The dimly lit lanterns of the underground tunnels illuminate the place, my lungs feeling weak and my throat parched from the dust and soot. I massage my shoulders and a pang rushes through me as I realize I'm still wearing my Materialki purple gown, the folds of the fabric darkened with dirt, the silver stitching barely visible.
The red ribbons on my corset are still visible, with blood to join in vibrant hues that are sickeningly beautiful.
Mourning floods through me as I remember Fedyor's lifeless body to join Ivan's, Paja crushes beneath the very dish I helped create, the thousands of keftas adorning corpses littered generously over the lawn of the Little Palace, the only home I've ever known.
"Is Alina alive?" I ask quietly, turning to look at Zoya.
"Thriving like a Saint," she deadpans, leaning back in her seat.
She fills me in on everything that's been going on, most surprisingly our unwilling alliance with the Apparat, along with the unpleasant fact that the supporters have been calling Genya Razrusha'ya due to her gruesome wounds.
It feels like my body has gone through my grieving stages in the days I've been unconscious, but that ache is still there, and I'm terrified that I'll lose someone else.
Words will never be able to describe how thankful I am to see Zoya sitting in front of me.
"I. . ." I release a heavy sigh. "The Darkling is alive, isn't he?" I'm not sure why I'm even asking. It isn't like we would hide underground like mole rats of our own volition.
Zoya folds her arms. "Don't get sulky on me."
"We're hiding in tunnels with an army of people who consider Alina Starkov a Saint. I wouldn't consider my sulkiness too much of a concern," I shoot back, grateful for the excuse to get into our usual rhythm.
"I'm not concerned about anything," Zoya says righteously. "It's terrible for the complexion."
"I'd say the dirt underground doesn't do much good for you either," I inform her, even though her skin is glowing brighter than ever.
I cautiously slide out of the cot, my knees screaming in protest as I stand up without any support. "Saints, is this what it's like to feel old?" I shudder.
"Maybe with a bit more hunching in the back," Zoya muses with a slight smile.
"Hilarious," I murmur, stiffly walking along with her. "I want to train."
She glances at me walking like an old lady and arches one of her dark eyebrows. "Oh. You're serious. Yi, I don't mean this of any offense, but you are aware of the fact that you're hobbling worse than Baghra, right?"
"I think Baghra is lovely," I counter. "And I promise you that I'm fine."
"Fine? Oh, you're far from it. But I suppose if you want to subject yourself to torture, I won't be the one to stop you." She smiles pleasantly.
"How reassuring," I respond uneasily.
She leads me through the dark tunnels, and I notice we occasionally pass a few sun soldiers, their cheeks darkened with ink in the shape of Alina's sun.
Soldat Sol, Zoya told me earlier.
I notice that everyone has weary faces, their clothes fraying at the edges and dirtied with dried blood and dirt. As we walk, Zoya gives me the numbers. We still have Nadia, Adrik, Stigg, and Harshaw among the Etherealki, along with Tolya, Tamar, and Sergei as Heartrenders. Maxim is our sole Healer, and I'm told that I broke two ribs in the chapel and he was the one to tend to me.
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✵ SWEETER THAN HONEY ― nikolai lantsov ✵
Fanfiction❝ and in a feud with her neighbor, she stole his dog and dyed it key-lime green ❞ © theyluvyvonne Reposting without permission or credits can result in account deletion.
