#ALTA chapter 1

[welcometololaland]

SNIPPET OF ALTA - CHAPTER 1 (TO BE POSTED 1 OCTOBER)

“Damon Green,” Marjan continues, looking over at the group and rapping her fingernails against the plastic tabletop. “He’s in my chemistry class. Seems like an asshole.”

“Definitely,” Carlos agrees. “His mom wrote that song about a tractor being sexy? It’s a hit around here.”

Marjan snorts a dry laugh. “You’ll have to play it for me one time. Will it be played at prom?”

“Who knows,” Carlos retorts. “I won’t be there.”

“Why not? You could ask Damon,” Marjan teases, and Carlos tries his best to cover his panic with a cautious smile. He’s never told anyone that he’s ninety-nine percent sure he's gay. Carlos is seventeen and has never even kissed a boy, yet he spirals about being outed on a regular basis. It’s a secret that he keeps very tightly locked up.

“No thanks,” he replies. “I’d rather eat my own arm.”

Marjan wrinkles her nose. “Okay, what about me? As friends, obviously.”

“Not that you wouldn’t be a fantastic date, but I’d be worried about ruining whatever scrap of credibility you have left after hanging out with me at lunch.”

“So benevolent,” Marjan smirks. “Hey, what's the deal with TK Strand?”

“His dad makes ten million a picture,” Carlos says carefully. “You’ve probably seen him all over the TV in big-budget Westerns or action films. He does all of his own stunts and everything.”

“Cool,” Marjan nods. “The son of an action hero. I imagine that’s popular with the ladies.”

“TK is popular with everyone,” Carlos admits. “Although, sometimes I wonder whether there’s something he’s hiding.”

“You think?” Marjan asks, eyeing TK shrewdly in Carlos’ peripherals. “Looks like a regular high school jock to me.”

Carlos shrugs. “Every school has a poor little rich kid,” he murmurs. “He’s ours.”

[stromuprisahat]

Siege and Storm- Chapter 22 (Leigh Bardugo)

This would hit differently if:

a.) Alina's "Grisha" didn't mean barely a tenth of Ravkan Second Army. And that's just a small group in a single country.

b.) Remaining majority wasn't turned into a faceless mass of canon fodder as soon as they become "The Darkling's Grisha".

Out of these five mentions, only the last one requires specification to make a distinction between those following the Darkling and another group.

c.) Alina took time to get to know at least her tiny group, so her concern would seem more genuine. In other words- the story lacks build-up.

[blackiron11]

Death's Lover - Chapter 1

or

A longer look on the emmy nominee series "Agnes of Westview"

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Prologue

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2026

No episódio de hoje de "Agnes de Westview":

Oh cidadezinha mais ou menos. Argh, as coisas que ela tinha que fazer por causa do seu trabalho... E ela nem recebia por isso!

Rio suspirou, enquanto passava pela placa de entrada de Westview. Wanda fez um estrago e tanto na cidade, Rio teve que parabenizá-la algum dia, ela era uma força a ser reconhecida; Três anos depois e esse lugar ainda precisava de bons reparos. O pessoal daqui também tinha espírito, basicamente todas as casas da rua principal tinham algo como "Wanda fede" ou "Morra, Maximoff".

A mulher encarou o papel em sua mão, conferindo o endereço de Agatha mais uma vez, antes de vê-la no final da rua brincando de detetive, ao que tudo indicava. Já que ela estava de pijama e um colar com um distintivo falso. Rio a observou enquanto ela analisava o que parecia ser o jardim do seu vizinho. O homem ao seu lado participava da fantasia junto com ela. Patético.

Rio revirou os olhos, se perguntando mais uma vez se isso era mesmo necessário. Ela estava aqui apenas por ordens superiores, mas a que interessava seus chefes que Agatha Harkness recuperasse seus poderes? Não é como se a bruxa fosse ser aceita nos Vingadores ou algo assim.

Bem, ordens são ordens. E quanto mais cedo ela se livrasse de Agnes, mais cedo poderia procurar por S/N. Depois que o blip de Thanos foi desfeito, as coisas se acalmaram, então a Morte finalmente podia relaxar seu lado. E ela sentia tanto sua falta que o coração dela doía.

Rio viu que Agatha ia em direção a uma cafeteria e aproveitou para falar com o vizinho.

"Por que vocês estão ajudando-a? Não sabem tudo que ela fez?" Rio perguntou arqueando as sobrancelhas.

"Ah, você sabe. Agn-- Agatha era uma boa vizinha. Prestativa" Herb falou sem se importar de nunca ter visto Rio antes. As pessoas gostam de fofocar. "O que Wanda fez foi errado, estamos apenas cuidando dela até que a SWORD consiga reverter o feitiço"

"Prestativa", certo. Vidal riu internamente, ela quase tem pena dessas pessoas. Agatha veio para Westview logo depois de Wanda. Tudo que ela fez aqui era somente a persona de Agnes O'connor em ação. E deve ter sido uma atuação muito boa para todos gostarem dela. Além disso, a SWORD não estava nem um pouco preocupada em tirar Agatha dessa ilusão. Por tudo que a bruxa fez, ela estava basicamente em prisão domiciliar.

Escolhendo não falar sobre isso, a mulher apenas concordou

"Certo, certo. Que seja" ela assentiu "E o que ela está fazendo ultimamente?"

"Ah, acho que agora ela é detetive. Acredito que está investigando a morte de Wanda. Nem sempre entendo o que ela quer dizer" o homem respondeu incerto.

"Sei..." continuou "e isso seria o corpo de Wanda?" Eles olharam para o jardim que Agnes parecia tão submersa antes. Herb apenas deu à mulher um sorriso sem graça.

"Se importa?" Rio tirou o celular do bolso antes mesmo de Herb concordar. Se Agnes achava que essas flores eram o corpo de Wanda, talvez essas fotos fossem importantes.

Passados alguns minutos, houve uma gritaria na cafeteria. Com certeza era Agnes causando confusão. Rio se dirigiu para lá a passos largos - Herb esquecido e ignorado - e entrou no estabelecimento a tempo de ouvir Agatha gritar para a atendente, perguntando onde ela estava ontem à noite; depois olhou para a parte dos cardápios e foi embora correndo.

Rio se dirigiu até o balcão, uma ideia em mente.

"Você pode imprimir essas fotos para mim?" Dottie a olhou desconfiada, pronta para dizer que ali não era uma gráfica "É para Agatha" Rio mascarou um sorriso doce.

---------------------

Vidal estava parada na frente da casa de Agnes, tomando coragem para entrar. Passou pelo quintal com algum custo. Estava uma bagunça, lixo por todo lado e grama alta. Aparentemente Agnes não tinha deveres domésticos.

A Morte entrou sem bater, encontrando Agatha sentada na sala falando com a parede e decidiu falar alguma coisa antes que começasse a gargalhar.

"Cheguei!" - Rio decidiu uma abordagem mais amigável

"Sujeita chique sempre atrai atenção dos federais" - Agnes falou ainda sem olhar para sua ex

Era assim que ela a via? Mesmo na ilusão, ela via sua ex como alguém mais poderosa, isso é interessante.

"Vai te ferrar, Chefe" - Rio não aguentou e dessa vez soltou uma risadinha. Tinha que entrar no jogo para saber até onde ia esse feitiço.

"Quanto tempo, né?" - ainda doía pensar que essa frase era verdadeira. Fazia séculos que não via Agatha. Desde que...

"O que faz aqui?" - retrucou Agnes, cruzando os braços

"Meu trabalho?"

"Você quer controlar minha investigação?"

"Não, você pode estar no controle, se é isso o que quer" Rio tentou dar opções, mas não pôde deixar de encará-la por um instante.

Agatha tinha olheiras fundas, cabelo despenteado. Claramente não estava bem. Wanda deixava as pessoas viverem no Hex. Isso foi bem mais... pessoal.

"É assim que você se vê?" A mulher mais velha perguntou, um tanto preocupada. Infelizmente, mesmo depois de tudo, Vidal ainda se preocupava com essa bruxa.

Agnes parecia perdida com a pergunta, e franziu a testa.

"Certo, vamos falar do caso" ela não queria forçar muito. Pegou as fotos que imprimiu e jogou na mesa. "Não tem rastros do corpo, pode ter aparecido lá por magia" talvez essas palavras despertassem alguma coisa em sua ex

"Vamos focar na realidade, aqui" revirou os olhos "é tudo sobre a história do corpo, quem ela era, onde morava, os segredos que escondia"

"E quem melhor que uma cria de Eastview para desvendar isso?" Rio trocou o nome de propósito "você morou aqui sua vida toda, não é verdade, Agnes?" Talvez ela estivesse indo rápido demais.

Agnes olhou no fundo dos olhos da mulher à sua frente. "Eu não quero você aqui" se levantou e abriu a porta da frente de casa - ou a que deveria ser do escritório, Rio supôs.

Ficou claro que não conseguiria mais nada agora, então ela foi embora, mas antes: "Te veo"

---------

Rio não foi embora de verdade. Um pouco depois, Agatha saiu de casa e Rio entrou pela janela. Ela queria saber se ainda tinha alguma magia do darkhold aqui, talvez tivesse algo para reverter o feitiço. A bruxa verde saiu abrindo cada porta da casa à procura de algo importante - por que Wanda fez uma casa enorme dessas para só duas pessoas estava além da compreensão de Rio - e... Ah.

Ah...

Vidal se arrependeu de ter aberto a porta instantaneamente. Era o quarto dele... Nicky. Ela prendeu a respiração por um momento e as lembranças a invadiram em cheio. O único dia que ela não queria ser a Morte, foi quando teve que levá-lo. Ela não queria fazer isso, ele era somente uma criança. Infelizmente era sua hora.

Nicky é seu único arrependimento. O motivo pelo qual Agatha e ela terminaram. Claro que a mulher teria recriado seu quarto. Mesmo nesse lugar.

Agatha foi a primeira mulher que ela amou, mas depois de tudo que a bruxa disse para ela, depois de tudo que a mais nova fez... Rio tentou explicar à época, Agatha não entendeu. Rio não a culpava, sabia que deveria ser difícil ver um filho partir; porém não deixou de doer, ainda doía.

Harkness a culpou e provavelmente a culpa até hoje pela morte de seu filho. Mesmo sabendo que Rio não era responsável por tirar a vida de alguém. Nesse dia, o coração de Rio se quebrou e passou décadas pensando que a Morte nunca seria digna de amar e ser amada, até conhecer sua doce S/N.

Ela se sentou na beira da cama, com os olhos lacrimejando e segurou um desenho que ele havia feito todos aqueles séculos atrás, agora conservado por magia. Um desenho dos três juntos, "Nicky, Tia Rio e Mamãe" era o que estava escrito.

"Eu sinto muito", ela sussurrou, como se ele ainda pudesse ouvir. Como se ela não tivesse dito isso o caminho todo, enquanto recolhia sua alma. Foi ele quem a consolou no final.

Nicholas Scratch era o mais próximo do que ela jamais teria de um filho. Ela conheceu e se apaixonou por Agatha pouco tempo depois que ele nasceu. Rio ajudou a cuidar dele tanto quanto conseguiu, seu trabalho sempre foi muito puxado, mas pelo menos uma vez por semana conseguia ver seu menino. Eles foram felizes por bons cinco anos.

Ver esse quarto agora mexeu com a Morte. Ela quase esqueceu seu propósito aqui. Se não fosse o barulho de Agatha voltando para casa, Rio ainda ficaria ali um bom tempo.

-------

Vidal pegou uma caixa de pizza vazia do quintal e tocou a campainha de Agnes dessa vez. Ela não precisava se alimentar. E tinha certeza que Agatha estava com a cabeça tão fértil que veria pizza nessa caixa.

Agnes abriu a porta e tinha a mesma roupa que estava de manhã. Ninguém toma banho no Hex?

Rio sorriu. "Sabia que é uma verdade universal que uma policial não pode ser boa no trabalho e ter uma vida pessoal saudável ao mesmo tempo?"

Ela estava quase sem aguentar estar na frente de quem a fez tanto mal, mas quanto mais rápido ela tirasse Agatha do feitiço, mais rápido esse pesadelo acabava.

"Ótimo, eu estou com fome" Agnes deixou-a entrar e sentaram na sala. Dessa vez, Rio percebeu que realmente estavam na casa dela, segundo sua ilusão.

Agatha falou alguma coisa de tiktok e a mulher apenas riu sem graça. Ela não entendeu nada do que Agnes queria dizer com isso.

"Enfim, eu tenho uma teoria sobre o caso"

"Por isso que eu vim aqui" Rio jogou verde, enquanto fingia tomar qualquer coisa que fosse, no copo vazio que Agatha lhe deu. "Mas pode falar"

"Teve um acidente a uma hora daqui. Tinha sangue no carro"

"Onde?"

"Eastview"

"Eastview?" Rio repetiu "Pensei que você virava abóbora fora de casa" instigou

"Eu já viajei para vários lugares" Agnes retrucou

"Quais?" Agnes abriu a boca para responder, mas não saiu nada. Por que ela não conseguia se lembrar?

"Posso te fazer uma pergunta?" Agatha assentiu, atordoada. "Você se lembra por que me odeia?"

Rio viu ela tentar pensar "Não..."

"Está apenas mentindo para si mesma" Rio tentou.

Agnes ia responder, mas foi interrompida por um barulho e correu. A morte revirou os olhos. Estava tão perto.

---------

Agnes voltou com um garoto, colocou ele na sala e veio conversar com Rio na cozinha. Rio sentiu a energia dele. Ora, ora... Se não é Billy Maximoff voltando dos mortos. Rio deu a ele um sorriso predador.

Interessante que Agatha não conseguia ouvir o nome dele mesmo dentro do feitiço do Hex.

"Por "condecorada", você quer dizer em "suspensão não remunerada?" Perguntou Billy.

Rio sorriu, ele também tinha feito sua pesquisa. Garoto esperto.

"O que tava procurando na minha casa?"

"O respeito dos seus colegas e uma vida sexual satisfatória, mas você não tem nenhum dos dois"

Rio não esperava isso, então ela riu antes de impedir Agnes de machucar Billy ainda mais. Ela fez um sinal de negativo da cozinha, mas o que raios Agatha olhava tanto para o quadro da sala?

"Vou repetir mais uma vez, o que você está procurando?"

"O caminho"

Isso surpreendeu a Morte. O garoto tinha acabado de se esquivar dela e já queria correr novamente para seu domínio? Essa é nova.

"Que caminho?" Ela ouviu Agnes perguntar

"Eu não sei, você quem mais deve saber"

------

"Do que você está falando? São só flores"

Rio decidiu pegar uma cerveja de verdade e apreciar o show. Ficou claro que ela não precisaria fazer nada para ajudar Agnes, a cria Maximoff tinha tudo sob controle

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"Caso encerrado, então?" Rio perguntou mais tarde naquela noite, vendo Agnes no "necrotério" - apenas um dos quartos da casa, cheios de flores do jardim de Herb.

"Como ela morreu?"

"Pergunta errada. Aquela bruxa se foi, levando todas as cópias do darkhold e deixando você num feitiço distorcido. Mas não precisa ficar aqui"

"Tá calor aqui" Agnes estava se abafando e tirando roupas metafóricas

"Isso! Usa as garras e sai. Havia duas desconhecidas nesse caso, e você sabe o nome dela. Qual é o seu?" Rio soltou sua última cartada.

Demorou um pouco para perceber que Agnes estava se aceitando Agatha Harkness e realmente estava tirando toda sua roupa.

Rio fechou os olhos em respeito, correu do quarto e fechou a porta. "S/N, S/N, S/N, S/N, S/N" Ela repetia seu nome como um mantra na mente. Você não poderia culpa-la por estar nervosa, se soubesse. Agatha é uma visão e tanto. E mesmo a Morte tem olhos.

Vidal não ouviu mais barulho do outro lado, então presumiu que Agatha desmaiou de cansaço. Ela passou pelo armário, ouvindo o garoto tentar pedir ajuda, mas nada fez. Sabia que Agatha precisaria dele para recuperar os poderes. Ela voltaria amanhã.

-------

Como Rio não perderia uma boa entrada, ela explodiu a porta da Ex Agnes e entrou. Ela também agradeceu por Agatha já estar vestida. Sai para lá, tentação.

Rio pressionou Agatha contra a parede, a faca perto de seu pescoço.

"Sentiu saudade?" Perguntou jocosa

"Eu te amo" A bruxa respondeu

O quê? Rio quase perdeu o foco. O feitiço tinha algum dano colateral?

Não importa, ela tinha um trabalho a fazer.

"Quanto tempo faz, Agatha? Desde que você adquiriu o darkhold e me deixou? Mas agora você o perdeu e está vulnerável"

Rio tinha lágrimas nos olhos, mas mesmo assim forçou a faca até tirar um filete de sangue de sua ex.

"Só fisicamente" a bruxa reagiu e bateu sua cabeça parede

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"Você adora isso... A expectativa" Agatha disse, se aproximando dela.

Rio deu um passo para trás, tentando colocar alguma distância entre elas. Qual era o joguinho dela? Fazer Rio se apaixonar novamente? Isso não iria acontecer. Agora e para todo o sempre, a Morte só queria você.

"Ok, Agatha, mas eu vou contar a elas onde você está"

Presentinho dos superiores.

"Quem, especificamente?" Agatha se aproximou mais para tirar o cabelo do rosto de Rio, mas ela se esquivou.

"As Sete de Salém. Finalmente Agatha Harkness vai encontrar seu fim, chega a aquecer o meu coração".

Ela disse isso da boca para fora. A morte de Agatha não lhe traria felicidade ou Nicholas de volta, mas pelo menos mãe e filho estariam reunidos.

"Você não tem coração"

"Sim, eu tenho, mas ele não bate mais por você." Somente por você, S/N. Vidal pensou, saudosa.

Rio pegou a mão da bruxa e apertou seu corte, lembrando a Agatha que ela também sabe causar dor.

A morte empurrou sua ex pro lado e saiu da casa com apenas um "Te veo".

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Chapter 2

Só a título de curiosidade, Westview ainda está assim, porque Pepper parou de ser idiota e de dar dinheiro para o controle de danos dos vingadores.

Também não entendi para onde eu fui com esse capítulo. Era para ser só a perspectiva de Rio das coisas, mas acabou se juntando ao meu prompt 8.

Ah, fico muito feliz em saber que algumas pessoas leram a história e gostaram. Obrigada, gente 😊

Acredito que vou fazer 9 capítulos. Tentarei postar 1 ou 2 por semana.

O que eu não descrever durante os capítulos, significa que é igual ao Canon.

Agora tô achando que usei espaçamento de menos, ai que ódio

[jestersjitters]

¿Tiene este fanart de Sanji algo que ver con este fanfic? No, pero por fin me gusta un coloreado que hice y quería subirlo a la vez que promociono mis trabajos de ao3. Apenas hoy me dieron de alta del hospital por una operación nasal para respirar bien, todavía sigo con la cara vendada pero estaba aburrido de estar en cama por tanto tiempo, de todas formas sigo con las recomendaciones de los profesionales y mi salud está mejorando rápidamente.

Cuídense <3

[dearmantis]

I'm not the devil

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x Durast!Reader

Summary: Things only get worse now that you've left the savety and familiarity of the Little Palace.

Warnings: attempted murder, murder, death of animals, skinning of animals, breaking bones, gun violence

Word Count: 4.6k

Authors' Note: I definitely have to go back and edit the old parts after the last chapter is out. Also, I'm heavily overpowering the Fabrikators in this fic, but honestly, who cares. They get barely any love from the canon material, so I think I deserve to have some fun in fanfiction. This isn't edited/proofread and I'm not a native English speaker.

Part 1 | Previous Part | Series Masterlist

It begins to snow shortly after you leave Os Alta behind. Thick, heavy snowflakes drop from the sky like a wall, and for a few hours you're genuinely worried that mother nature decided to start the ravkan winter with a devastating snowstorm, debating if it would be better to hide in the city for a while.

But before you can actually decide to turn around, you remember that Kirigan has the entire Little Palace at his disposal. Finding deserters and bringing them back no matter what is an honour for some of the Grisha there. A chance to prove themselves and their loyalties to the Second Army and General Kirigan.

The Heartrenders would be able to find you quickly if you decide to hide in or around Os Alta, picking up on the panicked heartbeat of someone hiding in a tavern or in the woods, and Squallers can make the travel through the thick snow easier for the General.

They also have horses, which makes them a lot more mobile and faster than you are right now.

You have to use the limited time you have until someone notices your absence from the Palace to create as much distance between yourself and the General as possible if you want to have any chance at escaping and living out the rest of your life in anything at least kind of resembling peace.

So you move further north, walking as quickly as you can to keep your body warm and get away from the only home you have ever truly known. Away from your friends, your family, your bed, your books, your research, your everything.

You think about returning home to your biological family for a while, but you know that he will look there first. In two days soldiers of the second army are going to stand in front of the house of your family in Duva, the house you were born in, and search the place for clues of your location, unaware of how little contact you've had with your family over the past few years.

No, you can't go there. Never again, probably. That chapter of your life has been forcefully closed, and no matter how much you might want to, you don't think you will ever be able to pry it open and revisit it. Not anymore. Not after all of this. Never again.

There are only three places in the world the General will not follow you to. You know this as well as every other Grisha.

Fjerda and Shu Han, due to the absolutely horrendous political situation between the two countries and Ravka, which would lead to him being reprimanded by the king if word came out that he send his Grisha – or himself – into the neighboring countries just to catch a deserter, and literally anything on the other side of the Fold.

You don't think you'll make it over the mountains in the south, so you move northwest, planning to stop in Ulensk before moving further up north to Fjerda or west through the fold to West Ravka, all depending on the situation in Ulensk and whatever seems more convenient and safer in the moment.

It's going to take a week to get to Ulensk on foot, because while you did remember to steal the winter coat of a servant to wear instead of your kefta, you did not think of stealing a horse.

You don't stop walking on your first day away. No, you walk and walk and walk until you lose feeling in the lower part of your legs, and even then, you don't stop, speeding up instead in hopes of heating up your body. It snows the whole day and night, thick flakes dropping from the sky as if the clouds have an endless supply of water collected in them, and the world around you transforms into pure white in the matter of a few hours.

The temperatures don't go above freezing during the day and the night only brings more frost, meaning the snow stays, piling up higher and higher while you attempt not to leave a trail, trying to stay in the steps of the people from nearby villages as much as possible in hopes of confusing anyone who may follow.

You fall asleep during your first break between the benches of a forgotten chapel, covered by a tapestry depicting one of the lesser known saints while you watch the shadows move and stretch on the dust covered walls. The fabric is so old and dirty that you can't recognize who it's supposed to honour.

You dream of bleeding out in a lake, dark eyes watching you as you struggle to breathe and beg for your life.

Throughout your travels, you can't stop chastising yourself, mind going over every single stupid mistake you've made that has led you to this situation in the first place over and over again. Cursing the names of the General and your own over and over again.

Homeless and alone, and it's all your fault.

The bag on your shoulder is surprisingly heavy, digging into your skin despite the many layers you put on before Baghra dragged you out of the Palace and sent you off. All you have with you is two bottles of water, a pouch full of nuts, some money, tea leaves, and half a loaf of bread. You can't bring yourself to complain.

It's not like the woman had much time to make you a care package that could keep you alive until you reach Fjerda. You should honestly be glad that she packed you anything at all. That she bothered to warn you of the General.

With every step you take north the snowflakes seem to grow heavier and heavier, slowly taking your sight until the only way you can still tell where you are is through the Small Science, your powers reaching out to trace along the trees, the metals sleeping deep in the ground and the bones of people in nearby villages and distant cities to keep track of your location and progress.

Less and less villages start to appear in your vicinity after a while, which means that after day five, you're not only drowning in snow, but you're also entirely alone. You've been lucky until now, always able to find firewood and a save place to sleep, usually close to a village in some form of abandoned shed, but so far up north it's almost impossible to sense anything close. People are scared to live in small villages so close to the border, and even more scared to pray to the saints, so you doubt you will be able to find a place to sleep tonight.

The only upside is that the weather has finally calmed down a bit. The snowflakes are still thick, but you finally don't feel like you're wandering through the forests of Ravka blindly. Travelling is still slow due to the deep snow that refuses to melt away, but at least you're able to see where you're going.

It's the middle of the night between day five and six when you finally pick up the feeling of bones and metal moving close by, your eyes noticing faint light between the trees only seconds later. You briefly wonder how how didn't notice them miles ago, the ache in your bones and heaviness in your eyes answering you a heartbeat later when you move to hang your bag up on a branch and get into position to fully use your powers.

You're absolutely exhausted. The cold has found its home in your bones and muscles days ago, and the fact that you're also getting closer and closer to the fold isn't helping, it's looming, dominant power distracting you sometimes.

The fact that you haven't frozen to death yet, that you've always been able to always find a roof to cover your head when you had to rest, is a miracle. You have only ever managed to sleep for a maximum of three hours, plagued by nightmares of gruesome death, but at this point you're thankful for any break, no matter how short. A bigger miracle than anything you could ever even hope to achieve with the Forbidden Science, you're sure of it.

There's a whisper in the back of your mind that questions if it may have been better to stay in the Little Palace. Sure, the General would've probably executed you for your experiments by now, but then you wouldn't feel like you're three minutes away from freezing to death. Your muscles wouldn't be screaming at you like this. You wouldn't be starving.

The camp in front of you seems small, based on the few quiet noises you hear, so you reach out to count the people, just in case it's a small family. There have been reports of people fleeing the villages near the borders in order to get closer to the safety that Os Altas proximity provides through the royal guard and the second army, and you don't want to take resources from a family on the run, especially not one with kids, no matter how desperate you might be.

Your power crawls through the trees like invisible fog, following your command as you count the moving, living things in the little camp, then their equipment.

Three men.

Three tents.

Two bags with water bottles and food.

Three guns.

Three sleeping... dogs? Wolves?

No. Too big.

Three Isenulf.

The fact that the beasts haven't woken up yet is another miracle to add to your never ending list, but you're barely able to focus on that as a wave of fear threatens to take over your mind. The sudden rush of adrenaline makes you a bit dizzy, your body overwhelmed after getting so little food, water, and rest over the past few days.

Drüskelle. This is a camp of witchhunters. Witchhunters who will kill you the second they notice that you're close by.

Your mind works faster than usual, your thoughts almost too fast for you to grasp as you try to come up with a plan. The smartest move would be to go, to leave the camp behind and disappear between the trees, making a big detour around the Drüskelle and their horrible pets, but that would probably delay you even more. Another day to spend in this unending, ruthless weather, starving slowly to death.

The little food you have left will not be able to keep you going for much longer, and your clothes barely keep you warm at this point. Sure, the Drüskelle might kill you, but if you don't get their food and the warmth of their fire you'll be dead tomorrow.

Before you can stop yourself you move towards the closest tree, using your powers to silenty bend the wood into a better position, and climb up until you sit high up, body hidden away from sight by the many needles decorating the spruce.

In the distance you can see the fold towering over Ravka. The ink black wall that splits Ravka into two, it's darkness so all consuming that you can still make it out during this moonless night. The merzost keeping it stable and in position hums almost, with a strength so noticeable that you can feel it even before fully waking your powers. It almost feels like a friend standing behind you and cheering you on silently, as stupid as it might sound. It gives you strength you need right now.

Taking a deep breath to calm your keyed up nerves, you reach out to try and grab hold of the vertebrae of one of the Isenulf, the warnings of one of your teachers echoing loudly in your mind.

These are not normal wolves. They are bread to be immune to the powers of heartrenders. If you see one of them you will have to run. Your fellow Grisha will not be able to protect you.

But are they immune to the powers of a curious and powerful Durast as well? You have never done this before, never tried to break bone the way you break metal into smaller pieces to make working with it easier. Will you be able to do it? Can a Fabrikator really control something in the human body? Shatter it like glass?

Are we not all things?

Your fingers cramp up a bit when you force your left hand into a fist, and you can hear a yelp a few metres below you.

The formerly calm and peaceful Drüskelle camp wakes, the men grab their guns and yell orders at the two remaining Isenulf. You grab hold of the pelvis of the next wolf before you even know what you're doing, breaking it into pieces half a second later.

The breaks are not as clean as metal, the bones a bit softer than you anticipated. You never had the privilege of working with bones in the Little Palace, aside from your experiments with the dove, and it shows now.

You're about to reach out for the third when a shot rings through the air, your body involuntarily flinching. The witchhunters don't realize where you sit, their attention glued to the ground level while they fire more shots into the shadows of the forest. If one of them looks up for just a second, they might notice your eyes staring down at the chaos, liking your lips as you watch them panic. It's almost addicting, seeing the men who have instilled so much fear in you and your fellow Grisha tremble in fear. Fear of you.

The last Isenulf left barks loudly when his eyes finally find you, but you manage to break his neck before the Drüskelle notice.

You can almost taste the panic they feel when the animal drops to the frozen ground, limp like a wet blanket.

The other two wolves yelp in pain, but the men don't seem to really hear it, too busy yelling commands at each other while they try to figure out what's going on. Your Fjerdan has never been great, but you understand enough.

Their voices are younger than expected. Another miracle to add to your list.

"Drüsje!" You hear one of them call out. Witch.

"Desjenet!" Another yells. Stand down. Probably a command meant for you. Like they wouldn't shoot you in the head the second they see you.

The third man is quiet, eyes flickering around as he tries to detect movement in the forest. You decide to have fun, just once, using your power to bend the material of the gun he's holding towards him, curling the metal around like the house of a snail. It moves like clay under the influence of your powers, m carefully bending to your will. The witchhunter drops his weapon quickly, taking several steps back before stumbling and falling to the ground.

His lips move, his voice almost too quiet to reach your ear. A sick feeling of pride swells in your chest when the word registers in your mind.

"Demjin"

Demon.

You let the word seep into your muscles and bones, flodding your body with confidence as you move your hands together, grabbing the hard material of the mans skull, before clenching your right hand into a fist, your left hand wrapping around it only a heartbeat later, breaking the hard bone. You can feel the splinters of his skull dig into the soft tissue of his brain. His body drops fully to the ground and one of the other two Drüskelle screams, but you pay him no mind.

It's stupid how easy this is for you. How could anyone see your order as weak weapon makers if this type of potential sleeps under your skin? A power that moved a witchhunter to call you demon?

Shaking your head slightly, you reach out to shatter the rib cage of the second Drüskelle and break the neck of the last man before beginning to climb back out of the tree. When your feet meet the ground, you grab your bag and walk into the camp.

It's obviously small, with only three men and three wolves to take care of, but you will survive comfortably for a while with their supplies added to your own. You dig around in their bags for a knife for a bit, humming when your hands wrap around the sheath of a dagger.

A smaller knife than you would've preferred, but it will do.

You work quickly and efficiently, skinning all three wolves as fast as possible before removing the meat from the animals. You try your best to hang it up to let gravity pull out the blood while you work, making sure to keep the fire alive. Something in you finally finds rest while you complete the simple tasks. Skinning animals and hanging their meat up to cook later is something you learned, like all Grisha do, years ago. Simple survival techniques that are drilled into your mind and require no thinking from you.

You are too tired to think.

Two and a half hours later you sit in front of the fire, covered by the still fresh and stretchy skin and fur of the wolves, and eat a piece of meat as you watch the rest of the flesh cook. The Drüskelle carried mostly dried food with them - meat and fruits that you can keep for a long time, if you're smart - and you don't want to waste the meat of the ice wolves either. You've already taken their fur. Might as well take their flesh too.

The corpses of the witchhunters are hidden in one of the three tents they brought for them and their wolves, stripped of their clothing. It will be helpful in Fjerda when you will no longer be able to wear the recognizable fur of the Isenulf to warm your freezing body. Their clothes warm you just like the furs of their former companions.

You do not feel bad, not for a single second, but when you finally get comfortable around the fire, covered in bloody wolfs fur and stolen cloaks, you ask yourself if the price of your second time summoning merzost, the first time you tried to shape it into something, was your very soul. Or perhaps your innocence.

You dream again that night.

A dark figure is standing over you, holding your face between his large, cold hands as he looks at you.

His voice is smooth like satin when he finally speaks.

"You can't run from me forever, moya golubka. I will catch you."

When the sun rises, so do you, packing your bags quickly before abandoning the camp. You're well rested, despite your dream, and warm too. You can feel your hands and your feet, more than a bit relieved that you probably won't lose your fingers or toes to frostbite. Another miracle.

The heavy white furs are tied to your body with leather strings stolen from the supplies of the Drüskelle. It would be easy to shape them into a well-fitting coat, but you're pretty sure that it will probably be easier to sell raw furs for some money in Ulensk than a full coat. You won't be able to enter Fjerda safely in a coat made of Isenulf fur after all. You have to get rid of it before you cross the border. Hopefully, you will find the time to change the cloaks worn by the Drüskelle enough until they're no longer recognizable before you leave the town.

You're moving a bit slower now because of the extra weight of two new bags hanging off you, filled to the brim with food, water and fabric, but you have hope that you won't have to add another day to your travels. You can feel how close you are to Ulensk, even with the Fold so close. In the back of your mind, an idea crawls out of the darkest corner of your thoughts once more, asking what would happen if you did get close to the fold.

Would you be able to move it? Or to take some of the Forbidden Science inside of it and clean it from the darkness tainting it? Maybe use it for something else? The only experience you've had with Merzost that's not summoned by you is the Merzost tied to the bones of General Kirigan, and it's not like you were able to do anything with it before you had to flee. You just felt it, tried to understand how it works, how nature weaved it into his body when he was still an unborn baby growing in his mothers womb.

You're almost in Ulensk when you notice it.

The most familiar thing you've ever felt, more familiar than the wood of your bed frame, the plates in the Little Palace, the chair of your workstation in the basement.

Corecloth.

There are keftas in Ulensk. More than there should be.

You have come up with many different plans for all sorts of emergencies that could come up during your travels, but not once did you stop to think that the General could predict your plans to go up to Fjerda. There is no reason why so many Grisha would be in Ulensk otherwise. He must've known, somehow.

Maybe the saints betrayed you, led him right to you for the crimes you have committed against the order of things. There has never been someone who messed with merzost and got a happy ending, after all. Maybe this is supposed to be your end.

And how poetic it would be. Getting your heart ripped out by one of the Generals lap dog heartrenders after being pushed around by them for years.

Turning your head, you stare up, eyes finding the fold immediately. It's incredibly unlikely that you'll be able to cross it undetected. There are guards making sure that no one unauthorized crosses.

The corecloth starts moving.

But do you have another choice? You can't stay in Ravka, not while the General is looking for you. You won't be able to cross the border either. If there are Grisha already up in Ulensk, then there are definitely more at the border, waiting to catch you.

The corecloth gets closer.

In the distance, you hear someone bark out an order, and you drop your bags a heartbeat later, all three of them hitting the cold, snow-covered ground and tangling around your legs. Thinking quickly, you lift your hands, trying to locate the closest person moving into your direction before quickly breaking their legs in half.

As soon as you realise what you've done, guilt begins to rise in your chest. The break was not as clean as you would've liked, the bone shattering into dozens of splinters under the pressure of your raw, uncontrolled power. But you don't have time to take a short breather and take care of the Grisha the way you did with the Drüskelle.

Reaching down, you free your legs from the bags on the floor before turning to the fold once again.

Your one chance. Your only chance.

There's more yelling in the distance, now a lot closer and louder than it was when you broke the first persons legs, and you feel a bit like a deer frozen in fear after seeing a hunter, before you finally manage to rip yourself out of your paralysis and start running.

Between the trees you can see the brightly coloured keftas of your fellow Grisha, and you silently pray that the white fur covering you helps you blend in more with your surroundings while you jump over roots and rocks, reaching out with your powers to get an idea of what treacherous traps linger below the undisturbed snow, waiting to trip you and break your neck.

When you think you see something red in the corner of your eye, you reach out further, moving your hands together once more to break the first bone your powers can grasp.

A scream echos through the trees. Your lungs are burning. Your body feels like it's on fire.

But your heart is still beating.

A gust of wind hits you seconds later, throwing you against the trunk of a tree. You cry out under the impact, unable to move for a few seconds while you try desperately to figure out where exactly up and down are, where the fold is.

Your luck can't run out right here, right? Not when you're so close to the fold. So close to your last chance of freedom.

Biting your teeth together, you lift your arms again, focusing on the squaller. You almost rip her left arm off her body with the force you use to detach it from her shoulder, accidentally cracking her shoulder blade in the process.

There's another heartrender a few metres away, flinching when he hears the squaller scream out in pain. You use his distraction, breaking ulna and radius of his left arm cleanly in half before jumping back up to your feet.

Your ears are ringing and you stumble a bit, the world turning, but the only Grisha you can see right now is a single Inferni who is too busy hiding behind trees and calling out for back up to attack you right now. You have to use this small window of opportunity, or you'll be stuck here until Kirigan finally shows up, so you take the risk and turn away from the other Grisha, running towards the fold.

Distracted by your panic, you miss some roots, stumbling and almost falling to the ground when a fireball crashes into a tree right in front of you, just barely missing your head. The wood goes up in bright orange flames, some sparks flying into your direction and making contact with the Isenulf furs that keep you warm.

Cursing loudly, you sprint around the tree, hands frantically hitting the furs to prevent them from going up in flames. A second ball of fire hits a bush left from you, and you stop, whipping around quickly and looking for the Inferni who seems so determined to set you on fire. When your eyes find the blue kefta, your hands are already up, grabbing her femur and breaking in half before you turn again and continue running.

This is it.

As soon as you leave the last trees of the forest behind, you speed up, desperate to cross the wide strip of grass and dirt as quickly as possible and enter the all-consuming darkness of the fold.

So close. You're so, so close.

You're only a few metres away when you hear his voice call out, calm and smooth in the worst way.

"Moya golubka," He says, triumph and glee audible in his voice, and a heartbeat later, you feel something wrap around your ankle to rip you off your feet. Your body hits the ground with a scream, the fold only centimetres away from your outstretched hands.

Digging your fingers into the dirt, you try to fight against the pull of whatever is wrapped around your legs, tears filling your eyes as it slowly dawns on you that you've lost. It's over. This is the end. All of that suffering in the last few days was for nothing.

You refuse to look up when the shining black shoes of the General enter your view, his shadows continuing to drag you away from the fold. He towers over you, watching you struggle for a few seconds before positioning himself right in front of you, between your body and the fold, blocking your last chance of freedom from your sight.

"I finally caught you, little dove."

When you look up, you see a smile on his lips.

Taglist: @shawty-writes-a-little @dreamlandcreations @watersquirtpewpewboomm @magicstrengthandcourage @blossomedfloweroflove @sande5098 @thewriterthatghostedyou

[rupturedhaven]

"When We Collide" is getting not one, but TWO spin-offs as it nears its emotional conclusion!

The first, "Just Know That I'm Already Home", is a 10 chapter adventure following Alina and Mal's quest to find each other after they are separated in mysterious circumstances. How does their separation connect to the upcoming trial of Aleksander Morozova, a.k.a. The Darkling?

The second (title TBD) will follow the fight for Os Alta's future after the events of the trial. Nikolai is taunted by nightmares of a demon, while Zoya decides to take her life in a bold new direction. They'll both be appearing in "When We Collide" again to set up their epic tale, so stay tuned for updates and further details!

(As you can see, graphic design is my passion lol just roll with it)

Read "When We Collide" here: When We Collide - Chapter 1 - RupturedHaven - Shadow and Bone (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

[ricardian-werewolf]

1. Maybe you'll think of me when you are all alone

Ao3 Link

Summary: "Before the fires Before the spools of barbed wire You said you would never forget What pierces deeper than the bayonet." Before the Bombs, Death Cab for Cutie. **** Alina Starkov is the newly discovered Sun Summoner. When an attack on her caravan to Os Alta goes awry, she makes a startling discovery about the youngest Lantsov Prince that sets everything in motion. For what does light need to survive? Darkness. As Alina comes to terms with her own powers, she must make a choice - a prince who would give her the world, and a Grisha General intent on destroying it. Ravka needs a sun Saint, the Darkling needs a chesspiece, but Nikolai needs only Alina to understand both who she is, and what her purpose is in a world trying to dictate who she is. An AU of Shadow and Bone that works around the plot for some great Nikolina moments and changes the ending, with some noticeable changes also along the way.

Notes:

For Madelie

Inspired by A Fateful Encounter by Nangala

Chapter below the cut:

Kiribirsk, East Ravka. 

Nikolai Lantsov was half-way out of his tent the morning after he’d arrived in Kiribirsk, when news reached him of the Sun Summoner. 

It had come to him by way of Isaak Andreyev, his batman. With him had been Dominik, who’d not only confirmed such a truth, but brought the major his uniform and kepi. Pulling on his linen shirt, Nikolai sighed in irritation as Isaak buttoned him up and Dominik fussed with Nikolai’s hair. Over his shirt went the frogged over-tunic and the gold braid was looped through his second button. 

“‘Ho’s it?” Nikolai grumbled as he regarded his chin in the tiny hand-mirror he’d had with him since his enlistment days. Isaak was in the middle of folding up his nightclothes and examining his linens - they’d be washed by a washerwoman as soon as possible. Judging by the fact that all Fold crossings to West Ravka had been cancelled until further notice on account of this blast, Nikolai expected himself to be stuck in East Ravka for a little while longer. Just his saints-forsaken luck.

“Her name is Alina Starkov, though Kirigan is being very hush hush about it all, sir.” Isaak replied, crimping the collar on Nikolai’s night-shirt with a pinch of his thumb and first finger. As he swept a bundle of gears into a satin pouch, Nikolai’s smile deepened. Feeling the pouch over in his hands, he let the bag expand a little.

“Put that with the others, would you?”

“Of course, Major.” 

Nikolai turned his head to regard Dominik, who lounged in a low-set chair cushioned with expensive Fjerdan fur pelts. Saints knew why the major chose to upholster his tent in such riches. He was only a major. But being even the spare son of the Tsar brought him a cushion that he hated to enjoy. Sometimes, it brought him a chance to do better things. But most of the time it brought him little more than pain.

“The Junior cartographer who got denied her rations last night, right?” Nikolai remembered that, and shuddered. “Stupid ass. I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge of the cookwagons and get him sent off to see action in the Sikurzoi.”

“You do know that your stance on that will just invite more enemies.” Dominik replied, flicking through the paper the 22nd Regiment printed of its own accord. Filled with largely ribald against their own officers, Dominik had become an avid patron and contributor of the fictionals serialised for its weekly publication.

“I do know, and I don’t particularly care.” Nikolai rolled his eyes and swore under his breath as his carelessness caused the straight razor to nick his chin. Blood dotted the bare flesh, and Nikolai swiped at it with the pad of his finger. A knock at his tentpost made him straighten, his face half shaved and hazel eyes dark in the snuffed lamps. The oil-clothed canvas of the tent wasn’t the best at letting the light in, and the heavy tapestries installed on his fathers’s orders darkened it still.

“Who is it?”

Isaak poked his head in, winced, and then spoke. “Pensky.”

“Saints save me.” Nikolai groaned, and motioned for Isaak to come to help him. As Isaak expertly shaved Nikolai’s face, Pensky came in, removing his cap. Dominik had stuffed the newspaper under his arm and saluted Pensky smartly.

“At ease, Majors, Private.” Pensky examined the collar of his tunic, emblazoned with the red backing of the Double-headed eagle given to all Colonels. The 22nd’s green patch with the fireflower insignia designating it as a Royal territorial regiment, caught any soldier's eye first. The pips of his rank as colonel were perfectly polished, and the entire facade of command radiated off him.

“Major Lantsov, you have been selected to take a team of your best men - no more than a platoon - to the Little Palace to assist the Black General in his procession along the Vy to get the Sun summoner-” At this utterance, Pensky crossed himself, and Nikolai noted Dominik do the same. It seemed that the Sun Saint was already nearing reverence status. 

Saints help this poor girl.

“-Safely to Os Alta. Oh, and you will be remaining there. Your father sent an official order. Apparently you’ve been recalled from the Front for the foreseeable future.”

“Why?” Nikolai asked, grinding his teeth down to nubs. His father intervening in his service was like waving a flag of surrender while the campaign to obliterate the enemy was going swimmingly well.

“As the Second Son,” Pensky paused. “The Sun Summoner will be taken in as part of your household.”

Ah. Right. THAT clause. Nikolai thought grimly. He schooled his features to be something approximating boredom. If he was honest, his “Household,” consisted of a duchy in Eastern Ravka, a few mines, several acres of land, and lots of serfs that Vasily claimed he wasn’t exploiting enough. Nikolai was more of the mind that uplifting them was better for Ravka. Give them jobs, not backbreaking taxes. Invest in some actually good education while he was after it. Maybe he’d drag this blasted Sun Summoner along for a tour and keep her tucked up in his country Dacha so she could go to town obliterating the bloody wreck of a house. It’d been his aunts, and she had as good taste as his mother - an endemic problem it seemed in Lantsov women.

Shaking his head, Nikolai sighed.

“Listening, Major?”

Nope. I was thinking of how much Udova needs a new aqueduct. Damnit. Nikolai longed to say. He wanted a cup of coffee and a chance to go make something explode. He sighed again, and brightened at the note that Pensky passed Dominik. “Major Vertov is also being recalled… though he is not allowed on the grounds of the Great Palace.”

Not unless I kill Vasily with a knife or poison his food. Did his last food taster die? It’d suck to kill the boy. Maybe I can soften the blow with a nice fat plot of land to his family. Does that kid Have family? Maybe not. If they’re dead, I can send a nice funeral wreath and throw money at the village so they’ll keep his family’s pew nice and pretty.

“Major.” Pensky spoke again, and this time, Nikolai came to attention. Instead of planning on how to murder his brother, he listened. Dominik shifted from foot to foot, while Isaak moved to packing Nikolai’s kit bag. Murmuring a brief apology to Domininik for stepping on his toes, otherwise the tent was remarkably quiet.

“I wish you the best of luck. The Vy may be more dangerous, if we are to assume-” Pensky fell silent as a noise - a high pitched wailing - tore through the air. Instantly, the four men poked their heads out of the tent flaps and witnessed a jet of golden light spilling out through the gap in the Darkling’s massive tent. With it, came a heat that made Nikolai’s arm-hairs prickle.

“Saints.” All of the men gasped. Pensky crossed himself and Dominik, normally the less religious of this little quartet, murmured a brief prayer. Nikolai furrowed his brows. He saw an opportunity. While the young cartographer had been quite frail, she was also undoubtedly beautiful, and poor. Though if he had his way, he’d have married anyone he bloody well liked, instead of some rich girl with cotton between her ears. 

“-If we are to assume, what, Colonel?” Dominik asked, the light-blast reflected in his eyes. From where Nikolai’s tent was situated on the bluff overlooking the nearby Second Army camp, the four of them could see the Darkling’s Oprichniki soldiers dragging Alina to a black carriage emblazoned with the eclipse. The Black General’s symbol. 

“Right. Major Lantsov, that’s your cue. Private Andreyev, don’t worry about his things. He won’t be needing them.” Pensky barked, poking Nikolai out into the open ground of the bluff. He turned, gave a salute to his commanding officer, and winked at his two dear friends.

Then, Nikolai was off, racing to gather a platoon. The Black General wouldn’t wait for long, and Nikolai needed to be with that escort team. Grisha all around were already saddling steeds, Corpralki, Etheralki, all bunches. If there was a raid, the First Army needed to be there too. By the saints, Alina was one of theirs, first and foremost. Not bloody Second Army.

Reaching the enlistments' tents, Nikolai mentally catalogued who was best for the job, and set to work rousing the men and getting the calvary to provide horses. There was arguing about that with a dragoon, who argued to make the First Army go on foot.

“They’re bleedin infantry!” The Dragoon snapped. Nikolai snorted, crossing his arms. The dragoon had brought compatriots, and Nikolai stiffened. “This is on orders of Colonel Penksy, coming up from the bloody chain of command to General Nevsky. Don’t make me-”

“And what’ll you do, you pissy little gobshite with your head up your arse?”

“Kiss your mother with your mouth, you little sodding son of a bitch?” Nikolai growled.

“I should say, you buggering twat. Maybe I’ll toss ye into the muck, see how you like it, eh, you bastard?”

Nikolai’s fist struck out and he broke the dragoon's nose straight up the bone, then knocked his legs out from under him. While the man was on his back, he struck his boot down on the man’s stomach, cracking three of his ribs. 

“Now, step aside, why don’t you?” Nikolai’s eyes gleamed in the late morning sun. “I’ve got work to do, and the Black General won’t appreciate my being late, eh?”

“N-no,” The dragoon spluttered, blood pouring from his nose. His friends had fled, eyes wide. Anyone and everyone with brain cells to spare, knew that crossing Major Lantsov was paramount to getting gutted like a fish. 

Nikolai pinched the bridge of his nose, raised his hand, and ordered his men on horses. Within minutes, with his leading, the Ncos on horseback and the lower ranks marching on foot. They reached the Grisha escort easily, and Nikolai reigned in his steed next to the Black General.

“General Kirigian.” Nikolai murmured, a gentle smirk colouring his features. The leader of the Second Army snorted. “You’re late, if you’re looking for me to take new recruits.” He replied, his voice oily and cold as ice. Nikolai adjusted his riding gloves, shifting easily in the saddle.

“I’m not, actually.” He replied, that easy charm oozing off him just as much as the General radiated sheer menace. “I’ve come, on General Nevsky’s orders, to march with the Grisha to Os Alta as an honour guard, to keep the Sun summoner safe from Drüskelle interference.”

“And what good will the First Army do? We have all we need. We don’t need to be healing your lot when one of your soldiers loses a leg to a Fjerdan bullet.” Kirigan growled, the reins in his hand tightening with a subtle tug of leather. 

Nikolai wanted to scoff, but bit his tongue. “True, however I am but a simple soldier. I only do what I’m told.” Dusting down his tunic front, Nikolai clicked his tongue and urged his horse into a trot as the carriage set off at a snail's pace. 

They were making good time, roughly 1/8th along The Vy, when the whole procession halted. A branch in the road maring their path. The horses slowed, whickering and whinnying. Nikolai’s own mare shifted underfoot as the Oprichniki dismounted and moved to protect the carriage. 

“Watch the trees-” One began, then fell back, a knife between the eyes. Instantly, the Grisha moved into offensive stances, jumping from the carriages and dismounting their horses. Nikolai wheeled his own horse about, glancing back at his men.

“Protect the Sun Summoner!”

“She’s ours!” Kirigan snarled.

 Nikolai yelled back. “She was ours first!”

Cracks of bullets chipping against the wood whistled through the air as sharpshooters aimed their riflescopes on the defenceless carriage containing Alina. Nikolai twisted in the saddle, whipping off his Kepi. The bloody visor marred his line of sight. He reached for his pistol, then groaned. He’d left so quickly that he’d not had time to grab his pistols or his revolvers.

He’d fought at Halmhend a scant three years ago. He could do this. He just needed to focus. Grabbing the buttons of his tunic, Nikolai urged his horse into a gallop. Reaching the carriage, he yanked the doors open just in time to see the other set be pulled open by a rogue Drüskelle, his face contorted in manic glee. 

“Grisha!” The bastard chortled, grabbing at Alina’s shoes. She screamed, her hand reaching Nikolai’s for a second. The touch of his palm on hers happened for a mere second, but Nikolai’s pulse doubled, and then she was gone. 

A low growl erupted in Nikolai’s throat, and he leapt across the carriage’s interior. Then, once free, ran straight for the bastard and the woman who could summon light. His boots barely made an indent on the ground, and his pulse jumped as he ran. 

“This woman is part of my household, you bloody, cod-eating, sexist bastard!” He yelled in Fjerdan, watching the Drüskelle stall in his tracks, an axe raised high to cleave Alina’s head straight off. 

“Refr-Baldur.” The Drüskelle hissed, eyes wide. Nikolai spread his hands, a low thrumming sound reverberating through the air. Alina’s eyes raised to meet his, and she stiffened, shock painting her features.

Why when I summon does everyone always lose their bloody minds? He thought, letting the shadows from the dappled sunlight crawl towards his feet. Unlike the Darkling, whose shadows were pure ink, malevolent things gifted to him by the Fold and his own… meddling, Nikolai had been born under a full moon on the summer solstice, and made into something… quite dangerous. 

Dangerous to his enemies, that was. 

He let the shadows flow into a blade quite unlike the Cut. Where that had been an arc of pure shadow, this was a straight line, and he didn’t dare hesitate in case the Drüskelle tried to kill Alina.

“Put your head down!” He yelled, wanting to spare her the horror of her first kill. She was so pale, she didn’t dare fight him, and then Nikolai threw his blade out. There was a sharp crack, and the monster’s head fell back, hitting the earth with a thud. His body went with it. 

Alina moved to looking at her fallen foe, but Nikolai’s clicking tongue held her gaze on him.

“Look at me, just keep looking at me.” Nikolai knelt before her, his hands shaking, eyes glittering from his power surge. Alina’s eyes looked up, and Nikolai had to withhold a gasp. Her eyes were deep, earthen brown, like the first soils of spring. Rebirth and life. He smiled, extending a hand.  

“You’ll ride with me. Just keep looking at me, Miss Starkov.” Alina’s hand fit neatly into his, her hands running up against his callouses. Her hands were mostly neat, a life of little to no labour. He gently walked backwards, his hand still in hers. All around them, bullets whizzed, men screamed.

“Now-” Nikolai’s head reared back as Alina suddenly punched him across the face, and he staggered back. 

“What was that-” He began.

“What’d you do?!” She snapped, stamping her foot. “What did you do back there?! What are you?!”

“Ah.” Nikolai rubbed a hand over his bloody nose, cursed under his breath in Shu, and sighed. 

“Sorry, lovely, guess no one bothered to tell you that the House of Lantsov has a Shadow Summoner in its walls, eh?” He tsked, removing a handkerchief from his pocket emblazoned with the double-headed eagle.

Alina’s eyes widened, and she looked down at her hands. She was going into shock, experiencing too much. Technically, her assault of him should warrant a court-martial at the very least, but Nikolai wasn’t about to press that. 

“You’re…” She looked over at General Kirigan decapitating a Drüskelle with his own version of the Cut, and shuddered. “Like him?”

“Not by half.” Nikolai sniffed. “I’m barely trained.” He placed a palm on his cheek and fluttered his lashes at her. “Who would ever dream of this beautiful face getting bruised from a well-placed Squaller blast, hmm?”

“In your dreams, Moi Tsarevich.” She gave him a grin. Despite her panic, Alina found herself smiling. Something about this prince put her strangely at ease. 

“Nikolai!” Dominik shouted, pulling his horse to a halt beside the little duo. Glancing down at them, He adjusted the tilt of his Kepi and glanced out at the tree-line, which was rapidly becoming filled with Drüskelle. “We should go.”

“Right. Come on Miss Starkov. Ever ridden a horse before?” Nikolai asked as Dominik came back with Nikolai’s mare’s reins in his fingers.

“Yes, actually.” She brightened. “Back at Kermazin, the orphanage I was raised in…” She trailed off. “I got to sit in the saddle, but never actually rode.” She scratched at the back of her neck, the healers kefta on her an ill-fitting mistake. 

“Well, it’ll be rough.” Nikolai swung himself onto his own steed, and reached his bare hand down to Alina. She hesitated for a moment, but the crack of a bullet hitting the ground near them decided her fate. She let Nikolai lift her into the saddle. He turned up the collar of her kefta, pulled on the holsters containing his revolvers, swung a cloak of Fabrikator make around his shoulders, then clicked his tongue.

Instantly, the mare sprang into a full gallop. With Dominik trailing him, Nikolai raced towards Os Alta with the Sun Summoner firmly in his possession, his sabre at his hip. Behind him, the Drüskelle pressed their advantage and tore the company he’d headed to pieces - or at least at first glance. The Darkling’s shadows drowned the Drüskelle where they stood, and the company was sent straight back to Kiribirsk telling tales of their revered Major conjuring a blade of shadow.

As the First Army aimed to head West once again, Dominik, Nikolai and Alina pressed east, guided by childhood memories, and a hope for the future that Ravka would move past the pains of her present. The Fold would fall, and Alina would rise. She may have been First Army, now Second, but she was her own person.

Nikolai intended to fulfil that promise to her, and himself. 

End of Chapter 1

[oediex]

The Binding, by Bridget Collins

About two years ago, I sort of accidentally picked up a book from the library, The Binding by Bridget Collins. I was nearby looking for another book, which was incidentally also a story about books (People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks), and Bridget Collins's book grabbed my attention by its title and book cover.

It's a story set in a pre-industrial world in which book binding is a unique skill with which so-called Binders can capture a memory of a person, which is then forgotten by said person. It is used for forgetting painful memories or secrets that need to be hidden. Sort of in the style of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (one of my favourite films). The blurb on the book spoke of a "secret love affair" or something like that, which also peeked my interest.

I started reading it and it was beautifully written. And then something happened in the story which made me realise that this wasn't just any love story - it was an mlm love story! This wasn't clear from the blurb of the book, so it was a nice surprise. Any representation is representation, and all that. Finding queer love stories (as a main plot point) hidden in books that aren't advertised that way is something I quite like.

So if you like queer/mlm love stories, especially if they are slow-burning, angsty, hurt/comfort love stories, this is the book for you. (Please note, though, that it does take part in a homophobic world, which also plays an important part in the book.)

Anyway, I liked the book so much that I asked it for my birthday, and I'm now rereading it. This time, though, I decided to look up and write down all the words I didn't immediately understand. Note that I didn't look up any words the first time I read it. The story was perfectly understandable without it. But I really wanted to understand it completely, 100%. And there were quite a few words that I didn't immediately understood, or that I did understand, but I wanted to know precisely what they meant. Some of them are words specific to the craft that is described quite a lot, which is the binding of books. Other words I didn't understand (precisely) because English is not my first language!

I've reread 7 chapters so far, which is 108 pages, and a total of ...71 words. 🙈 I doubt people will read them, but I love having a record of them, so they are below the cut!

If anyone does look at them, I'd be interested to hear if these are words that you know or not, and whether English is your first language or not.

1. sheaf: a bundle of grain stalks laid lengthwise and tied together after reaping.

When the letter came I was out in the fields, binding up my last sheaf of wheat with hands that were shaking so much I could hardly tie the knot.

2. stook: a group of sheaves of grain stood on end in a field

It was only Alta, winding her way through the stooks towards me

3. pustule: a small blister or pimple in the skin containing pus

As if I'd been languishing in bed with a cough, or vomiting, or covered with pustules.

4. worry: (of a dog or other carnivorous animal) tear at or pull about with the teeth

I turned away from her and concentrated on sucking the cut at the base of my thumb, worrying at it with my tongue until I couldn't taste blood anymore.

5. stays: a corset made of two pieces laced together and stiffened by strips of whalebone.

"Challenge me again when I'm not wearing stays."

6. flare: gradually become wider at one end

She turned away, her dusty skirts flaring about her ankles.

7. scullery: a small kitchen or room at the back of a house used for washing dishes and other dirty household work

8. scullery maid: a female domestic servant responsible for washing dishes and doing other menial household chores

"Honestly, I might as well be a scullery maid ..."

9. clump: another term for clomp: walk with a heavy tread

Pa clumped across to the cupboard, bent down and pulled out a bottle of blackberry gin.

10. truss: tie up (someone) with their arms at their sides

If I have to truss you up and leave you on her doorstep, you'll go.

11. reel: lose one's balance and stagger or lurch violently; walk in a staggering or lurching manner, especially while drunk

I reeled across to the far side of the yard and leant against the wall.

12. vertiginous: relating to or affected by vertigo

a last vertiginous glimpse of sunlight before the blackness swallowed me.

13. gable: the triangular upper part of a wall at the end of a ridged roof

14. squat: short and thickset; disproportionately broad or wide

The moon had moved; now it was over the gable of the farmhouse and all the shadows were short and squat.

15. farthing: a former monetary unit and coin of the UK, withdrawn in 1961, equal to a quarter of an old penny

I could recall the clink of my errand-money in my pocket that day - sixpence in farthings, so bulking they bulged through my trousers

16. heady: having a strong or exhilarating effect

and the heady, carefree feeling of going to Wakening Fair and slipping away from the others, wondering what I'd buy

17. trestle: a framework consisting of a horizontal beam supported by two pairs of sloping legs, used in pairs to support a flat surface such as a table top

It was hardly a stall at all, only a trestle table guarded by a man with restless eyes, but it was piled high with books.

18. saunter: welk in a slow, relaxed manner

I'd sauntered over, jingling my money, and the man had glanced over both shoulders before he grinned at me.

19. reel: feel shocked, bewildered, or giddy

I nodded, still reeling from the visions I'd seen.

20. thatch: a roof covering of straw, reeds, palm leaves, or a similar material

Under the dark thatch every pane was like a rectangle of flame

21. palsy: (dated) paralysis, especially that which is accompanied by involuntary tremors

My hands were twitching as though I had palsy.

22. endpaper: a leaf of paper at the beginning or end of a book, especially one fixed to the inside of the cover

23. pare: trim (something) by cutting away its outer edges

24. tooling: the ornamentation of a leather book cover with designs impressed by heated tools

25. blind tooling: the impressing of text or a design on a book cover without the use of colour or gold leaf

I learned to make endpapers, pare leather, to finish with blind or gold tooling.

26. copper: (dated) a large copper or iron container for boiling laundry

We shared the rest of the chores, but after a morning bent over painstaking work I was glad to chop wood or fill the copper for laundry.

27. blench: make a sudden flinching movement out of fear or pain; become pale

He gave me a crooked, empty smile, as if he was proud of noticing, as if he was pleased I'd blenched.

28. lattice: a structure consisting of strips of wood or metal crossed and fastened together with square or diamond-shaped spaces left between, used as a screen or fence or as a support for climbing plants; an interlaced structure or pattern resembling a lattice

The light lay on the floorboards in a silvery lattice.

29. keening: the action of wailing in grief for a dead person

Long before I could see their faces clearly, their voices carried across the snow: a desperate mutter of encouragement, and above that the thin desolate keening I'd thought was the wind.

30. gobbet: a piece or lump of flesh, food, or other material

A gobbet of paste dropped from my brush onto the workbench, as if someone had spat over my shoulder.

31. cockle: (of paper) form wrinkles or puckers

32. pucker: a tightly gathered wrinkle or small fold

I'd let the paper cockle, and I'd let it dry; when I tried to peel it away it ripped.

33. pewter: a grey alloy of tin with copper and antimony (formerly tin and lead)

In this light my tools looked like pewter, and a silver smear of glue glinted on the wood like a snail's trail.

35. alarum: archaic term for alarm

There was a bell jangling too, a continuous clanging like an alarum.

36. kipper: cured fish

Now, get the old bitch out here or she'll get smoked into a kipper with the rest.

37. jamb: a side post or surface of a doorway, window, or fireplace

I put down my cold mug of tea and leant forward, and saw the gap between the door and the jamb.

38. hessian: a strong, coarse fabric made from hemp or jute, used for sacks and upholstery

39. upholstery: soft, padded textile covering that is fixed to furniture such as armchairs and sofas

At last I reached out and pulled the cloth down over them; then I stood looking down at the coarse brown hessian.

40. nacreous: adjective form of nacre: mother-of-pearl; a smooth shining iridescent substance forming the inner layer of the shell of some molluscs, especially oysters and abalones, used in ornamentation

I could still see the smooth edge of a femur, the nacreous curve of the skull, a miniature, perfect finger-bone.

41. scrimshaw: adorn ivory or shells with carved or coloured designs

42. burnisher: noun form of burnish: polish (something, especially metal) by rubbing

43. agate: an ornamental stone consisting of a hard variety of chalcedony (quartz), typically banded in appearance

I found a bone folder carved with faint scrimshaw flowers, a book of silver leaf, a burnisher with a thick, umber-streaked agate ...

44. daguerrotype: a photograph taken by an early photographic process, employing an iodine-sensitised silvered plate and mercury vapour

In one cupboard I found a wooden box full of trinkets, wrapped in old silk as if they were important: a child's bonnet, a lock of hair, a daguerrotype mounted in a watch case

45. tack: a small, sharp broad-headed nail; also, equipment used in horse riding, including the saddle and bridle [unclear which of the two definitions is meant]

and there were repairs to be made, tools and tack and a back wall of the barn that needed seeing to ...

46. camphor: a white volatile crystalline substance with an aromatic smell and bitter taste, occurring in certain essential oils

47. chilblain: a painful, itching swelling on a hand or foot caused by poor circulation in the skin when exposed to cold

For an instant I thought I could smell turpentine and camphor, the balm Ma made to ward off chilblains

48. slough: shed or remove (a layer of dead skin)

I'd sloughed that life off like a skin.

49. mottled: marked with spots or smears of colour

Against the mottled grey of the windows the binder's chair stood out in silhouette.

50. paroxysm: a sudden attack or outburst of a particular emotion or activity

At first it was as involuntary as being sick: great paroxysms like retching, each spasm driven by an unpitying reflex that made me gasp and sob for air.

51. range: a large cooking stove with burners or hotplates and one or more ovens, all of which are kept continually hot

When I woke up the range had gone out and it was nearly dark.

53. ragged: (of a sound) not controlled, uneven

54. peal: a loud ringing of a bell

The bell rang, for longer this time, a ragged angry peal as if they'd tugged too hard at the rope.

55. trap: a light, two-wheeled carriage pulled by a horse or pony

Behind him there was a trap, with a lantern hanging from the seat-rail.

56. unctuous: excessively flattering or ingratiating, oily

It was the first time I'd heard the doctor speak to her, and his voice was so tactful it was positively unctuous.

57. gorge: (archaic) the throat; the contents of the stomach

I had never heard Seredith struggle to control her anger, and it made my own gorge rise.

58. signet: a small seal, especially one set in a ring, used instead of or with a signature to give authentication to an official document

The signet ring on his little finger glinted.

59. morocco: fine flexible leather made (originally in Morocco) from goatskins tanned with sumac, used especially for book covers and shoes

60. sumac: a shrub or small tree with compound leaves, reddish hairy fruits in conical clusters, and bright autumn colours

61. headband: an ornamental strip of coloured silk fastened to the top of the spine of a book

62. nonpareil: having no match or equal; unrivalled - one of the basic patterns in paper marbling. It is made by using a comb-like implement to pull streaks across the marbling paint.

Black morocco, gold tooling, false raised bands. Headbands sewn in black and gold, endpapers marbled in red nonpareil.

63. crotchet: a perverse or unfounded belief or notion

64. -monger: denoting a person who promotes a specified activity, situation or feeling, especially one that is undesirable or discreditable

65. stick-in-the-mud: a person who is dull and unadventurous and who resists change

He thinks I'm a crotchet-monger. A stubborn, backward old stick-in-the-mud.

66. caddy: a small storage container, typically one with divisions

67. tea caddy: a small container in which tea is kept for daily use

The tea caddy was so old that the green-and-gold pattern was speckled with rust, and flakes of paint came off on my fingers when I opened it.

68. rennet: curdled milk from the stomach of an unweaned calf, containing rennin and used in curdling milk for cheese

69. rennin: an enzyme secreted into the stomach of unweaned mammals causing the curdling of milk

70. junket: a dish of sweetened and flavored curds of milk

71. curd: a soft, white substance formed when milk coagulates, used as a basis for cheese

There was no point taking her bread and butter - when Toller came I'd ask him to bring us some rennet, and then I could make her some junket

[ao3feed-zukka]

Avatar Zuko

Read now on Ao3 at https://ift.tt/6zn9QgN by cummycloud What if the person Zuko has been searching for has always been himself? Now, as the Avatar, he must go on a journey and ask himself the big question, "Who is he, and what does he want?" (Takes place through all cannon events in alta with Zuko as the Avatar.) Words: 5071, Chapters: 1/60, Language: English Fandoms: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M, M/M Characters: Zuko (Avatar), Sokka (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Azula (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar) Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar) Additional Tags: Avatar Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & gaang - Freeform, Zuko Joins The Gaang Early (Avatar), Mutual Pining, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Sokka-centric (Avatar), Eventual Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aang is Not the Avatar (Avatar), Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Ozai Being an Asshole (Avatar), Badass Katara (Avatar), Badass Toph Beifong, Badass Sokka (Avatar), Badass Zuko (Avatar), Badass Aang (Avatar), Fluff Read it on Ao3 at https://ift.tt/6zn9QgN

[dhr-ao3]

The Missing Sister

The Missing Sister https://ift.tt/HvMuisA by Mwpurple_08 La lechuza apareció a altas horas de la noche y se fue de repente, inmediatamente reconoció la letra y rompió el sobre.   "Ella es tuya. Si nos pasa algo, quiero que lo ocultes. Llámala Hermione, porque ella tendrá mi última libación antes de dormir y será la mensajera de los soñadores. Moony y Mary lo saben. "   Tres palabras. Tres palabras que cambiaron para siempre el curso de la guerra. Words: 1766, Chapters: 1/75, Language: Español Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Lucius Malfoy, Sirius Black Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini, Regulus Black/James Potter Additional Tags: Slytherin Hermione Granger, Not Canon Compliant, Hogwarts Era, Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Good Slytherins, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Morally Grey Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black Needs a Hug, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/Sp9EXVQ November 07, 2024 at 03:09AM

[welcometololaland]

almost uploaded a picture of my bank statement instead of this header! happy days!

thanks for the tags @hippolotamus @kiwiana-writes @happiness-of-the-pursuit @rmd-writes

@nancygillianmvp @terramous @tellmegoodbye @freneticfloetry @beautifulhigh

@orchidscript @myheartalivewrites and @strandnreyes (don't think that was a real tag but i'm taking it anyway to force you to love me).

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

49 (last time it was 46 but i feel like that isn't enough of a difference? disappointed in myself dfhskjh)

2. What's your Ao3 bodycount word count?

1,119,086 which does include some co-writes, but I also have around 200k of unposted WIP in my google docs so i'm counting it (including a fully written fic - someone put their hands around my neck and force me to edit it PLEASE).

3. Which fandoms do you write for?

red white and royal blue, 911 lone star, top gun maverick (flirting with winter's orbit always)

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

the order of these has changed but not the identity:

Speak for Yourself (RWRB) (you know when eminem said he'd never be able to top My Name Is? this is my version of that)

Fifty First Dates (RWRB) (oodie agenda reigns supreme)

The RIng-In (Lone Star) (otherwise, lone star is in danger of being eviscerated from this top 5 lmao)

(Not) A Cinderella Story (RWRB) (NDAs are hot, apparently)

Cursed is a State of Mind (RWRB) (cursed caffeine is the main drawcard let's not lie)

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try my absolute best to. i am currently really behind and i apologise for that (the problem is, i reply to comments before i post anything and i haven't posted anything in ages).

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

serious answer - Contaminated

my answer - oh baby i'm a fool for you because we never find out if they actually watch twilight and that's a damn shame

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

literally everything else - i don't really do open endings or sad endings! in the words of the great philosopher, skepta: "nah, that's not me."

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i used to, but i haven't in ages! thank god for that.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

yes, although i have to say i've been moving away from pwp lately. i feel my best smut is written into longer fics where the sex serves a plot or characterisation purpose within the frame of the overarching narrative.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

yes, a RWRB/LS but i never finished it. ALTA is a veronica mars inspired tarlos fic which kind of feels like a crossover at times.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge :)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! Phonography (Lone Star) has been translated, as has Baby, Make Your Move (Lone Star) and Warm Whispers (Lone Star). I'm very grateful to the incredible people who have made these translations happen - you are so talented.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

yes, many with @dustratcentral. I also wrote a chapter of a co-written fic with a whole bunch of incredible RWRB authors called never the same twice.

@rmd-writes and I have created (Un)Professional Services and (upcoming) Call Me (By Your Name).

The Rainbow Fish was co-written with @strandnreyes.

I love co-writing so much and I am always open to anyone who wants to give it a go!

14. What's your all time favourite ship?

me + my unposted wips.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

probably the aforementioned crossover which was apparently also my answer last time.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i'm allergic to giving myself compliments but i would say maybe dialogue/banter and worldbuilding.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

keeping things short. also, exposition.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

kinda scared to because i don't speak any other languages and i'm so hesitant to annoy my very talented multi-lingual friends with my annoying questions.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

we don't talk about that.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

probably still Love Game because the experience was just so amazing and i never wanted to stop writing it.

heaps of people have already done this so leaving an open tag and also a couple of suggestions under the cut but apologies if you've already participated or been tagged 7 million times:

@bonheur-cafe @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @indomitable-love @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@tailoredshirt @vineofroses @liminalmemories21 @mikibwrites @birdclowns

@ladytessa74 @basilsunrise @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @rosedavid @sanjuwrites

@alrightbuckaroo @three-drink-amy @marjansmarwani @dumbpeachjuice @doublel27

@lemonlyman-dotcom @blueink3 @ambiguouspenny @clottedcreamfudge @emmalostinwonderland

@sail-not-drift @inexplicablymine @celeritas2997 @cricketnationrise @reyesstrand

@goodways @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet @sunshinestrand @sherryvalli

[stromuprisahat]

If Zoya is so stupid and useless, why was she chosen as one of the Darkling's main people?

Where?

Because in books, she was strong, yet ordinary Squaller. Perhaps promising, but hardly highly ranking, no matter what she likes to believe.

“You look amazing, Zoya! How are you?” gushed Marie. “We missed you so much!” squealed Nadia. “I missed you, too,” Zoya said. “It’s so good to be back at the Little Palace. You can’t imagine how busy the Darkling’s kept me. But I’m being rude. I don’t think I’ve met your friend.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 11

What stings, is that everyone knows it. It shows, when Zoya attacks Alina. If she were SOMEONE by herself, wouldn't at least one person note that?

to Ivan “... Please tell me you were there when he [the Darkling] told Zoya she’d be leaving Os Alta.” “I was.” “And?” I urge as we head down the hill to the birch grove. I’m a greedy thing, but how can I be expected to resist this gossip? Ivan shrugs, scowling. “He just made it clear that she’s replaceable and Starkov isn’t.”

The Tailor

Marie rolled her eyes. “She can’t bear the idea of anyone being the Darkling’s favorite.” I laughed and then winced at the stab of pain in my side. “I’m hardly his favorite.” “Of course you are. Zoya’s powerful, but she’s just another Squaller. You’re the Sun Summoner.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 11

She's rash, and to lead or bear considerable amount of responsibility, she'd need to unlearn that, start thinking about others and most importantly about impact of her (in)action. It might be why she was stationed near the Fold. I've theorised about it a few months back- it's the ideal position for her. She's (partly) answerable for the skiff and people on it, but danger comes in predictable form of volcra. It's the perfect place to learn what she's lacking.

She's barely out of school, she lacks experience- why would the Darkling give her important position, when he has hundreds of people to choose from? What's "main" about the person, who's driving a skiff?

Now where did the notion she's the Darkling's super special girl come from?

“Zoya Nazyalensky, who was one of the Darkling’s most favored soldiers.”

Yuri Vedenen; King of Scars- Chapter 9

That's an information coming from religious fanatic, several years after the Darkling's death AND merry application of current regime's propaganda.

Have you ever noticed how there's not a single mention of Ivan post-his death? We don't even know his surname. Aside from him, there's not one (1) named Grisha from his side.

It's easy to be remembered as the favourite, when you erase existence of anyone else.

Even in her memories, she's among the promising ones, yet not favoured, not hand-picked.

“... I was the youngest of the group and so proud to be chosen to go. I was half in love with him already. I lived for the rare moments he appeared at the school.” She shook her head. “I was the best, and I wanted him to see that … The older Grisha were all in contention for the amplifier. It was up to them to track the tigers and see who would earn the right to the kill. ...”

King of Scars- Chapter 27

The interest is one-sided, Zoya draws the Darkling's attention by stealing three amplifiers from other Grisha, her recklessness and short-sightedness, not her capability.

The closest we get to some sort of recognition, is in Aleksander's chapter in RoW, when he points out her deficiencies and admits some of it made her work hard.

And if Zoya ever learned to harness the power she’d been given? She was still vulnerable, still malleable. Her anger made her easy to control. When this war was done and the casualties counted, she might once more be in need of a shepherd. She had been one of his best students and soldiers, her envy and her rage driving her to train and fight harder than any of her peers. And then she’d turned on him.

Rule of Wolves- Chapter 26

I have one (rather big) objection- Zoya has never been a good soldier. She failed twice on rather important occasions- the amplifier and Alina incidents-, proving her self-control is lacking. That rage he's for some reason praising here, makes her dangerous to those peers she's trying to outdo.

But hey- he barely crawled back from the dead, his mental skills won't be at their best- why would he plan to manipulate Zoya without a single mention of Juris? The Saint isn't gonna disappear any time soon (if ever), and he's hardly Aleksander's fan.

[mish-ka]

Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh

Chapter 1 | Next

I hope you guys like this new series. A little cheesy but we love cheese.

This is not how Ram had planned his day to go. Not at all. When he had left the rented house this morning, he had wanted to get his work done and return to Delhi to continue his mission.

Ram initially had no desire to travel from Delhi to Vrindavan, but he was pressured to do so by his superiors.

Apparently Scott had received news about some tampering with the funds in Vrindavan and they had picked Ram to make sure everything was under control.

Akhtar didn’t know why Ram was leaving for Vrindavan, but he kept on repeating that he had a good feeling about Ram leaving for the holy city.

So Ram honestly has no idea of how he ended in this situation with people chasing him, and never in his life had Ram thought he would do such a thing.

Eloping with a bride from her mandap was something Ram never saw in his future, and yet here he is. Running away with someone else’s dulhan.

Shree Mohan. The daughter of most influential man of Hindustan. A girl he met just 30 minutes ago, married her, and then escaped from the mandap.

It all started from yesterday, when Ram had met with Shree’s father, Kishore Mohan, and the man had invited Ram to his youngest daughter’s wedding.

Ram didn’t want to betray the trust of the man who had invited him into his house, but after finding out that the groom had already been married and Kishore knew about it, Ram couldn’t sit still.

Ram remembers sneaking into the bride’s room, who he hadn’t met, to tell her the truth about the groom;

Closing the door behind him, Ram sighs in relief as he has finally made it into the bride’s room after trying several times.

Tracing his eyes around the room, Ram takes in the room in order to locate the bride.

His eyes find her seated in the middle of the bed, a veil over her face. Her knees pulled to her chest, and her head resting on her knees.

Through the veil, Ram can make out the forlorn expression that is present in her form. So lost in her sadness that she doesn’t even notice another presence in the room.

“Shree?” Ram softly calls out her name, taking a step forward towards her.

Ram watches as the bride slowly lifts her veiled head towards him. Gathering his courage, Ram takes a seat on the edge of the bed, in front of her.

Ram knows its not his right, but he cannot help himself when he notices the tear droplet on her hands. His hands clutch the seams of her veil and pull it over her face.

Ram feels the breath being knocked out of him, when his eyes collide with her bewitching face. Even with tears streaming down her eyes, she still manages to be the most alluring woman in Ram’s eyes.

She lives up to her name; Shree. Gorgeous, elegant, and majestic similar to Maa Lakshmi, who has charmed the world charmer.

Shree is a beauty, so ethereal and heavenly in appearance as if an upsara was reincarnated on earth. The red lehenga, and jewelry is like an accessory to her beauty.

Her eyes. What can Ram say about them? They are the most beautiful and divine pair of lotus on the universe, as well as the most pure eyes on the planet. Chocolate brown eyes, the hue of life like the Earth, mystical and as divine and vivid as the lotus.

Her feet and petitie hands are crimson from being dipped in alta, looking like the auspicious hands and feet of Maa Lakshmi. Waiting to bring good fortunate to where they step.

A face as gorgeous as the moon, with a radiance that rivals the sun. An aura of innocence and purity exudes from her features that Ram feels his sins wash away.

The woman in front of him is so mesmerizing and celestial that it seems that she has been the favourite of God to make.

Ram is brought back from admiring her when she slightly shakes the man in front of her. Shaking his head to push those thoughts away, Ram diverts his attention to her.

“Tum yeh shaadi nahi karni chahiye.” Ram’s statement echoes throughout the room due to the silence. [You shouldn’t go ahead with this marriage.]

Shree wipes the tears from her face, looking at Ram confused, “Per kyu?” She questions. [But why?]

Taking a deep breath, Ram looks into her lotus eyes and answers, “Yeh dulha pehle se hi shaadishuda hai.” [The groom is already married.]

Now Ram was expecting many things. Many different ways that Shree would react to this news. He thought she would breakdown, she would scream, she would cry, she would get angry.

But what he wasn’t ready for was her to just pass his a sorrowful smile and downcast her eyes to her hands.

“Humhe pata hai ki dulha shaadishuda hai. Sabko pata hai.” She answers in most heartbreaking tone, playing with the jewellery on her hands. [I know that the groom is married. Everyone knows.]

Ram feels a wave of disbelief course through his body at her words. He lifts the two of them off the bed, standing in the middle of the room, grasping her shoulders in a tight grip, demanding an answer.

“Agar tumhe pata hai ki dulha shaadishuda hai toh fir tumne shaadi keliye haan kyu ki?” [If you know that groom is married then why did you agree to this marriage?]

A bitter laugh escapes Shree’s lips, her eyes finding a home in Ram’s eyes. “Apko lagta hai ki mujhse poocha gaya tha? Baba ne 10 din pehle humse kaha ki meri shaadi hai. Humhe toh yeh bhi pata ki dulha hai kyon. Bas itna pata hai ki uski patni bhi iss shaadi mein hogi.” [Do you think I was asked about this? 10 days ago, Baba just said that I am getting married. I don’t even know who the groom is. All I know is that his wife will attend the wedding as well.]

Without a warning, Shree takes Ram’s hands into hers, “Humhe yeh shaadi nahi karni. Humhe padna hai. Apni padai poori karni hai. Humhe kisi shaadishuda insaan se shadi ni karni hai.” [I don’t want to get married. I want to study. Complete my education. I don’t want to marry an already married man.]

Ram watches Shree’s eyes dance in desperation, he watches her begging him. Begging him to help her. Begging him to save her from this situation.

And so he will. Ram will save Shree from this unwanted marriage. He will take her to Delhi, let her complete her education, but for that he has to do something with her permission.

A man and woman staying together, unmarried is considered a sin in the eyes of society. Even this arrangement with Ram meeting Shree alone is strictly forbidden.

Ram can bare the taunts and the digs at his character. He is used to it. Especially when he has to betray his own people and they cuss at him.

But he cannot bare the fact of letting Shree hearing those words. He cannot let others molest her character and dignity. He cannot watch her die day by day after hearing the taunts.

Fixing his posture, Ram stands tall and fearless in front of Shree, “Tumhe yeh shaadi nahi karni toh theek hai. Per…” [If you don’t want to do this marriage, then alright. But…]

“Per?” [But?]

“Per tumhe mujhse shaadi karni hogi.” Ram finally says the words that have been on his mind. [But you have to marry me.]

Ram observes shock and then betrayal wash over Shree’s face as she pulls her hands away from his grasp.

Taking a few steps back, she collapses on the bed, glaring at him with tears in her eyes. “Yeh kya keh rahe hai aap? Hum apna naam tak nahin jante. Hum toh itna jante hai ki aapko Baba shaadi pe mehman bana kar lekar aaye hain.” [What are saying? I don’t even know your name. I just know that Baba invited you as a guest.]

Ram kneels in front of her, taking her hands into his again. “Main janta hoon ki yeh aasan nahi hai. Per agar tum padna chahti ho toh mere saath bhaag chalo. Delhi mein tumhe pada sakta hoon, tum jitna padna chao tum pad sakhti ho. Per bina rishta ke hum nahi reh payenge.” [I know this is difficult. But if you want to study then run away with me. In Delhi I can help you study, you can study as much as you want. But without a relation, we won’t be able to escape.]

Shree searches Ram’s face for any lies, any deceit, but only finds genuine concern on his face. A million thoughts run throught her mind, all telling her that it isn’t logical to trust a man she just met.

But her heart tells her to trust this man. It tells her to let him guide her through this situation. That he will not let go of her hand. That he will always be there to help her.

With a tilt to her head, Shree asks the question she should have asked first, “Apka naam kya hai?” [What is your name?]

Ram softly grins at the woman, “Mera naam Ram hai. Alluri Sitarama Raju.” [My name is Ram. Alluri Sitarama Raju.]

“Ram, vaada kijiye ki aap mujhe shaadi ke baad padne denge.” Shree frees her hand from Ram’s grip and then holds it in front of him. [Ram, promise me that you will let me continue studying after our marriage.]

Ram smiles at the girl, and places his hand atop of her outstretched hand, solidifying their promise.

“Main vaada karta hoon ki main tumhe shaadi ke bad padne se nahi rokoo ga.” Ram states his promise loud and clear. [I promise that I will not stop you from studying after our marriage.]

“Ab apna sabse zaroori saman apne saath le lo, aur fir hum chalye hai.” [Now take your most important stuff and then we will go.]

Shree nods, jumping from her seat, and running through her room like a tornado. The shift in her mood causes Ram to chuckle at her antics.

He watches as she takes an idol of Radha-Krishna, and a photo of her family in her other hand. With that she toddles back to Ram’s side.

“Chale Shree?” Ram questions with his hand extending towards her. [Shall we, Shree?]

“Chaliye Ram.” Shifting the photo and idol to one hand, Shree places her utmost trust in the man, placing her hand in his. [Let’s go, Ram.]

The two stare at each other, knowing that there is no going back once they leave. The two will embark on a new journey, leaving everything behind.

Thank you for reading this new series I hope you like it as much as the other one. ❤️

Tagging: @bromance-minus-the-b @shreyalokesh @iamhereforthefanfics @thewinchestergirl1208 @voidsteffy @sulthaaan @anyavaramyr @ronaldofandom @budugu @shawty-writes-a-little @saanjh-sakhi @nyotamalfoy @chaanv @obsessedtoafault @ronnoxandlumoss @maraudersbitchesassemble @dumdaradumdaradum @bibi-birdy @its-pinkfunny-blog @phoenix666stuff @ramcharanobsessed @iam-siriuslysher-lokid @yehsahihai @aasthuu @deeznutsssssblog @juhiiiiii @moonyrox @nerdreader @rosayounan @dreqmwonders @purplelandsworld @cescosstuff @hailraykin @sabi5 @guywholovestowrite @voidofdarknessworld @kaashvi-agarwal @mathy-u @ramcharanobsessed @honeybeetiny @ramayantika @ray0112 @bitchy-bi-trash @army24--7 @desibtsarmy27 @dayandnightcoffee1 @ramarajusimp @rosabella-santos @goldenharrysworld @shaktimarvel @sukitaee @rathourrakshit @desi-brownie @meownique @piku-07 @indianaestheticsblog @shadowsandsorcery7005 @amnmich @zoeladyprincess @thatonequietkid0987 @anjalis-ennui @chaoticqueenlovee @browneyesromantic

[reddie-ao3feed]

Thinking Out Loud | Reddie

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/3PMa0B5 by Coffeenrain Onde Richie Tozier ouve um pedido um tanto inusitado por parte de seu amigo. Ou Onde Eddie acaba pensando em voz alta demais.   › reddie ⁏ one-shot ⁏ concluída ⁏ au ‹ ━ @namgguk, 2022© Words: 2324, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Português brasileiro Fandoms: IT - Stephen King Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Bill Denbrough, Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh, Stanley Uris, The Losers Club (IT), Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Additional Tags: Boys In Love, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Romance read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/3PMa0B5

[dearmantis]

The fruits of my labour

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x Durast!Reader

Summary: Haunted by shadows during the day and the words of your old teacher you don't expect two little boys to be the first sign of your upcoming downfall.

Warnings: drowning, manipulation, hints of psychological abuse, descriptions of anatomy, mentions of bone breaking (?), death of an animal

Word Count: 4k

Authors’ Note:  This is the last chapter that is still kind of chill, just fyi. Things are going to start going down rather quickly after this part. Please pay attention to the warnings at the top of each chapter and on the series masterlist. This is also still not edited and English is still not my native language (and I technically accidentally posted this so if you see any mistakes please dm me)

Part 1 | Previous Part | Series Masterlist

Baghras words put you into a weird, almost distant state that you're unable to escape, stuck in an odd void between reality and your racing mind.

You start eating lunch and dinner with the other Grisha again, skipping breakfast entirely, but you don't use your free time to experiment anymore. You can't bring yourself to.

The bird, a beautiful little dove, is free since you came back to the Little Palace after that first dinner with your old teacher. You hope the time it spend locked in a cage in your tiny one person workshop in the basement of the Palace scared it so much that it flew far away from Os Alta.

Instead of experimenting you focus fully on the prototypes, finishing ten slightly differentiating grenades for the General to test and pick his favourite from. You haven't seen Kirigan once since you met up with Baghra, but you swear you can feel him lingering closer than before.

It's driving you slowly insane, how the shadows seem to follow you in odd ways, a bit too long and a bit too dark for your liking. You start to question if it has been like this since he first ran into you in that hallway. If he has been watching your every move since that fateful day and you were simply too caught up in your own obsession with the forbidden science to notice.

All that confidence that you built up over the last weeks is gone, the inner armour disappearing into thin air and leaving behind nothing but your rotten, ruined soul and the fear in your heart.

Baghra is annoyed by your distant state, convinced that you're wasting precious time you should spend hiding your tracks. She has advised you against running, at least for now, instructing you to finish the presentation of the grenades and then return to your previous team to make corecloth.

Disappear in mediocrity. That's what she had called it. You're terrified enough to agree with her plan without questioning it.

Despite your trust in her you lay awake at night, combing through memories of your interactions with the General to see if you can tell if and when he noticed anything off about you until the exhaustion drags you into restless sleep once again.

You're nothing short of miserable.

A part of you wonders why even bother with the prototypes, now that you're aware that he probably doesn't care about your idea in the slightest. Of course you know that you have to act like you think it matters, like you care so much about the validation and love from your dear General, no matter how ashamed you are of yourself.

You got tricked so easily by him. A few minutes of attention and some compliments and you were clay in his hands. Years of distaste and anger directed towards the man who never cared for anyone from your Order unless he wants something, gone after a few nice words and a glass of water. Pathetic.

You're a fabricator, child. He doesn't care about your kind.

Baghra's voice haunts you like the shadows do, following you even when you sleep. She has warned you of him. She has done so for years, hundreds of times, but you never understood how serious her warnings were until now.

It's hard to keep your schedule stable, to do everything the way you did before Baghra kindly alerted you that the General is watching you like a hawk watches a mouse, but your mind is clear enough to know that he will pounce if he notices anything unusual about your already odd behaviour.

You try to plan ahead for the meeting with the General, spending more time hanging around your old teammates. You speak more during meals, discussing your grenades animatedly with an Alkemi and another Durast, careful to mention how much you miss working together with others. To even out the scales you then complain on your way back to your room with another Durast about how boring the corecloth making can be.

It's all a balancing act. Every step is careful and meticulously thought through while you fight to hold onto the last strands of sanity you have left.

In the night before your scheduled presentation you watch as the shadows draw figures on the wall across your window. You're not sure if it's your own fear turning tree branches into people and figures vaguely reminiscent of volcra, if you're slowly going crazy on your own or if the General is intentionally driving you to insanity.

To watch you break, maybe in hopes of getting you to expose your secret in your panic?

You have to hold onto reality. If the only way of doing that is to surround yourself with darkness and other people until he finally loses interest, then so be it. He can't haunt you if others could see, can't draw shapes with shadows if everything in your vicinity is cloaked in blackness.

Standing up from your bed you step over to the window and pull the curtains closed tightly, promising yourself to steal some fabric from the workshops to thicken your curtains a bit more, in hopes of blocking the light more efficiently, before going back to bed.

When you finally manage to fall asleep you dream of drowning in that river again, but this time you feel how the water fills your lungs, how death takes over your muscles and bones and carries your soul into the shadows. This time you're not at peace. You scream silently, cursing the world and it's cruel nature while starring up towards the surface where the people of the village stand and watch you drown.

You don't pray for the making to show you mercy, you pray for death to come for those who killed you.

In the morning you drop the prototypes in a big, cushioned chest and place it next to the door of your workshop, before going up to eat breakfast with the other Grisha. Eating slowly you speak with the others, tightening your ties to the other Fabrikators even more. People who will miss you if something happens to you. People who will ask questions if you disappear.

People who are less susceptible to the Generals manipulation since they know, just as well as you do — hopefully better than you do — that nobody cares about the Materialki order.

Anja, the Durast woman next to you asks if you're scared of presenting as she watches your hands play with a fork, your hands humming with power as you move the metal around like clay.

"A bit" you admit, rolling the polished steel into the shape of a marble. "But I promised the General that I would present today, and I worked quite hard. I honestly can't wait to get a break, to just work on corecloth again for a while. A solo project is a lot of responsibility."

You can feel the eyes of a Heartrender on you as you speak, can feel the subtle, signature brush of her powers as she checks if you're lying. The eyes of the General are everywhere.

Heartrenders are luckily not perfect. Calm breathing, a clear mind and simple, easy lies can throw them off well enough, not that anyone cares. The Corporalki are the Generals favourite, so they can't do anything wrong, right? That's at least what everyone thinks. You're not gonna fall for the lies though. Baghra has taught you well.

"Ah, yeah. That makes sense. I would probably not finish my work at all if I had to make my own schedule. I can't take my own deadlines seriously at all. But with the General breathing down my neck, everything is suddenly serious, isn't it?" she says, her voice dropping to a whisper at the last sentence. You nod quickly, finishing your meal alongside her before you accompany her to your old workshop.

You do really miss your old work, despite the fact that your old team leader is arguably one of the most unpleasant people to be around. Being surrounded by other Fabrikators, people who understand your oddness, your greed for knowledge, your fascination with the unexplainable, is a comfort nothing can replicate.

"I hope the General summons you soon, and that the whole presentation goes well. And afterwards you're gonna come back, yes? Boris and I miss you a lot." Anja asks when you finally arrive at the workshop, quickly slipping in through the open door and walking over to her table. You watch her collect her materials for a bit before you turn around to walk over to your own workshop.

Your one-person workshop is technically a bigger storage closet down in the basement of the Little Palace, the only access to fresh air being a tiny window directly under the ceiling. It's easy to cover it with a few layers of thick parchment, blocking out the daylight entirely.

For the next three hours you make yourself familiar with your workshop while sitting in pure darkness, counting floorboards, then nails, then the bricks in the foundation of the building.

Lunchtime comes and goes and you don't get summoned, now using your powers to follow the skeletons in the palace around.

You try to see if you can tell the location of the General without paying attention to his rings, try to feel the Merzost Baghra claims sits deep in his bones, humming quietly in the compact tissue.

When your powers brush it you wonder for a second if he feels it, if he feels that something touched his secret, but then you remember what else Baghra has revealed to you. You can't draw from Merzost. You can summon, can weave it into things, can shape and change and evolve, but you cannot use it for yourself, cannot feel its power humming in your own body. All you have is your own talents as a Fabrikator.

You will never be more. You have turned yourself into a tool for others. You're here to make, not to use.

So you reach out for it, trying to understand how the forbidden science sits in his bones. You chose a bird for your first experiments with amplifiers due to their hollow bones, an empty space you could fill with something new — something forbidden — but human bones aren't hollow, they're filled with spongy bone tissue and marrow.

Feeling along the skeleton of your General without his knowledge feels odd, like a violation of privacy, and you wonder briefly if the Corporalki feel the same when they start learning to feel out hearts or if they're simply born with a disregard for other people's personal rights. You can feel it though, carefully woven through his bones in a way you hope you will be able to replicate one day.

Most of it sits deep in the cortical tissue, but some of it seems to weave through the soft tissue as well, thin strings almost building a net in between. It's harder for you to follow the soft tissue, the marrow too squishy for your Fabrikator powers to really hold onto and follow, but the Merzost makes it a bit easier.

A darker part of your mind, the same part that convinced you to figure out how to summon the forbidden science in the first place, briefly wonders what his broken bones would look like. There is so much Merzost in his skeleton, would you be able to see it? Would his bones shimmer in that iridescent way that you have come to associate with the forbidden science?

Shaking your head a bit you try to clear your head, a bit disturbed by your own thoughts. You stretch your hands for to loosen the muscles in them before finally deciding that you could probably go on a quick walk, as long as you stay around the Little Palace where the servants can find you when he finally decides to call for you.

You lock the door to your workshop behind you, quickly walking up the slim staircase and slipping out of the servant entrance of the Palace.

It's freezing outside, your breath clearly visible in front of you as you walk through the gardens of the palace. Above you heavy clouds hang in the sky and a sweet smell is in the air.

Snow. It's gonna snow soon.

Snow means the workshops are gonna be cold again, especially your solo workshop in the basement. You can only hope that your less than subtle conversations during meals in the past days are enough of a foundation to guarantee yourself a ticket back to the corecloth makers. Otherwise you might freeze to death before Kirigan even gets a chance to catch you messing around with Merzost.

A sudden scream rips your attention away from the sky and towards two small children. You can't see much from how far away you are, just that they're hitting each other quite aggressively. Without thinking you run to them, a loud "Hey!" falling from your lips as you get closer. "Stop that!"

As you get closer you start to realise how serious the situation truly is, not just for the kids but also for yourself. They're covered in blood, hands dripping as they rip on each other's hair. It's a nightmarish sight to see and you wonder where any of the teachers are. Kids aren't supposed to be outside on their own right now.

You can't see any big open wounds on either child, just scratches and bruises. Grabbing both of the children by their arms you try your hardest to pull them apart, pushing yourself between the two as soon as you create enough distance.

"What's going on?"

In the distance you can see a grey uniform slowly walking into your direction.

"I killed it first!" one of the boys yells, trying to get out of your grasp to hit the other.

"No! I killed it! I literally felt it!"

"Killed what?" You ask confused.

"The bird!"

Following the direction both of the boys are pointing at your eyes finally find the reason for all of the fighting and blood, and you can feel how your stomach drops.

The small, broken body of a dove lays in the frost coated grass just a few metres away from you, its neck hanging low as if someone broke it and its wings stretched and bend unnaturally. It's white feathers are covered in it's own blood.

They must've tried to rip it apart to kill it, you think, a heavy feeling of dread filling your chest. This is your fault. The death of this bird is your fault. You were the one to give it magic. It wasn't born with it.

"I was the one to figure out that it's an amplifier in the first place! It was my right to kill it!" the other boy wails, but you're not even paying attention anymore. Your thoughts are racing. How are you going to hide this? The way you worked the Magic into it's bones isn't now nature does it, not how it weaved it into the bones of the General.

Behind you the kids start fighting each other again. You can't bring yourself to care. Let them kill each other, that way there would be no witness to the crime against the Making you have committed.

Your eyes are glued to the small body. You can see its bones clearly, and even in the muted daylight, filtered by the thick clouds, you can see the way the insides shift unnaturally.

Merzost.

It's visible. It's clearly visible and you're sure if you look at it for much longer you will throw up.

"The General chooses who gets an Amplifier" you hear yourself saying, but it's not like the boys are paying any attention to you, too caught up in their own little battle. You can't even bring yourself to blink. There's nothing you want to do more than look away but you simply can't.

Far away you hear someone yelling out "Durast!".

You step closer to the dead animal and kneel down to observe it closer, fingers carefully moving the corpse to look at it from a different angle, desperate to understand how exactly they tried to rip it. Its a brutal sight, but you feel like you owe it to this bird, somehow, since you put it into this position in the first place. You changed it's destiny. It's blood is on you hands now.

The Oprichiki you saw coming towards you a minute ago finally reaches you, pulling the two children apart once again. He begins to scold them immediately, which is what finally pulls you out of your almost trance like state.

"I'm gonna get the General." you announce, standing up and smoothing down the material of your purple Kefta, smearing it with the blood that covers you fingertips in the process.

The guard tries to protest but you cut him off before he gets the chance to speak his mind. "They're fighting over an amplifier. I need to tell the General."

And that's that. No room for discussion.

You walk quickly back into the Little Palace, mind full with paranoid, broken thoughts that lead to nothing. If you were smarter you would probably go to Baghra with this. You would go to her hut as soon as you told the General what happened and explain that your dove has been murdered. She would tell you what to do, come up with some plan to save your pitiful, worthless soul once again.

But you're scared — you're fucking terrified — and you can't think when you're like this.

"There was an incident in the gardens. I need to talk to the General." you quickly say to the Oprichniki standing guard in front of Kirigans doors, pushing past him without waiting for his response and opening the doors. A part of you hopes the guard sees this as a threat, the start of an attack, an attempt on ending the Generals life, and rips your heart out. He doesn't.

Kirigan is bent over a mountain of documents laying on the table in the middle of the room when you step inside, eyes big as he looks at you, waiting for an explanation for your disrespectful behavior.

For a few seconds your fear of the man freezes you in place, eyes glued to his, darker than the night sky itself. His presence is dominant and it feels almost as if he's pressing down on your lungs somehow, trying to squish the words out of your body. The shadows crawling on the walls don't help you either, their odd, sharp shapes moving slowly into your direction like a predator towards it's mortified prey.

"I don't remember calling on you yet." the General finally speaks, his voice smooth and cold like satin, full of that awful authority you don't remember him pushing onto you when you last stood in these rooms.

The dread it sparks in you frees you out of your paralysis.

"Two children are in the gardens fighting over the bones of a dead bird. They claim it's an amplifier." You blurt out, almost stumbling over your words. You hate this, hate being so close to the man who might kill you if he finds out what you've done. Every word Baghra has ever said about him, every warning and cautionary tale, echos loudly in your mind while your fingernails press into the soft flesh of your palm.

The General proceeds to stare at you for a few more seconds, eyes piercing into yours as if he's trying to pull your thoughts out of your mind and read them, then he finally stands up and motions you to follow him.

You obey, almost jogging after him to catch up with his long, heavy steps. As you two walk through the Little Palace you notice how the shadows stretch, desperate to follow their summoner, and you begin to wonder when they slip back into their original shape. How far does the control of the Darkling truly go?

How far would you have to run to no longer be in danger?

Your own powers reach quite far, but things are probably different for summoners, and even you have to admit that your powers weaken greatly the further away something is. Feeling metals and bones and all that, that's simple, but the shaping? That's the part where distance begins to take a toll on you. It's probably similar for the Etheralki, right? Grisha aren't all that different from each other. Are we not all things?

"You said they think it's an Amplifier?"

Snapping out of your thoughts you look back at the General. His eyes are on you, watching carefully, and you have to swallow your anxiety down to answer him.

"That's what they said, yes. They're fighting over who killed it and gets to claim it, moi soverenyi. I tried to mention that you're the one who decides which Grisha gets to claim an Amplifier for themselves, but they refused to listen to me. A guard pulled them apart and I decided to get your help."

He nods, silently thanking you for your quick rundown of what had occurred, before his back begins to straighten, his shoulders stiffening in the process, and his chin lifts a bit, making it seem like he's looking down on everyone. His steps become louder but also smoother, and one of his hands combs though his ink black hair, ensuring that every strand is in perfect position.

He was already scary before, but now he really just looks like a proud, powerful hunter, ready to discipline whoever disobeyed the rules of the Little Palace. It almost feels like he's doing too much, but the dealings with amplifiers have always been quite serious to him so it makes sense why he would go all out to scare children back into good behavior. The rules regarding them are tight and unforgiving and breaking one of them by claiming an Amplifier without consent from him is a serious violation, even if the perpetrators are children.

You can easily see how this man terrifies all of Ravka, how he keeps the entire Second Army in line and makes sure that you all lack nothing. This is not just Kirigan. This is the Darkling, the descendant of the Black Heretic. The man who bends darkness itself to his will and carries pure magic in his bones.

Moving quickly to open the door for him, you let him step into the gardens while you desperately try to keep your body in motion. It's hard to remember how powerful you are when you have someone who's basically a mythical being walking two steps in front of you.

Sure, you could hold onto his bones, shatter them into splinters and dust with a few quick hand movements, perhaps even rip the magic out of his body, but how are you supposed to do that when his aura alone almost paralyzes your body? And who can say if you would even be quick enough to do all that before his famed cut slices you in half?

Your hands clench further at the thought, a piercing pain shooting though your hands and arms when your nails finally draw blood as your eyes gaze upon the two boys.

The guard is still holding them in place but someone else has joined the group to discipline them instead. A teacher.

"Baghra?"

She's in the middle of insulting the fire summoning of one of the boys, the dead dove carefully cradled in her hands, when she hears you call out, her tired, angry eyes looking first at you, then at the General who's still a few steps ahead of you. You doubt anyone else notices it, but you see a spark of worry in her stare before it all disappears back under her usual mask. You think it unsettles you more than anything else ever could.

"Durast" Kirigan says coldly, stopping a few metres away from the group, eyes clearly glued to the dead bird, before he turns back to you. It's still not your name, but this time you're more glad than anything. If he hasn't bothered to learn your name yet he might not be as suspicious as you thought. The only good thing that happened today. "Go back to your quarters. I will send someone for you after all of this is over."

You can't help but nod, sending another nervous look to Baghra before you disappear back into the Little Palace and hide away in your room.

It's after midnight when a loud knocking finally rings through your room, but it's not who you expect.

"He's going to find out soon." Baghra whispers as soon as you open the window she knocked at, her tone serious. "He noticed the unnatural Merzost in the bird and we already knew that he's suspicious of you. It's only a mater of a few more hours until he connects the dots. You have to leave."

Part 5 - I'm not the devil

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