'yes, there is something uncanny, demonic, and fascinating in her.'
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He freezes when he sees her again. The woman who doesn't claim herself as a Grisha but a witch. A witch who defies the rules that bind the universe, that govern the capacity of Grisha, and violates the natural order of everything he's ever known. A witch with magic in every cell of her body. A witch who can not only manipulate what was already there but also create and destroy.
A witch as immortal as him and his mother.
Ingrid Mikaelson was an anomaly, even compared to him. She was the impossible. Improbable. It is as if the saints above themselves decided to curse every ignorant and vile otkazat'sya by giving life to exactly what they thought the Grisha was. What they could be if they were the witches they were so inclined to accuse them of.
She's a witch who can stop hearts like a heartrender, heals like a healer, specializes in poison like an alkemi, manipulates fire like an inferni, wind like a squaller, water like a tide maker, bends metal like a durast, light like the fabled sun summoner herself, and more. Much more than anyone could ever fathom.
A witch who is comforted by the warmth of fresh blood and breathes magic.
"Oh, hello, love," her voice was a slow drawl, rich in tone, something he could never forget, not even a thousand years from now. "Fancy meeting you here." Her eyes were glistering; the moonlight from the little hole high above the ceiling of their holding cells turned them beautiful and piercing, a universe hidden in their depths.
And he stares. Just stares. For a moment, while they look at each other, he cannot remember what he is meant to be doing and simply takes the ethereal woman in with his greedy eyes; the shape of her face, the contrast of her hair against her skin, the tilt of her neck, the expanse of her collar bone, and her long lashes cast shadows down over her angular cheekbones. Her's was a face unmoved and untouched by time. And even though he knows it, seeing it all once more with his eyes settles something in him.
Something raw, old, and hungry.
Something that gives him hope that he is not all alone.
"What are you doing here?" of all the questions — of all the unspoken things he could've chosen from, that's the thing that seemed to take precedence. Because why in the name of saints was Ingrid lounging in the prison of Kerch that smelled like goose shit when they both knew she could easily lay waste to everyone there and be on her way to a sunny beach in Novyi Zem by now.
He knows those shackles that bound her wrists and chained her to the cell bars to give her a limited range of movement were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. And all she needs is her strength alone to break through them. There is no need for one of those fancy spells spoken in undead and ancient languages he can never find the meaning of even if he wanted to.
