I still remember the day he found me.
It was decades ago, long enough that the maps of Ravka have been redrawn twice over, in a damp, hostile village on the coast of West Ravka. Aleksander had been traveling incognito, gauging just how deeply the rot of secession and Grisha-hatred had settled into the western ports. He had underestimated a Fjerdan scouting party that had slipped past the northern borders.
When I stumbled upon him, the great Shadow Summoner was bleeding out in a ditch, his black cloak shredded and soaked in crimson.
I didn't know who he was. I only knew his heart was stuttering, a frantic bird behind a broken cage of ribs. I knelt in the mud and practiced the small science as I never had before. I didn't just mend his flesh; I could feel the very cells of his body moving, binding them back together with a precision that went beyond mere healing.
When his eyes flew open, he didn't thank me. He simply stared, realising what I was. "A healer," he had whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping over stone. "But no ordinary one."
He brought me back to the East, to the Little Palace. And when he realised the sheer, terrifying depth of my power, he decided I could not be allowed to die. Together with Baghra’s ancient, bitter guidance and the most brilliant Alkemi and Durasts Ravka had to offer, they bound my life force. They made me immortal.
A gift, I had thought then. A promise. But I quickly learned the truth: Aleksander did not give gifts. He made investments. He needed an eternal soldier. A commander who would never age, never tire, and never leave his side. And so, I became his shadow’s anchor.
Saints, I have loved him.
I have loved him through wars and winters, through the rise and fall of kings, through the silent nights in the Grand Palace where we spoke of a unified Ravka. I loved him with a quiet, devastating constancy that I kept locked behind a perfectly stoic mask. I knew my place. I was a Corporalki. I wore the red kefta of the living and the dead, even if mine was embroidered with the heavy gold thread of a commander. I was his most trusted weapon. Nothing more.
I watched him bring others to the Little Palace over the years. I watched Zoya Nazyalensky preen under his gaze, fueled by a fierce, youthful infatuation. I knew she would never succeed in holding him. Aleksander’s heart was a ruin; there was no room in it for the fleeting warmth of a mortal girl. I took comfort in that bitter truth. If I could not have him, at least no one else would.
The rumors had reached the war room first, but I didn't want to believe them. A Sun Summoner. A mapmaker's assistant from the First Army who had burned away the darkness of the Fold with a single scream.
When Alina Starkov was brought to the Little Palace, the atmosphere shifted. I stood in the balcony shadows, watching him look at her. It wasn't the look he gave Zoya, or Genya, or even me. It was the look of a man who had been drowning in the dark for a thousand years suddenly catching a glimpse of the shore. The only counter to darkness is light. The only balance for the shadow is the sun.
I am the greatest healer Ravka has ever known. I can knit bones, halt poison, and keep death at bay with a touch of my fingers. But I cannot summon the sun. I cannot be his equal. I am merely the hand that patches him up so he can return to the fight; she is the fight itself.
"You're quiet today, Commander."
The voice cut through the damp morning air of the stables. I straightened immediately, my hands pausing on the leather reins of my horse.
Aleksander stood at the entrance of the stable bay. The grey morning light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark wool of his kefta absorbing the dim illumination rather than reflecting it. He looked tired, but there was a quiet, restless energy vibrating beneath his skin.
"Just preparing for the day's training, General," I replied, keeping my voice smooth, professional, and devoid of the ache in my chest.
He stepped closer, the soft leather of his boots quiet against the straw. He stopped just inches from me, close enough that I could smell the familiar scent of winter air and dried ink that always clung to him.
"Alina needs to learn to ride," he said quietly. "Properly. Not the frantic scrambling of a First Army refugee, but with the grace of a Grisha. I want her comfortable in the saddle before we take her to the Fold."
He looked down at me, those dark eyes searching mine. For a fraction of a second, I wondered if he could hear the frantic rhythm of my heart, or if my centuries of practice had finally made me completely unreadable to him.
"I am putting her in your hands," Aleksander continued, his tone softening just enough to make my throat tight. "I trust no one else with her safety. Teach her. Keep her alive."
"Of course, General," I said, bowing my head. "It will be done."
He offered a brief, tight nod, his hand lingering on the wooden partition next to me for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he turned and swept out of the stables, his black cape billowing behind him like a gathering storm.
I adjusted the stirrups on Alina’s mare, my fingers working with a steady, practiced rhythm that defied the sudden tightness in my chest. Beside me, Alina was trying to soothe the beast, her movements nervous but eager. She was a quick learner. There was no arrogance in her, only the fragile, bewildered terror of someone who had been yanked from the mud and handed a crown she never asked for.
I respected her for it. I felt for her. I, too, had been pulled from the dirt of West Ravka, though my transition had been paved with blood and desperation rather than prophecy. I would never treat her with the petty, biting jealousy that Zoya had displayed during their first encounter. Alina was a Saint in the eyes of the people, and she was the key to everything Aleksander had ever dreamed of.
But as I mounted my own horse, a memory hovered in the air, bitter as winter frost.
“Please. Call me Aleksander.”
He had said it to her. So easily. With a quiet, disarming warmth that he usually reserved for the deepest recesses of the Little Palace, behind locked doors.
Apart from Baghra, I was the only person in the entire kingdom who knew his true name. His full name. Aleksander Morozova. Not just General Kirigan, not just the legendary Black Heretic who had torn the world in two, centuries ago, a truth Baghra had hissed into my ear decades ago in a desperate attempt to cure me of my devotion. But the heart is a wretched, stubborn thing. It didn’t care about his sins. It didn’t care that he was the monster of children's tales. When those endless dark eyes looked at me, when his touch burned cool against my skin, the history of his actions faded into nothing but background noise.
I had thought his name was our secret. A sacred, private thread binding our long, immortal lives together. Hearing him offer it to her, a girl he had known for mere days, was a silent blade to the ribs. A small, faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips as we trotted out of the courtyard. I couldn’t even tell if the smile was bitter or simply weary.
"Keep close, Alina," I called back softly, keeping my voice cordial, steady, and professional. "Let the reins breathe. Trust the horse, and he will trust you."
Our ride through the whispering woods was quiet. Fedyor and Ivan kept a vigilant distance, their eyes sweeping the canopy for Fjerdan assassins or Drüskelle scouts. I gave Alina room to breathe, letting her feel the wind on her face, knowing how suffocating the walls of the Grand Palace could be. I was a healer; if she fell, I could mend her before she even felt the pain.
But she didn’t fall. By the time we returned to the palace gates, she was riding with a natural, fluid grace that made a quiet spark of pride bloom in my chest.
"You did exceptionally well today," I told her, offering a genuine smile as I helped her dismount.
Alina beamed, her cheeks flushed with color. "Thank you, Commander. Truly. For... not being like the others."
I patted her shoulder, stepping forward to pull her into a brief, reassuring hug. "You belong here, Alina. Never forget that."
As I pulled back, one of the palace guards approached, bowing low. "Commander. The General requests your presence in the war room immediately."
I nodded, sending Alina off with Genya, who was already waiting nearby with a warm smile and a basket of silks. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted the cuffs of my red kefta and made my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Little Palace.
When I pushed the heavy oak doors of the war room open, the sight was entirely familiar. He was standing over the circular table, the massive, sprawling map of Ravka laid out before him.
"Yes, General?" I asked, stepping into the room.
Aleksander looked up, a fleeting look of surprise crossing his features. Alone in this room, for fifty years, I had always called him by his name.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his dark brow furrowing slightly. "Is Alina alright?"
Are you alright? seemed to hover on his tongue, hot and unspoken, before he pulled them back.
I forced a smooth, easy smile. "Yes, she is. I can assure you she can ride a horse herself now, without any assistance from you or me."
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he looked at me with a soft, rare warmth. "Good. You have always been an excellent teacher." He picked up a piece of parchment from the table, holding it out to me. "I need you to share this information with the first army camps."
I stepped forward and took the paper. My eyes widened slightly as I looked at the detailed sketch. It was a stag. An ancient, mythical creature. Morozova’s stag. An amplifier of unimaginable power.
"You're releasing this to the First Army?" I asked, looking up at him in confusion. "Anyone who hunts this down..."
"Will be rewarded," Aleksander finished smoothly. "Alina has been speaking non-stop of a tracker from her old regiment. Malyen Oretsev. He is skilled. If anyone can find the stag, it is him. And once he does, he will bring it to us."
He knew exactly how to play the board. He was using the girl’s loyalty to her friend to secure the ultimate prize.
"I see," I murmured, folding the parchment. "I will leave with Ivan right away toward the First Army camp."
I turned to go, but before I could take a step, Aleksander crossed the space between us. His movements were fluid, silent, and suddenly he was standing entirely too close. He was a shadow summoner, not a heartrender, but I knew he could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of my heart against my ribs.
"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made my resolve crumble.
"I am simply preparing to carry out your orders, General."
"I am not your General," he murmured, his eyes searching mine, dark and intense. "Not in here."
I looked up at his massive height, my chest aching with a familiarity that felt more like a bruise than a comfort. "You are my General in every corner of this territory, Aleksander. You know I promised that even if I have to die, I will do so to protect you, Ravka, and now... Alina."
At the sound of his name, and the mention of his precious sun summoner, his expression shifted. A shadow of pain, or perhaps frustration crossed his face. He reached out, his long fingers cool against my skin as he gently tucked a stubborn, stray curl behind my ear. His touch lingered, tracing the line of my jaw.
"That is the one promise I want you to break every single time," he whispered, his eyes locked onto mine. "We need you. I need you."
Because I am your healer, my mind whispered back, a bitter, silent refrain. Because if I die, who will stitch you back together when the world tears you apart?
A sharp knock on the heavy oak doors shattered the silence, pulling us apart like a physical blow.
"Come in," Aleksander called out, his voice instantly reverting to the cold, commanding tone of the leader of the Second Army.
He handed me the official dispatch seal, giving me a curt nod of dismissal as Fedyor entered the room, immediately launching into a report about border skirmishes. I bowed my head and slipped out into the corridor, the cool air of the hallway doing nothing to soothe the burning sensation where his fingers had touched my skin.
The ride to the First Army camp was cold and long. Ivan rode beside me in silence, his sharp, humorless gaze scanning the horizon.
My mind, however, was miles away, trapped in a spiral of dark math. If Alina found the stag... if she claimed the amplifier, she would become the most powerful Grisha Ravka had ever seen. She would be his equal. She would be his light.
And what happens to a healer when the soldier no longer gets hurt? What happens to the protector when the king is invincible?
He wouldn't need me anymore. The immortality he had so carefully crafted for me would become a prison, an endless stretch of centuries spent watching him rule at her side.
We reached the bustling, muddy expanse of the First Army camp. I dismounted and handed the dispatch containing the bounty on the stag to the commander of the regiment. As the commander barked orders to post the notice, I walked my horse slowly through the camp, my red kefta drawing weary, resentful stares from the ordinary soldiers.
Then, I felt it. A gaze heavier than the rest.
I turned my head slightly and there, standing by a weapon rack was a young man. He was lean, with sharp, desperate eyes that watched me with a volatile mix of hatred and intense curiosity. Malyen Oretsev. The tracker. The one Alina's heart still clung to.
I didn't speak to him. I simply held his gaze for a long, quiet second, seeing the raw, human pain in his eyes. He loved her, too. And like me, he was being left behind in the dirt while she was pulled into the heavens.
Mounting my horse, I turned back towards the east. But as we reached the crest of the hill, I reined in my mount and paused.
Across the horizon, cutting the world in two like a giant, jagged scar of black glass, was the Fold.
It was terrifying. It was a monument to sin, infested with monsters, a place of death and ruin. But looking at it now, bathed in the pale light of the afternoon, it was also beautiful. Deadly, deep, and utterly magnificent.
It pulled at me. It felt like a physical tug in my chest, a call from the dark to the dark. It was exactly like its creator.
Baghra had tried to warn me. She had told me he would ruin me, that he would use me until there was nothing left but dust. But as I stared at the towering wall of absolute shadow, I knew the warning had come centuries too late.
My heart belonged to the monster who made the dark. And even as the light threatened to wash us both away, I knew I would follow him straight into the abyss.
The Little Palace was suffocating under the weight of preparations and responsibilities.
The Winter Fete had arrived. For weeks, the halls had been a battlefield of logistics, and I had stood by Aleksander through every agonising second of it. I knew how he loathed these spectacles, the false smiles of the court, the preening of the nobles, the theatrical display of our people’s sacred gifts. But this year, the stakes were entirely different. Tonight, the Sun Summoner would be unveiled to the world. To our allies. To our hidden enemies. To everyone.
I stood in my quarters, staring at the presentation garment Genya had so graciously tailored for me. It was a stunning burgundy kefta, woven from the finest heavy wool, adorned with intricate gold floral embroidery that crept up the sleeves like climbing vines. It was the color of dried blood and royal favor.
But Saints, how I had wanted to wear black.
I wanted to drown myself in his color. I wanted to wear the absolute dark, to show the world whose anchor I truly was. But that privilege was no longer mine to dream of. The black was reserved for him, and soon, for the one who would stand as his equal. For her.
When I entered the Grand Hall, the atmosphere was electric. The spectacle itself was undeniable. When Alina raised her hands, the room erupted into a blinding, transcendent dawn. It was a physical warmth that chased away the damp chill of the Os Alta winter, a brilliant, breathtaking light that made the crystal chandeliers shatter the glow into a thousand diamonds. Watching her, I finally understood the look in Aleksander's eyes. I understood why he was drawn to her. She wasn't just a Grisha; she was a miracle.
But my chest caved in when the light finally receded. Even after the applause had died down, even as they moved towards the king and the queen, their hands remained tightly clasped. His long, pale fingers wrapped securely around hers.
I need a drink, I thought, the bitterness rising like bile in my throat. A very strong one.
During supper, the noise of the hall became a deafening drone. I sought refuge near the edge of the long dining tables, trying to fade into the background.
"I've been trying to speak with you for weeks."
The voice was smooth, laced with a familiar, dangerous charm. I turned to find Kaelen Volkov standing beside me, holding a goblet of wine. A handsome Materialki lieutenant, Kaelen was infamous within the Second Army for his fluid loyalties, siding with the Fjerdans when the tide turned north, and whispering sweet devotions to Ravka when he needed the sanctuary of the Little Palace. 'I'm doing this to gather intels from them' he always used to say.
I welcomed the distraction. More than that, I saw an opportunity. "Have you?" I asked, a sharp, polite laugh slipping past my lips.
"You always disappear before I have the chance," Kaelen murmured, stepping a fraction closer, his eyes raking over my burgundy kefta.
"I noticed." He smiled, the expression entirely too practiced. "I was wondering if you'd walk the gardens with me tomorrow."
I hesitated. Kaelen was a snake, but snakes carried venom from foreign lands. A walk in the gardens could yield vital information about the moving borders and what the Fjerdans were whispering on the coast.
"...I suppose one walk couldn't hurt," I replied softly.
Across the cavernous dining hall—
The sound of shattering obsidian glass cut through the music like a gunshot.
A sudden, dead silence swept through the entire room. The laughter died in the nobles' throats. The musicians froze. Every eye in the hall turned towards the head table.
General Kirigan stood perfectly still. At his feet lay the dark, glittering shards of his broken cup, dark wine staining the polished floor like fresh blood. His face was an absolute, terrifying mask of indifference. His voice, when he spoke, was entirely smooth, devoid of any tremor.
"...My apologies," he said, his gaze fixed forward, not looking at anyone. "It slipped."
The tension slowly drained from the room as people forced themselves back into casual conversation, chalking it up to the General's unpredictable temperament. But they hadn't seen what I saw. Only I noticed the shadows beneath his table, twisting and writhing like living, furious monsters, snapping at the air before dissolving back into the floorboards.
Alina was nowhere to be seen, likely whisked away by Genya and David to prepare for the late-night court rituals. I couldn't breathe in this room anymore. Turning on my heel, I abandoned Kaelen without a word and walked rapidly out of the main hall, desperate for the quiet isolation of my chambers.
I knew I wouldn't even make it past the adjacent corridor.
A hand, cold and unyielding as iron, wrapped around my wrist. Before I could call upon my small science to slow the heart of my assailant, I was pulled violently into the shadows, dragged down a hidden servant’s passage, and shoved into a room.
The familiar oak door slammed shut behind us, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, heavy snap.
It was his meeting room. The war room. The circular table sat in the center, its maps cast in deep shadow by the dying embers of the hearth.
"Have you lost your mind?" I snapped, my voice laced with pure, unadulterated fury as I yanked my wrist from his grip. "Dragging me out of the hall like a common thief? What is the meaning of this, General?"
Aleksander turned to face me, and for the first time in fifty years, he looked completely out of control. The shadows around his shoulders were bleeding outward, dark tendrils licking at the stone walls, escaping the tight cage of his restraint. His chest heaved, his breathing shallow and ragged.
"A walk in the gardens?" he hissed, his voice a dangerous, low growl that vibrated in the small room. "With Volkov? You think I don't know what he is? You think I don't know the way he looks at you?"
"He is a lieutenant of the Second Army, and I am a commander!" I shot back, stepping directly into his space, refusing to be intimidated by the darkness rolling off him. "I was seeking information! I do my duty to Ravka, just as you do yours!"
"He looks at you as if he has the right to touch you," Aleksander snarled, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, possessive violence. The shadows lashed out, knocking a silver chalice off the side table, sending it clattering across the floor. "Any man who looks at you like that... any man who thinks he can take what is mine... I will feed him to the volcra myself."
"I am not your property, Aleksander!" I yelled, the centuries of pent-up ache, anger, and grief finally tearing through my chest. "You don't get to play the jealous protector when it suits you! Not after tonight! Not after her!"
I reached out, my hands slamming against the front of his black kefta, intending to push him away. But the moment my fingers made contact with the dark wool, the ancient, biological bond of my small science took over. My touch, the unique frequency of my power that had sustained his immortal life for decades, acted like a dam against a flood.
The thrashing shadows instantly stilled. The darkness snapped back to his skin, clinging quietly to his coat like a shamed hound. His ragged breathing hitched, but I didn't back down. I was done.
"I don't understand you," I whispered, my voice breaking, raw and bleeding.
"Neither do I," he murmured, his voice suddenly losing its venom, leaving only a hollow, heavy exhaustion.
"You keep pushing me away."
Silence. He wouldn't look at me.
"You barely speak to me. You treat me like a stranger in front of your officers."
Silence again. The embers in the hearth popped, casting long, dancing orange reflections across his sharp cheekbones.
"You look at Alina differently."
That finally earned a reaction. It was tiny. Almost invisible.
His eyes closed tightly, a slight tremor passing through his jaw. "You believe that?"
"What else am I supposed to believe?" I cried, my hands still pressed against his chest, feeling the heavy, frantic pounding of his heart. "The entire palace whispers it! You hold her hand, you give her your name, you look at her like she is the dawn you’ve been waiting for! And what am I? The reliable old healer who keeps you alive so you can rule with your little saint?"
Aleksander looked away, turning his head toward the dark corners of the room. I could see the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed hard. Because he knew- he knew if he looked at me any longer, the carefully constructed mask of the Black Heretic would shatter into dust.
"I look at the Sun Summoner because the world watches me," his voice was incredibly quiet, a stark contrast to the fury of moments before. He slowly turned his head back, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "I look at you only when no one else can see."
I blinked, the anger dying in my throat, replaced by a sudden, disorienting confusion. "...What?"
Aleksander let out a laugh. It was a tired, ancient, aching sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand years of loneliness.
"I have lived longer than empires," he said softly, stepping closer until there was no space left between us. "I have watched every person I've ever loved turn to dust. I watched my friends die, my soldiers fall, my family wither away while I remained unchanged. I swore I would never allow that weakness again. I swore I would never let my heart be a vulnerability."
He finally met my eyes fully. The endless black orbs, usually so cold and unreadable, were brimming with tears. Tears of profound sadness, long-buried longing, and an anger directed at the cruel fate of our lives.
"And then you arrived," he whispered.
The raw honesty in his gaze stole the very breath from my lungs. My hands trembled against his chest.
"I kept my distance because my enemies study everything," he continued, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. He lifted his hand, his long, pale fingers hovering just an inch from my cheek, trembling slightly, as if he were genuinely afraid to touch me. "The Fjerdans, the Shu, the treacherous nobles in the First Army... they watch my every movement. If they knew what you were to me... if they realised that the greatest healer in Ravka wasn't just my soldier..."
His eyes swept over my face, tracing every detail. "They would use you. They would break you to get to me. They would force me to choose between the future of our people and your life. And I do not wish to burn any more kingdoms."
"Alina is a beacon," he murmured, eyes closed and voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "The world requires a saint. They require a spectacle of light, and I will give them one. I will stand at her side because the Fold demands it. I will be the shadow to her sun, the weight to her balance. But a companion?"
He opened his eyes, the endless black orbs gleaming with a fierce, possessive certainty that made my breath catch.
"She is a means to an end. A celestial tool to rewrite history. But she will never know the boy who fought wars to protect Grishas. She will never hold the name Morozova with anything but fear." His long fingers tangled into my hair, pulling me flush against him. "You look at her and see a queen. I look at her and see a weapon. But you... I hid you in this red because if the world knew you were my weakness, they would tear Ravka apart just to see me weep."
I looked up at him, the stubborn curls of his hair falling into his eyes, my heart aching with a profound, terrifying realisation. He would never love Alina. He would never give her his soul. But he would still spend his days under the scrutiny of the world, tied to her light, while I remained in the dark.
"An anchor stays at the bottom of the sea, Aleksander," I whispered against his lips. "While the ship sails."
"Then let me drown the seas," he promised, his grip tightening until it was almost painful, "before I let the tide take you."
The restraint he had weaponised for centuries finally vanished and the next thing I knew, Aleksander closed the distance between us with his hands capturing my jaw with a grip that bordered on bruising.
Beneath his skin, the darkness went feral. I could feel the violent static of his power screaming to be let loose. His shadow demons clawed at the edges of the room, desperate to swell outward, to rise up and engulf the two of us in a cocoon of eternal, impenetrable night where the watchful eyes of the court could never find us. They wanted to swallow us whole, to bury his weakness where no enemy could ever strike.
But my hands were already moving, gripping the lapels of his black kefta, my fingers digging into the heavy wool. I commanded the frantic, erratic rhythm of his heart to stabilise. The moment my power flooded his system, the roaring shadows whimpered and coiled back into his skin. It was a humiliating realisation for a man who ruled an army, the sheer amount of control my touch held over his physical form.
A low, frustrated growl vibrated in his throat at the forced submission of his magic, making the kiss turn rougher, deeper, fueled by a desperate necessity. His hands slid down my waist, lifting me effortlessly from the floor as if I weighed nothing at all. He swept his arm across the circular war room table, sending maps of Ravka, iron markers, and historical dispatches crashing to the stone floor in a chaotic clatter.
Without breaking the suffocating connection of our lips, he slammed me down onto the dark wood of the table, crowding his massive frame between my thighs, pinning me beneath the absolute weight of his devotion.
The heat of him was overwhelming, a dark furnace pressing into my body. He kissed me as if he wanted to consume me, as if he could crawl inside my skin and hide from the centuries of isolation that had warped his soul.
My lungs screamed. I was immortal, but I was still flesh and bone. I still needed air. With a breathless gasp, I wrenched my mouth away from his, my head falling against his shoulders. My chest heaved, taking in sharp, desperate gulps of oxygen as his lips immediately dragged down the column of my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right over my pulse point, the very pulse that beat only for him.
"So," I murmured, a soft, tearful smile finally breaking through my defenses, "you do feel something."
A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his beautiful eyes looking back into mine, savouring the moment.
"I have loved you so quietly," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin, "that even you believed I did not."
"How could I when you always went back to the saint."
"Let them have their Saint," Aleksander growled softly into my skin, his fingers tightening against my hips as if anchoring himself to the earth. "Let them bow to the light. The world will see me at her side, but they will never know that the dark belongs entirely to you."
Note: A radome lore that came to my mind. Just for the sake of this, I have not incorporated any of the evil/problematic choices that Kirigan made to achieve his goal. The original one is a twisted failed hero. I just love Bin Bons and his portrayal of the general.
Uhhh tagging my usual gang on this one too? 😭
@marvelfamily3000 @cakiebleh @twinblueflamee @tojisloft @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @bobcuts-blog @celestecelina @veilofvalor @ninnimouse @mainyahaankyunhoon @qalamband @perfectcherryblossomrebel @moonysscar @athena-roy @teenagenerdrascalsports-blog @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @bxtchyrose @abolitionistlawpluscoffee @transunset @hereforfanfictionsfr @debsreads21 @sarcastic-ravenpuff @gehra-hua @miraclejin1204
