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.
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.
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.
