slightly at the unnatural heat of his skin. A tear slipped free, tracing a burning path down his face as he leaned closer. “We’re here. We’ve got you.”
His own exhaustion was only a distant ache by now; all that mattered was Ivan. “Stay with me.” His words were a shivery exhale, trembling with desperation. “I’ve got you, my love. Just hold on.”
Ivan’s eyes fluttered, the faintest motion, as if the sound of Fedyor’s voice was pulling him back from a great distance. His gaze, unfocused and cloudy, struggled to land on Fedyor. There was the barest flicker of recognition—like a match struck in darkness—but then it faded, and his gaze drifted sideways before his eyes closed again. Fedyor’s heart twisted painfully. He gripped Ivan’s hand, wrapping it tightly in his own, shaking as he pressed his forehead to their joined fingers.
“Stay with me.” The words tumbled out, rough and uneven, a plea more instinct than thought. “You hear me? Just a little longer. Don’t let go, Ivan. Please.”
The sharp voices of the healers sliced through the air, shattering the fragile bubble around them. “We need space,” one of them commanded, their tone gentle but resolute. Fedyor flinched, his instincts screaming to stay where he was, but he forced himself to move, shifting just enough to allow them to work. Yet his grip on Ivan’s hand didn’t falter. He refused to let go, his fingers still laced with his husband’s, as if the connection alone could keep Ivan tethered to this world.
One Healer extended her hands, her fingers moving in intricate patterns above Ivan’s chest, steady, smooth gestures that spoke of years of mastery and precision. Her partner mirrored her movements, working in tandem as they silently assessed Ivan’s injuries.
They murmured between each other, exchanging the most concerning details on his condition: “Several fractured ribs. Internal bleeding, likely the lung. Fever’s high. Pulse weak.”
Fedyor felt like the words were daggers, stabbing deep with every revelation. His trembling fingers traced lightly over Ivan’s cheek, his lips brushing against his husband’s temple. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking but fierce. “Listen carefully, Ivan. You’re not allowed to go. Not now. Not ever.”
The healer’s expressions were grim as they worked to mend what they could. Ivan’s chest began to rise slightly more evenly under their care, his breathing less shallow. Fedyor didn’t move from his place at Ivan’s side, his senses still attuned to his pulse, monitoring the erratic rhythm, steadying it when he could.
The air in the room was tense, heavy with the acrid scent of blood and the quiet murmur of commands. Outside, Fedyor’s team stood guard, their shadows long and blurry in the fading moonlight. They formed a protective ring around the cabin, their powers ready, their expressions grim. Though they kept their distance, they were a wall of steadfast loyalty—prepared to protect Ivan with their lives if need be.
After what felt like an eternity, the lead healer looked up and nodded once. “He’s stable enough to move.”
Relief slammed into Fedyor so hard it left him dizzy. He swayed slightly, swallowing the lump in his throat as they carefully lifted Ivan onto a stretcher. The motion was slow, deliberate, but nevertheless, Ivan’s head lolled slightly to the side and his face twisted in unconscious pain.
Fedyor winced, his heart breaking anew at the sight.
As they carried the unconscious man out of the cabin, the first rays of dawn pierced the treetops, casting the clearing in a soft, golden light. The brightness felt jarring, almost cruel, against the lingering darkness of what had just transpired. Fedyor walked alongside the stretcher, his thumb absently brushing across his husband’s fingers as if to reassure them both.
The weight of newfound hope pressed down on him so fiercely, it nearly brought him to his knees, but he forced himself to remain upright.
Ivan was alive, even if just barely. And in that moment, Fedyor silently thanked Kirigan—not for the first time and not for the last. However he’d managed it, whatever methods he’d used, Kirigan had kept his promise. He’d found Ivan.
Fedyor’s team flanked them, their movements tired, their faces tight with shared tension. The sight of Ivan’s battered body seemed to have shaken even the most hardened among them.
When they reached the waiting cart, the healers climbed in first, already preparing to continue their work. Fedyor followed, settling beside Ivan and leaning close. His hand still clasped Ivan’s, their fingers interlaced.
“We bring you home now,” he whispered, his voice low but steady. His free hand brushed damp hair back from his husband’s forehead. “Do you hear me, Ivan? You’re safe. We’re going home.”
Ivan didn’t respond, his head rolling slightly with the motion of the cart. But Fedyor saw the faintest flutter of his lashes, a small, almost imperceptible shift in his breathing. It was enough.
Fedyor pressed his lips to Ivan’s temple, his tears soaking into the pale skin as they began their journey back. The relief was so vast it felt like a physical weight lifting, but the fear lingered too—a gnawing ache that wouldn’t leave until Ivan would open his eyes again, until he would speak, until he would smile.
For now, though, he held onto hope.
And he held onto Ivan.
**Ivan's POV**
Ivan's world was dark shadows and tides of pain, a haze that had consumed him for what felt like an eternity. His chest ached, hollowed out by exhaustion, his limbs like lead, and every breath brought a sharp throb that radiated through his battered body.
He hovered at the edge of consciousness, barely tethered to reality, disjointed flashes of memory surfacing against his will. Darkened rooms, the snap of chains, voices that were both cruel and mocking.
But he drifted into awareness slowly. This time it wasn’t like the fleeting moments of lucidity he’d had before, leaving him more disoriented than awake, though his head still swam with remnants of what he had endured. The biting chill of fear, the acrid taste of failure. It was a blur of agony, but more and more, it was broken by the faintest glimmers of comfort: familiar voices, a hand around his, the warmth of someone refusing to let go.
For the first time, his thoughts were not drowning under the weight of disorientation. They surfaced, hesitant and slow, like a creature testing the safety of light after a long time spent in darkness.
Gradually, the fractured pieces began to fall into place. His eyelids fluttered before he forced them open.
Ivan exhaled shakily, the tight band of tension in his chest loosening as a room came into focus. A well-known room. Pale walls, illuminated by sunlight filtering through the high windows. The antiseptic tang of healing herbs mixed with the faint smell of clean linen—comforting and familiar. His body ached in ways he couldn’t fully catalogue, but the feeling was muted now, dulled by the soft bed beneath him and the realisation that he was safe.
The infirmary.
He was back at the Little Palace.
He was home.
When he turned his head slightly, his gaze settled on the figure sprawled in the chair beside him. Fedyor.
The sight of his husband nearly undid him.
Fedyor was slumped awkwardly, his head resting on his folded arms atop the edge of Ivan's bed. His dark hair was dishevelled, his Kefta hanging off his too thin shoulders. He looked as though he'd fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion rather than intent. His face was pale, his cheeks sunken, and his breathing was deep but uneven, the kind that came from a body running on fumes. In the soft light, Ivan could see the faint tremble in Fedyor’s fingers, where they clutched the edge of the blanket.
Emotion struck him so hard his throat tightened. Fedyor, always so gentle and light-hearted, looked like he’d been broken and stitched back together in his absence.
Guilt stabbed at Ivan’s heart, sharper than any physical pain he’d endured.
Fedyor should never have had to carry this burden, should never have been put through this. And yet here he was, in this state, still refusing to leave Ivan alone, to really rest.
He wanted to reach out, to brush his hand over Fedyor's hair, to whisper apologies and comforts; wanted to feel him, to reassure himself that this wasn’t a dream. But his body betrayed him, too weak to obey.
He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again, anchoring himself in the present; took a shallow breath, then another. The air tasted clean, not metallic with blood or damp with despair.
It was real.
He was alive. He was going to be all right. And so was Fedyor.
It wasn’t long before the door creaked open, drawing Ivan’s attention. The sound was soft, but it felt loud in the stillness of the room. His gaze shifted sluggishly toward the source of the noise as two figures stepped inside.
Alina and Genya. Their faces lit up in unison when they saw him, the weariness they wore momentarily lifting like mist burned away by the sun.
“Ivan,” Alina breathed, her voice trembling with relief. She stepped forward quickly, her eyes bright with concern as she took in the sight of him. “You’re awake.”
Genya followed, her sharp gaze flicking to Fedyor as she set a delicate hand on Ivan’s arm. Her smile was warm and tender, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You had us worried, you stubborn man,” she whispered, teasing but shaky at the edges. “How do you feel?”
Before Ivan could summon the strength to reply, a soft sound came from beside him—a quiet groan. Fedyor stirred. He shifted, his brow furrowing before his dark eyes blinked open, and with some effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his tired gaze instinctively drawn toward Genya and Alina, toward the source of the noise that had pulled him from sleep.
“Fedyor.” It was a croak, raspy and barely audible, but Fedyor’s head whipped around sharply, his eyes widening as they locked onto Ivan’s.
The instant their gazes met, something inside Fedyor seemed to snap awake. His exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a flood of emotion so fierce that Ivan could feel it like a physical force.
“Ivan.” Fedyor surged forward, scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands trembled as they reached out, hovering uncertainly, as though afraid any contact might hurt him. “You’re awake,” he murmured, shaking. “You’re really awake.” His hands moved to Ivan’s face now, tentative and gentle, cradling it ever so carefully.
The tenderness in his touch was overwhelming; it was the touch of someone who had almost lost everything—but what undid the walls Ivan had tried to hold up was the single tear slipping free from Fedyor’s lashes. It fell onto Ivan’s hand, carving a hot, silent path against his skin.
Fedyor leaned down, pressing his forehead to Ivan’s, his breath hitching against Ivan’s skin. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered. “I thought—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish.
The sight of Fedyor breaking hit Ivan in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with helplessness.
Ivan wanted to speak, to soothe him, to tell him he was sorry for putting him through this hell. But no words came, only the weight of Fedyor’s presence wrapping him in a love so profound that it left him breathless.
“I’m okay,” he rasped at last, raw but firm. He mustered the strength to lift his hand, weak and trembling, to cover Fedyor’s. Their fingers twined together, and Fedyor’s grip tightened as if to convince himself that Ivan wasn’t slipping away again.
Genya cleared her throat softly, the sound small but thick with emotion, as she looked away to give them a moment of privacy. Alina stayed quiet, her dark eyes shining with a mix of sorrow and relief.
For a long moment, the infirmary was filled with nothing but the sound of Ivan and Fedyor’s uneven breathing, their foreheads still pressed together. It was raw, imperfect, and achingly human. But it was enough. It was everything.
Finally, slowly, Fedyor pulled back, just enough to meet Ivan’s gaze. He exhaled shakily, then let their hands slide down onto his lap, fingers still entwined.
Genya pulled a chair closer and sat beside the bed. Alina, without a word, perched at the foot of the mattress, arms wrapped loosely around her knees.
Now, in the soft afternoon light, Ivan could see it—could see how much the last days had taken from them all.
Genya’s usual effortless grace was tinged with fatigue, her clever eyes duller than before, her movements slower. Alina, normally so bright and fierce, looked drawn, her skin paler than usual, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against her delicate features.
The relief in the room was palpable, but beneath it, he sensed a tension that hadn’t entirely eased. They were glad to see him alive, but the weight of everything that had happened still lingered in the air.
It was clear, they had all been through their own version of hell these past few days.
Ivan swallowed, his throat raw. “…How?” The word scraped out of him, barely more than a breath. He coughed weakly.
Genya was moving at once. A cup of water appeared in her hands, and she passed it smoothly to Fedyor who had risen, too. Ivan’s upper body was lifted with careful ease and the cup pressed to his lips.
He took a few small sips, the cool liquid soothing his throat. Finally, after Fedyor had settled him back onto the pillows, he gathered the strength to try again. And this time, it worked better.
“How did you find me?” The question had been gnawing at him, even in his weakened state. He knew he’d been lost for days, deep in enemy territory. The odds had not been in his favour.
Fedyor’s fingers tightened around his. “Kirigan.” His answer was quiet but carried a weight that made Ivan’s chest tighten. The tone, fierce, but too strained, sent a ripple of unease through Ivan’s weary body, cutting through the lingering fog in his mind. He searched Fedyor’s face for more.
His husband exhaled, shifting closer, his free hand absently smoothing Ivan’s blanket.
“He led us to you.” Fedyor paused, as if searching for the right words. “He guided us. Every step. Every choice we made, every lead we followed—it was him. He had eyes everywhere. Whenever he’d get new information, he’d immediately send messengers out to our group. It was like he was always two steps ahead, even when we were at the edge of giving up.”
Ivan frowned, trying to piece together what Fedyor was saying. “So… he hasn’t been out there, with you?” His gaze flickered briefly over the woman before returning to Fedyor for confirmation.
“No.” A trace of bitterness crossed Fedyor’s face, his gentle expression darkening. “He couldn’t be. The Tsar wouldn’t allow it.”
Alina shifted on the foot of the bed, drawing his attention. “But that didn’t stop him.” She sighed quietly, her fingers tracing the hem of her Kefta; a small, restless movement. “He was simultaneously holding the palace together, orchestrating the war and dealing with the Tsar’s impossible demands—all the while trying to find you.”
Genya nodded, her bright eyes troubled. “Every night, he left the palace, meeting with people who would slit a man’s throat for looking at them wrong. He activated connections we couldn’t have dreamed of, always knowing where to push, where to threaten, where to listen. He spread misinformation to ensure our teams could search unhindered, fed false leads to rival factions to keep them safe. Every possible angle was covered; every potential lead followed.” Her fingers curled against her arms. “And every time he returned, he looked worse.”
Alina shrugged, helplessly. “He’d barely eat, barely sleep. He didn’t want anyone to notice, and he hid it masterfully. But Genya and I…” She trailed off, her brows drawing together as if the weight of those memories pressed down on her even now. “We tried to make him rest.” Her voice was quiet, tired. “But he wouldn’t hear. Wouldn’t slow down.”
There was a pause, and Fedyor shifted a bit before he spoke. “I felt it, too. With each new message we got.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t lay eyes on him once after you went missing. But I knew. It was there in the way his commands came through, in the tone with which he pressed us forward. And yet, he refused to accept anything less than finding you.” His fingers twitched against Ivan’s palm. “It may sound ridiculous, but it showed even in his handwriting.”
Ivan’s brow furrowed.
“Every day it got rougher,” Fedyor explained, his eyes distant, as if recalling the slow, inevitable toll the ordeal had taken on Kirigan. “Sharper, more urgent. It was clear he had less and less strength left to give.”
Ivan listened, silent, the weight in his chest growing heavier with each word.
He had always known he would do anything for Kirigan. Always. There had always been a clear, unwavering loyalty, a devotion that Kirigan had earned through every action, every decision. But he had never considered—never realized—that it might be the same the other way around.
The thought left him unsteady.
“Why…?” The word slipped out, shaky, almost involuntary. “Why did he push so hard?” He hadn’t quite meant to ask, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back. It hung in the air, and his friends shared a glance as if they had been wondering the same thing themselves. But, contrary to Ivan, they had answers.
Fedyor’s thumb traced a slow, absentminded path along Ivan’s wrist. When he spoke, his voice was thick with quiet emotion. “Because he wasn’t going to lose you, Ivan.” His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Not if there was any way to bring you back.”
Genya’s lips pressed together; her expression soft. “He would never admit it... but he cares.” Her eyes flickered toward Alina, a silent confirmation passing between them. “We could see it, even if he tried to hide it.”
“He cares, Ivan,” Alina agreed simply. “More than any of us ever realized.”
Ivan swallowed; his throat tight. His mind swam with too many thoughts, too many emotions. He had spent years at Kirigan’s side, believing himself to be one of the few who understood him. And yet—this?
He exhaled, slow and unsteady. “Has he—has he been by?” The question was small, uncertain. He wanted to see him. To thank him. To—
Fedyor’s expression darkened again, and his fingers stilled against Ivan’s hand. “No,” he murmured. “I haven’t seen him either.”
Genya sighed, rubbing at her temples, frustration sharp in the motion. “He’s not here.”
Ivan’s stomach twisted. “What? Why?”
Alina’s gaze hardened. “The Tsar forced him to accompany him.”
Genya nodded, frustration plain on her face. “Dragged him to some ridiculous meeting at the border. A conference with senators—nothing that required him, nothing that needed his time.” She exhaled sharply, anger threading through her tone. “He left before dawn. He won’t be back until late in the evening at the earliest.”
Resentment settled over the room like an unspoken weight. Ivan could feel it in the silence that followed, in the set of their shoulders, in the way no one spoke what they were all thinking.
Kirigan should have been here.
After everything—after all he had done, all he had sacrificed— this was where he belonged. Resting. Recovering. Not wasting his strength on something so meaningless.
Ivan let out a slow breath. His body was still drained, his mind sluggish, but beneath the fatigue, something else stirred. Gratitude.
He blinked slowly, and for a moment, everything around him faded. He needed a moment to gather himself, to find the strength to speak. When his voice finally broke through the silence, it was weak, but there was a quiet intensity to it. “Thank you.” The words were barely more than a whisper. “All of you.”
Fedyor’s response was immediate, his hand tightening around Ivan's with quiet force. His eyes held Ivan's gaze, something soft, something fierce, beneath the surface. He didn't speak. He didn’t need to. His hand, his touch, said everything.
Genya reached out, her fingers brushing his shoulder, a quiet reassurance in her touch. “Rest now,” she murmured. “We’ll stay with you.”
Alina simply nodded, a gentle smile crossing her face.
As Ivan let himself sink back into the pillows, his body succumbing to exhaustion, one thought remained.
He was back. But he had come at a cost.
And for that—he would find a way to repay them all.
**Ivan POV**
When Ivan woke, the infirmary was steeped in darkness, the only light a faint glow from the moon spilling through the tall window. He blinked, disoriented, the room swimming back into focus slowly. His body still ached, a heavy lethargy weighing down his limbs, but it wasn’t pain that had woken him. There was a presence in the room, a familiar aura that he would recognize anywhere.
He turned his head, and there, slumped in a chair beside his bed, was the General. The sight startled him—Kirigan’s head was tipped back at an awkward angle, his face pale as a sheet. There was an unnatural stillness to him, a deep, unconscious repose that Ivan had never seen in him before. Shadows ringed his eyes, and it was clear even in the dim light that he had lost weight; the angles of his handsome features were a little sharper than before. It wasn’t something most would notice, but to Ivan, who had stood at his side for years, the difference was undeniable.
For a moment, Ivan was struck by how young he looked, stripped of the usual intense authority he wore like armour when awake.
Ivan’s heart sank at the sight. He had heard from his friends what Kirigan had done these last days. How he had reached into every dark corner to find a trace, a rumour, a sign; to bring him back. Alina and Genya had spoken of his weariness, of the toll this search had taken on him, but seeing it for himself was different.
To anyone else, the General might have seemed merely tired, but to Ivan, the strain was unmistakable. The man before him, right now, looked nothing like the unshakable General who commanded legions of Grisha with effortless grace. He looked… worn thin. Fragile.
And yet, here he was, in the dead of night, keeping vigil by Ivan’s bed as if this was more important than his own rest.
For a moment, Ivan felt something unmoored in him, an unexpected surge of gratitude he had no words for. Kirigan had fought, as no one else could, to bring him home. To see him here now, broken down to exhaustion, felt like a wound and a blessing all at once.
But this was no place to let the man sleep—not in that twisted, uncomfortable position that seemed to emphasize every line of strain in his face.
Ivan shifted, wincing at the pull in his side, and tried to sit up a little more. “General,” he whispered, voice rough. There was no response; Kirigan didn’t so much as stir. It was as if he was miles away, locked in a sleep so deep it swallowed everything. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but even that seemed laboured, as though each breath was an effort.
“Sir,” Ivan tried again, more insistently this time, but the man still didn’t wake. Kirigan only shifted slightly, a small sound escaping him, the faintest echo of a pained sigh. Ivan’s breath hitched, unsettled. he could barely remember the last time he'd seen his General even remotely vulnerable. But never like this. Never.
Swallowing his own fatigue, Ivan reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he extended it toward the General. The distance seemed longer than it was, every movement demanding more strength than he had to give. Yet his fingers finally brushed Kirigan’s shoulder, and he pressed down gently. “General,” he whispered once more, hoarse but insistent.
The reaction was slow at first—a faint twitch of his muscles, a drawn-out inhale. Then Kirigan shifted, his head lolling forward as he blinked groggily, his eyes struggling to focus. He winced as he straightened up; it was clear that every muscle in his body ached from the way he had been slouched over.
There was a fleeting look of disorientation; it took a second for recognition to settle in his dark eyes. But when it did, Ivan saw the relief there, real and unguarded.
“Ivan.” For a heartbeat, the usual composure in his voice gave way to something unexpectedly vulnerable.
“General.” Ivan nodded slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from Kirigan’s eyes, dull with the strain of the past days' turmoil. “You look worse than I do,” he whispered finally, a helpless attempt at levity that came out thin.
Kirigan let out a short, dry snort, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You do realize,” his voice was edged with something wry, “that you are the one lying half-dead in the infirmary?”
Ivan huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “Yes. Hard to miss that fact. But—” he sobered, the concern returning. “I’m serious.” He hesitated, then, quieter, “You look terrible, sir.”
The General didn’t respond immediately, didn’t deflect or dismiss. He only studied Ivan with a kind of quiet warmth that Ivan had never before seen directed at him, then he nodded slightly in comfort. “I’m fine.”
Ivan’s expression immediately flattened into something unimpressed, his gaze sharpening with a deadpan weight that practically screamed, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?
Kirigan sighed, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Let me rephrase,” he amended. “I will be. Now that you’re back.”
That, at least, was more believable.
Something in Ivan eased at the words, though the feeling of worry still lingered. Kirigan looked so depleted. Too pale, too thin.
And with every passing second, the truth of it settled heavier in his chest.
He was the reason for this.
That realization crashed over him like a tide, cold and relentless.
“I... I’m sorry.” The words were barely more than a whisper. His head felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish and unfocused, but guilt carved through it all like a knife. He should have been better. Should have fought harder. Should have found a way not to get caught. His eyes dropped, the shame of his failure pressing down on him.
But the words had barely left his mouth before Kirigan interrupted—firm yet quiet—cutting him off before he could spiral deeper into self-recrimination.
“Stop it, Ivan.” It was not a suggestion. It was a command.
Ivan’s head shot up, startled by the sharpness in Kirigan’s voice. The General’s dark eyes locked onto his, unwavering, and then he leaned in slightly, his exhaustion unable to dull the sheer force of his presence.
“If I know one thing for certain, it’s that you are never careless.” The words were low, steady—but not untouched. There was a roughness to them, something unguarded, something raw. “You are never unprepared. It wasn’t your fault they got to you.” His expression darkened. “Anyone in my circle—anyone close to me—has a target on his back. You most of all, Ivan.”
He sank back into his chair. Tired. Slow. And when he spoke again, the words carried something heavier than mere fatigue.
“If I could shield you all from it, I would.” His voice barely rose above a breath now, stripped of its usual authority. “But I can’t. And that’s something I have to live with.”
Ivan had to close his eyes for a second.
The world spoke of Kirigan as if he was something unbreakable, something untouched by threats or grief or fear. A force of nature, too cold and calculating to be wounded by something as human as loss. Saints, even the Grisha believed that, Ivan included.
But that had never been the truth.
Ivan had begun to realize it when he had heard the way Alina, Genya, and Fedyor had spoken of the General’s actions these last days. He had seen it in the way Kirigan had looked at him the moment he had woken up.
And now, sitting here, listening to the quiet strain in his voice, watching the way he held himself— shoulders stiff but drooping with exhaustion, his posture still regal yet somehow fractured—it became undeniable.
They had all been wrong.
He wasn’t indestructible. He wasn’t detached.
His friends were right. He cared. More than any of them had ever understood. He cared, he felt, he hurt like all of them.
But unlike them, he had carried everything alone. Always.
The realization struck Ivan with a sharpness that left him breathless. And with it came something else—something that burned in his throat.
Gratitude.
For being the strong one, always, because everyone relied on him to be.
For all the things he had endured that no one had noticed. For the burdens he had borne in silence.
For this moment, as he sat there, exhausted and raw, and still spent what little strength he had left to lift the weight of Ivan’s guilt from his shoulders.
For how he had moved heaven and earth to bring him home, despite what it cost him.
Ivan swallowed, the depth of it nearly choking him.
“You didn’t… you didn’t have to do all this.”
Kirigan’s gaze was steady, his voice almost a whisper. “Yes, I did.” He looked at Ivan with a quiet intensity. “Loyalty doesn’t go just one way.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet. Ivan didn’t respond at first, he simply didn’t know what to say. He looked away, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, the weight of Kirigan's sacrifice pressing down on him. Finally, he found his voice.
“Thank you.” The words felt brittle, too small for what he meant. But for Kirigan, they seemed to be enough. He simply nodded and sank back heavily in his chair.
They sat there in a silence thick with understanding.
Kirigan made no move to leave, and Ivan found an unexpected comfort in his presence; in his protective aura that eased the horrors still fresh in his mind.
He felt himself drifting again, the lingering effects of his ordeal pulling him into a haze of half-sleep.
An indefinable period of time later he was disturbed by footsteps. Soft, measured.
The infirmary doors whispered open, and two Healers entered, their hushed voices like a ripple in still water. Ivan forced his eyes to focus as they approached, their presence a firm reminder that he was not alone.
The woman, older, with sharp eyes and an air of authority that commanded respect even without a word, froze when her gaze landed on the General. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she masked it, but Ivan saw it. It was obvious: Kirigan had been avoiding their attention for the past few days, a fact that was now abundantly clear.
But she didn’t address it right now; her gaze landed on Ivan first. “You should be sleeping,” she murmured. “But I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised you’re awake.”
The younger Healer, a man barely past his twenties, meanwhile slowly approached Kirigan. His expression shifted from respectful caution to concern as he took in their leader’s state. “General,” he ventured carefully, “you look like you should be lying down.”
Kirigan, who had been absently rubbing his temple, went utterly still. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though he might argue.
But the Healer didn’t back down. “Sir?” He stepped closer, voice still respectful, but firm. “When was the last time you let someone examine you?”
Ivan, watching the interaction, saw the flicker of resistance in Kirigan’s expression. Just a flicker, but it was there.
“I don’t need you fussing over me,” Kirigan muttered, the words half-hearted at best. “I’m fine.”
Ivan tried to hide his disbelief. The Healers certainly didn’t.
The woman, without missing a beat, lifted an eyebrow. “That lie is ridiculous.”
Kirigan gave her a look that might have silenced any lesser person. She remained unmoved.
The young Healer shifted, hesitant but still determined. “Sir, you need proper rest. You cannot just—”
“I understood you the first time,” Kirigan interrupted. His voice was still composed, but Ivan could hear the fine crack of defeat beneath it. “I’ll go to my chambers. There’s no need for dramatics.”
The female nodded, satisfied. “We will accompany you. And then we’ll check on you every hour.”
Kirigan huffed a quiet, almost amused breath. “I assume that’s not a request.”
“Absolutely not.”
Ivan would have smirked at this exchange if he hadn’t been so damn exhausted.
With a reluctant nod, Kirigan finally stood, though his movements were slow, deliberate, and clearly strained. Ivan watched with concern as he pushed himself upright, reaching out slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of Ivan’s bed as if to steady himself.
He barely made it two steps. Then his knees buckled.
It happened in a heartbeat. Kirigan’s body simply gave out, like a thread pulled too taut and then snapped. Ivan jerked forward instinctively, but his condition didn’t allow much movement. A harsh "General!" ripped from his throat as he watched Kirigan fall.
The younger Healer lunged forward and caught Kirigan under one arm, just barely breaking the full weight of the collapse. His colleague was there in an instant, steadying Kirigan’s other side.
“Ivan, lay down!” she snapped over her shoulder, her tone sharp but not unkind. “We’ve got him.”
Ivan barely heard her. His pulse was roaring in his ears, his Heartrender senses flaring as he latched onto the weak, erratic rhythm of Kirigan’s heartbeat. Too fast, too shallow.
The room, once quiet, was now alive with urgent motion.
“Let’s get him onto the bed,” the woman commanded, and together the Healers lifted Kirigan, their movements careful but efficient.
Ivan watched them settle him onto the bed next to his, his heart hammering against his ribs with a fear he hadn’t felt since those endless nights in the enemy camp. Kirigan looked so… wrong. So unnaturally still. The normally imposing man seemed fragile against the infirmary bedding, shockingly limp, his dark, tangled hair damp against his too-pale skin.
The Healers moved quickly. The female extended her hands over Kirigan’s chest, her concentration a quiet, intense force as she assessed the reasons for his sudden collapse, while the other placed his palms gently against Kirigan’s temple, his fingers tracing a delicate path over his forehead. Kirigan’s face, taut until moments before, softened under the Healer's touch. There was a flicker of something like relief in the tension of his features, a fleeting moment of peace.
“No acute illness or fresh injuries,” the woman murmured after a moment. “His body is simply… depleted.”
Relief warred with guilt in Ivan’s chest.
The Healers worked in tandem, sending wave after wave of warmth and energy into Kirigan’s battered body, easing the strain in his muscles, stabilizing his erratic pulse.
The male Healer began to adjust his position gently, easing him into a more restful pose and began pulling his boots off. Meanwhile, the woman’s hands still hovered over his sternum, her focus sharpening as she helped his breathing settle into a deep, restful cadence.
His face was still pale, but his respirations became steadier now, guided by the Healers’ focused power. Even unconscious, Kirigan visibly responded to the healing—his eyelids twitching slightly, his fingers relaxing against the sheets as his body accepted the relief it had been so violently deprived of.
The younger Healer then moved away briefly, retrieving soft, warm trousers, while his colleague reached for Kirigan’s outer garments. They worked efficiently, undressing and re-dressing him in the comfortable pants with the kind of practiced care that only came from years of treating soldiers in no shape to tend to themselves.
And Ivan saw it all. Saw the toll these last days had taken. Saw how the relentless strain had hollowed Kirigan out, leaving stark evidence of his self-neglect. The lines of his collarbones were too sharp, his ribs visible beneath his skin. Kirigan had always been lean, his body a thing of discipline and control, but now? Now, he looked like he had been burning himself down to nothing.
All for Ivan.
The weight of it sat heavy in his chest.
When they were done, the female Healer laid a hand against his chest one last time, as if checking for a final confirmation of his state. Then, the Healers tucked thick, soft blankets around Kirigan, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible, before the woman turned to Ivan.
“At least a day of uninterrupted sleep, a few more days of rest and proper meals. That’s all he needs,” she assured gently, then added, “But he won’t bounce back in a matter of hours. He’s pushed himself too far for that.”
Ivan nodded tightly, his throat thick with emotion.
The Healers gave him one last reassuring glance before stepping away, promising to check on them both again soon.
Ivan sank back into his pillows tiredly, his Heartrender senses fixating on the rhythm of Kirigan’s pulse—a beat that felt fragile, precious, and terrifyingly delicate all at once. But at least Kirigan’s breathing was steady now, deep and even.
And finally—finally—Ivan let his own body relax.
But sleep didn’t come as easily as it should have.
Because now, in the silence, it struck him again how they had all fallen for it. The illusion Kirigan had built, piece by piece, over years. To create a persona that demanded respect, fear, and ensured distance.
A figure of power who could never be touched. Unshakable. Unassailable.
They had followed him, obeyed him, even admired him—never questioning, never doubting the strength he projected.
Because that was what he needed, wasn’t it? To make the world believe, truly believe, that nothing could break him. That nothing ever had.
Ivan swallowed, his throat tight. Because he saw it now. The cost of it. The sheer weight of what Kirigan had chosen to carry alone. The things he had endured, suffered, survived—never once allowing anyone to see; to share.
Because, in that role the Grisha needed him in, he couldn't.
Ivan’s fingers curled into the blanket, the slow, steady rhythm of Kirigan’s breath the only sound in the quiet room.
Finally, as exhaustion won over, Ivan let himself close his eyes.
For tonight, at least, neither of them had to carry anything alone.
Kirigan’s barely standing. Alina’s trying to make him rest, and he’s doing everything he can to pretend he doesn’t need it.
With exhaustion and sarcasm in the mix, getting him to accept help (and to bed) is proving to be a battle of its own.
Notes:
This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”. Alina is still relatively new to the palace.
As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series.
Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!).
I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it.
And now have fun! And thank you for reading.
The candles flickered, casting shifting shadows along the walls of Kirigan’s dimly lit chambers. The room was warmer than most in the Little Palace but still carried the icy chill that seeped through the ancient stone. Alina’s breath was steady, though she felt the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her. She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to take charge like this, but there was no turning back now.
She had just come from Marie’s suite, their laughter still echoing in her mind when she had almost walked straight into Kirigan.
For a moment, she had simply stared. She had never seen him like this—soaked through, water running down his face and clinging to the edges of his Kefta. Ice crystals clung to his clothes, slowly melting. His dark hair had been plastered to his forehead, the usual sharpness of his appearance softened by the dampness. Nonetheless he had smiled faintly at her, a quiet, weary curve of his lips.
Alina had smiled back instinctively, feeling a surge of warmth in her chest at his sight. Without thinking, she had fallen into step beside him, their paths clearly aligning.
"Long day?" she had asked, her tone casual, casting a meaningful glance at his bedraggled state. It wasn’t that she needed an answer; she just wanted to give him the option to talk if he wished, without pressing him. It was rare to see him so out of sorts, and the slight amusement in her voice was her way of acknowledging it, without making it a big deal.
Kirigan had snorted tiredly, slowing his pace in front of the war room. “You could say that.” He had tilted his head then slightly, a wordless invitation for her to come inside.
Without hesitation, Alina had nodded, and Kirigan had opened the door, following her as she entered.
As Alina had stepped further into his study, she had briefly turned to glance at him, expecting him to take a moment for himself.
But instead of seeking warmth or comfort, Kirigan had simply shed his dripping Kefta and walked straight toward his desk.
She had actually stood there for a second, too stunned to speak. Was he serious? Did he truly think he could just sit down like this, and get to work as if he wasn’t half-frozen?
Alina hadn’t even thought—just acted. Her hand had closed around his wrist, and she had all but dragged him away from the desk, away from that damn chair he clearly intended to collapse in.
And now, here they were, in his bedroom, standing in the dim candlelight, and he looked at her—tired, yes, but also searching. As if he hadn’t expected her to go this far. His gaze was dark and quiet, filled with exhaustion, and there was an unreadable depth beneath it that made her pulse stutter.
“Sit,” she ordered, surprising even herself with the firmness of her tone.
Kirigan raised an eyebrow but complied, sinking onto the mattress with a sigh that seemed to pull from something deeper than simple fatigue. Alina swallowed, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away from him. The way the candlelight caught the wet strands of his hair, the faint lines of exhaustion in his handsome face—it made her heart twist, but she quickly pushed the feeling away.
She knew she shouldn’t do this. It wasn’t appropriate to look at him like that, to be so acutely aware of the way he moved, the quiet authority he carried, even in his weariness. But something about him drew her in. She couldn’t help but notice it, couldn’t ignore the way he seemed so distant, yet so close when their eyes met. She was becoming too aware of him, of the moments when their glances lingered a little too long, when he spoke in that low, almost intimate voice of his.
Stop it, she scolded herself inwardly and turned away before she could let herself dwell any longer on it. Instead, she busied herself with lighting the small fireplace, striking the flint with precise, practiced motions. The flames caught quickly, their glow illuminating the contours of the room in gold and amber. The shadows on the walls deepened, the air warming almost instantly.
When she turned back, she found him watching her, his expression unreadable.
“You don’t have to fuss over me, you know.” He sounded steady enough, though his voice lacked conviction.
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not fussing,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “I’m ensuring that the General of the Second Army doesn’t keel over from exhaustion.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I never took you for the nursemaid type, Miss Starkov.”
Alina rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. He looked more and more drained, yet here he was, still managing to tease her. Typical.
“Come on.” She stepped closer determinedly. “Let’s get you to bed.”
His eyebrow arched, and she immediately realized how her words had sounded. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she stammered, “I—I mean—you need to rest, not—”
Kirigan’s lips curved into a sly smile, and despite his state, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Relax, Alina. I know what you meant.”
Alina exhaled, caught somewhere between embarrassment and her own amusement. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with that. “Good,” she retorted, mustering as much composure as she could. “Because I doubt you could handle anything else in your current state.”
"Brutal." There was an unmistakable mirth in his voice, with just a hint of mock offense.
Alina felt a twinge of satisfaction and smiled.
This teasing exchange was nothing new; it was comfortable, even. They often did that. Though, she wasn’t used to besting him.
But he wasn’t brushing her off—on the contrary, he seemed to enjoy it. And that encouraged her, because she loved to see him smile, to make him smile; to ease even a fraction of the weight he always carried for everyone else. And, right now, it somehow felt different—there was an odd tension that hummed in the air.
But as she looked at him more closely again, whatever teasing victory she might have felt faded. Humour wouldn’t be enough tonight.
His smile had vanished by now, leaving behind something raw—something not quite masked by his usual sharp demeanor. The dim firelight carved deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating the fatigue in his face. His pallor was more pronounced now that the warmth of amusement had slipped away.
His spine was still straight, his expression still edged with his usual intensity—but the enervation was bleeding through his carefully crafted facade. His hands were now braced against the mattress on either side of him, as though the act of simply sitting upright required careful balance.
Which, at this point, it probably did.
Alina let out a slow breath. If she told him outright to lie down, he would resist, so she would simply not give him a choice.
Wordlessly, she moved closer and reached for his tunic. The black fabric was thick, its wet leather catching the firelight. He stiffened slightly at the touch, but she didn’t hesitate, undoing the first clasp with deft fingers.
“You’re undressing me now?” His voice was as dry as old parchment. “Bold move.”
Alina huffed. “Bold is you assuming I’m undressing you for fun. You’re dripping ice-water, Kirigan. If that’s your idea of seduction, I have some concerns.” She moved to the second clasp, then the third.
Kirigan’s lips curved into one of his rare smiles again, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes at her cheek. Though, he made no move to stop her, his stillness its own kind of surrender.
She decisively peeled the tunic from his shoulders. As the heavy garment slipped away, it revealed the black shirt beneath, its fabric clinging to him, damp with the remnants of a long day in ghastly weather.
Alina swallowed. The firelight flickered over the contours of his collarbones, a shadow of bruises at the base of his throat. She could see a faint tremor in his arms, the sharp set of his mouth as if bracing against soreness that had long since settled deep into his bones. His breath came a fraction too controlled, as if trying to mask how much effort it took to stay composed.
She reached for the hem of his shirt.
That, at least, earned a reaction. His hand wrapped around her wrist, cold fingers curling weakly but making a point, nonetheless.
Alina met his gaze, unimpressed. “It’s sopping wet, and you’re freezing.”
His grip didn’t tighten. Didn’t even try to stop her properly. “It’s fine.” He sounded a bit hoarse by now.
Alina pressed her lips together, forcing down a sigh. Saints, even now—soaked through, barely upright—he was still clinging to this relentless insistence on handling everything alone. It was ingrained so deep in him she doubted he even realized it anymore.
But right now, he needed her help. Desperately. In this state, if she left him alone, he’d probably collapse backward onto the bed as he was—drenched, ice-cold, and too exhausted to care (only to drag himself back up again a few hours later and push on as if none of it mattered). She wasn’t about to let that happen.
“It’s not fine.” She arched a brow. “You are not sleeping in wet clothes. So, unless you plan on mustering enough strength to physically throw me out of this room, I’d suggest you stop wasting time.”
For a second, it seemed like he might actually try. Then, instead, he exhaled slowly and released her wrist.
“Relentless,” he muttered.
Alina beamed. “You’re catching on.”
She peeled his shirt up, ignoring the way her pulse jumped slightly when her fingers brushed over the bare, too cold skin of his torso. Lean muscle, pale scars, and a faint tremor that ran down his spine as the cold air hit his skin.
She worked quickly, pulling the damp fabric over his arms and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. And before he could start another round of weak protest, she strode to the chest near his bed, grabbed a pair of loose pants, and tossed them at him.
“Put those on.”
Kirigan caught the bundle against his chest, blinking at it as though she’d just thrown something entirely foreign into his lap.
He was quiet for a beat before speaking again, flatly. “Are you planning to watch?”
Alina crossed her arms. “Depends. Are you planning to collapse halfway through?”
He huffed out something that might have been amusement, had he had the energy for it. “I can manage trousers, Alina.”
She smirked. “Good. I’d rather not have to call for help to get your sorry ar—” She caught herself in the last possible moment. “—self, or worse, your naked self—off the floor if you miss the bed on the way down.”
She turned her back, hands on her hips. “And try not to die of exhaustion mid-change, would you? I’d never hear the end of that, either.” The words left her mouth, and in the same instant, she was surprised at herself. Saints. She didn’t know what had gotten into her. But she didn’t even feel guilty about it.
Behind her, there was a quiet, amused snort. “Someone save me”, he grumbled, then. “You’ve clearly spent far too much time with Ivan and Fedyor.”
Alina grinned.
The sounds behind her were sluggish, measured. The occasional uneven shift of weight, the soft drag of breath through his nose as though each movement took more effort than he cared to admit. The wet slap of his trousers finally hitting the floor, followed by a short stillness, then the whisper of dry fabric being pulled on.
Finally, the movements stopped.
Alina turned back.
Kirigan sat sunken on the edge of the bed, at least in dry pants, staring at nothing. The way he hunched, shoulders slumping forward—it wasn’t like him. He usually held himself with an easy grace, a quiet control. But right now, his body swayed slightly, unsteady in a way he didn’t seem to notice, as though even staying upright was too much to bear.
“Alright,” she murmured, moving back toward him. “Come on, you need to lie down.”
He didn’t react.
She hesitated, then reached out, pressing a light hand to his shoulder. “Aleksander.”
He shifted slightly, his eyes unfocused for a moment before they settled on her. It was like he’d been somewhere else entirely, and now, he was returning—slowly, reluctantly. There was something unguarded in his gaze, something worn and vulnerable in the way he looked at her, and it sent a strange, unsteady feeling through her chest.
But she didn’t let herself dwell on it.
Instead, Alina gathered the blankets and urged him backwards. He stiffened for half a second, but then his body betrayed him, enervation dragging him downward. The moment he sagged, she caught him, steadying him as she eased him onto the mattress. He was heavier than she expected—lean muscle and sheer exhaustion weighing him down.
He let her guide him; when he finally lay, his breath left him in a slow, quiet exhale—less surrender, more inevitability.
She had expected defiance. A sharp look. A wry comment. Some attempt at regaining control of the situation.
But there had been none.
He had let her help him. More than that—he had all but collapsed into it, as if the last bit of tension in him had finally snapped, as if he had no choice but to give in.
The realization struck her harder than she expected. Not just that he had let her help him, but how much he needed it—far more than he had ever let on. The effort it must have taken to hide this from everyone, to keep standing when others would have collapsed long ago— it almost physically hurt to see how well he’d concealed it.
He simply lay before her now, unmoving. There was no fight left, no resistance, just a quiet surrender.
She pulled the blankets over him, tucking them carefully around his slender frame. He didn’t react, it felt, as if the instant his head had touched the pillow, sleep had already begun to take him.
He wasn’t just tired. It seemed, he was bone-weary, the kind of exhaustion that settled into the marrow and refused to let go. He had fought too long, too hard, with no one to catch him when the battle ended; a man who had only ever known how to endure.
And right now, in this moment, he couldn’t anymore.
That unsettled her more than anything else.
She let her fingers brush against his temple, testing the temperature of his skin again. Cold. Still much too cold. Saints, no wonder he wasn’t fighting her on any of this—in this state he couldn’t have any strength left to care.
Alina bit her lip, exhaling softly. At least now, hopefully, he’d let himself rest.
Her hand ghosted through his damp hair, brushing it gently from his forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered, before she straightened up. But just as she was about to step away—
“Stay.”
Alina froze. The word, soft and almost fragile, hit her like a blow.
It wasn’t a command, no sharpness in his tone, no authority. It was something else. Something unexpected.
Her throat tightened as she turned back.
He had forced his eyes open again, just enough to meet her gaze before they shut once more. His chest barely rose with each shallow breath, as if even that was too much effort. A hand shifted, fingers lifting slightly before curling inward, as if he'd almost reached for her but thought better of it.
It was such a small thing. A movement that might have meant nothing if not for everything else. The exhaustion in his face. The way he had forced out that one word, like it had taken what little he had left.
She had seen him stand unshaken amidst horrendous battles. She had seen him command entire armies with effortless strength. She had seen him be everything the world needed him to be.
But she had never seen him like this. Asking. Pleading. Not as a General, not as the leader of the Second Army, but as Aleksander.
Alina hesitated only for a second before, without a word, she slipped beneath the blankets next to him. And as soon as she settled, the last of his strength gave out.
He simply sagged into her, heavy and unguarded. His head dropped onto her shoulder, his breath warm where it skimmed her collarbone.
Alina pulled him close without thinking, pressing her palms against his back, his shoulder. He didn’t speak, didn’t react, as though he had already sunk too deep to form words.
She lay still, barely daring to move as the weight of Kirigan’s body rested against hers. The contrast of his cold skin, still too chilled from the rain and exhaustion, despite the warmth of the blankets around them, made her acutely aware of how fragile his state was right now. Holding him like this was almost too much to bear—intimate in a way she hadn’t expected. His usual guarded, controlled self was gone, replaced by a vulnerable man who had quietly asked for comfort, for a moment of peace.
She swallowed, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along his back.
When was the last time he had slept? Truly slept, deep, unguarded, without the burden of command pressing down on him?
She wasn’t sure he even remembered.
Slowly, Alina shifted, her hand running lightly through his damp hair again, smoothing it from his forehead. His slender frame vibrated almost imperceptibly with his pulse, the tension beginning to ebb out of him in subtle waves. There was no resistance left in him, just an overwhelming need to rest, to retreat from the world for just a moment.
Alina let her eyes drift over his face, memorizing the way sleep softened the sharp intensity of his handsome features. He looked younger like this, stripped of the quiet severity he always carried. Less like the man who commanded armies and more like the boy he must have been once, before decades of war had carved steel into his bones.
Her grip on him tightened slightly, instinctive, protective.
He was warmer now. Safe. And for once, he wasn’t alone.
She had won this battle. Not with force, not with orders, but with patience. With the simple refusal to let him keep pretending.
Tomorrow, he would be Kirigan again, the unyielding General, the man who carried the weight of Ravka’s wars on his shoulders without hesitation.
But tonight, he was just Aleksander.
Alina closed her eyes, letting the quiet settle around them like a fragile peace she dared not disturb. Whatever came tomorrow— whatever darkness or pain or battle—
tonight, she would stay.
It was so magical. For all of us. Ben practically cried because one girl had a beautiful idea to give out colored post-it stickers for the mobile flashlights beforehand. They were all colors of the rainbow when he sang "slow it down". It looked stunnig! He thought that was a "german thing" only to be told: nope, we never do that. That's only for you.
There is a video on Intsagram that captures that moment. Maye one sees the colors not too well, but his reaction is priceless. If you are on Instagram I really encourage you to watch it: https://www.instagram.com/p/DGJuWouqtUH/
