Notes: Uff da, here we are! End of the line! Thank you so much to Dani and Hannah, who helped me work things out for the fic, and also to the fabulous Ms Bardugo for such a fun world and characters to play around with. And a big thank you for reading, especially for everyone who left notes, kudos, and comment

xlvi.

She remembers the first time she was a stranger to Os Alta. She had just been ripped away from Mal, from her entire life, and thrown into a carriage. She had just seen the man beside her split a Fjerdan in half for daring to threaten her.

Almost two hundred and fifty years later, she's a stranger for a second time, and it seems as if little has changed. He still kills for her, and, with a halo of smoke and red and white flags, the Grand Palace is still the ugliest building she's ever seen.

Their train is stopped about two miles outside of the heart of Os Alta. Men in black open their suitcases and go through their things. They search their compartment. It's not until they threaten to hold her for questioning (no, she doesn't have any travel papers with her name on them. No, she does not have family in the city. No, she does not work in the city) that Aleksander puts an arm around her shoulders and makes it clear that they are dismissed. It no doubt helps that both are now fluent in Fjerdan.

Around their shoulders are their rifles, and Alina's hands grow clammy and cold until both are out of sight.

They return with papers.

Officially, she is now Alina Morozova, wife of Aleksander Morozova, and they are Fjerdan citizens. She and her husband are required to stay in the outside districts of Os Alta while background checks are conducted. For their own safety. If they cooperate, that is also for their own safety.

He still hasn't moved his arm from her shoulders, though she doesn't know who he's trying to restrain by doing so.

Before they leave for the temporary lodging that has been set up on the fringes of the city, Alina dyes her hair back to brown in the sink of the train's bathroom. The person who looks at her in the mirror is young, but Alina sees scars in her eyes.

xlvii.

He watches her just as closely as he watches those who are proclaiming themselves Novoravkan. She is small again, something hard and cowered in on itself, a star that is baring its metal core. Her hair is brown, the skin under her eyes is bruise-purple, and he sees the way her hands shake when she catches sight of rifles. She is different, and he knows why.

Because now she is truly a soldier. Now she has used her Cut for Ravka, instead of just against him. She looks at those in black, and he is sure she is wondering how many of them she will have to kill to make her home restored. To avenge her progeny.

The Darkling vaguely remembers a man that was one of hers: a man with steel grey hair and only one dimple when he smiled. He doesn't remember his name, but he remembers he was a Lantsov. He wonders if Alina ever got to meet him, during her hidden time amongst the Bol'shoy. Wonders why it suddenly matters to him if she did.

Maybe it's because she's wearing her grief like a noose. And he is resolved to stop her from falling into it.

They will take back Ravka. And then he will take Alina back from her memories, piece by piece, until he is able to become her only shelter.

They are given a room to share with three others—an old Fjerdan woman and her two sons. The oldest of the sons stares at Alina too long for his liking, but he allows him to because the younger is talkative. And talk is what they need to plan their next steps, Fjerdan talk especially.

He learns from the younger one that, apparently, a mishap has happened with one of the border camps in Novoravka. None of the soldiers stationed near Kopingbran have given reports in months.

The Darkling does not know what Alina does with her time when he is away, learning as much as he can about the Novoravkan occupation. But one day, he returns home from sitting in the taverns and listening to the Fjerdans drink themselves to compromise, to see the older son sitting at a table with her, playing chess. Hears him say, offhandedly and with a tone that is just too light, that one day he will steal her away from her cold, cold husband.

The Darkling is about to make his presence known, when he hears Alina snort.

"I'm not luggage. I go where I want, and stay where I want."

He doesn't step forward. Instead, he quietly realizes for the first time that she has stayed for over forty years. That he wasn't the only one who could leave at any time during their diversion from war.

"I'll have your king, now."

The moments they have privacy are few and far between, and when they occur, little is said. Instead they fall together in crashes of lips and teeth, and she always falls asleep with her ear pressed to the seam over his heart.

It takes six months before the Darkling finally hears of something that could be an opportunity. There is word, whispered word, hushed word, that there are still members of the Bol'shoy: resistance pockets that have been moving like-minded Ravkans out of the city, and gathering outside units of the army to force the Novoravkans from Os Alta.

When he tells Alina in one of their private moments, when her head is resting on his chest, she only nods.

He's not used to her being passive. Once, maybe, back in the lifetime where there was a collar and a Fold, it would have been an unexpected advantage.

But now is different. Now her name is Morozova, and he hears her silence so very loudly.

They spend their days in a slow fog. Every day the stew they pay for becomes more watered down, and the cold is more harshly felt in the drafts of their room. It has become constant practice, for the Darkling to remind himself that everything—everything—is only temporary. That soon they will have full meals and regular heat. Soon they will not have to share living space with a senile woman, a chatty boy, and an otkazat'sya who presumes too much. Soon Alina will stop moving from room to room like she's haunting it. Soon he will not have to hear Fjerdan-accented and broken Ravkan being barked at them by men holding rifles.

Soon, they will have it all.

After three more months of subtle questioning at a tavern on the outskirts of Os Alta, he meets an otkazat'sya named Yana.

Yana was once a sniper in the Bol'shoy. And she notices that his Fjerdan has a subtle difference in dialect from their occupiers. That he hesitates before following the orders of the men in black. That he quietly mutters dlya Ravkabefore taking a sip of his kvas.

Two more months after that, Yana whispers in his ear that it would be a wise idea to stay indoors that night.

The Darkling gives his first smile since arriving back in Ravka. It is finally time for them to make a second debut.

xlviii.

She's playing another game of chess with Kurt when Aleksander returns home. She doesn't know what he does during the day, when she goes to work to make enough wages to pay off the men in black and the housing owner, but there is something different about him tonight. For one, he doesn't scowl at Kurt the way he normally does, like he's a burr in his heel that he must tolerate. Instead, his grey eyes meet hers and she sees something alive and electric, and she knows that tonight is the night.

"When." Is all she asks, moving her knight to once again take Kurt's king (he's remarkably terrible at the game—either because he lets her win, or because he can't see beyond two moves. Either option is bad).

"Now."

Alina takes a deep, steadying breath before she nods, looking at the black, worn king in the palm of her hand, "Alright."

He's somehow, in a city undergoing occupation no less, managed to find two old kefta. They aren't black, or gold. Instead they are a dark navy color, and she muses that these were probably the uniforms of the Bol'shoy Grisha before they all started to wear the standardized coats.

She runs her fingers over the long sleeves, over the sash that ties around the middle, and something about it feels right. Or at least, something about it hurts a little less.

"You look less like a ghost," is all Aleksander offers.

Alina supposes she does.

A few hours later, they hear gunfire and screams. And they follow the sound of bullets.

Alina's familiar with the old textile factory. It hasn't been used to produce textiles since the last time she was in Os Alta. Instead it's been repurposed. A lot of things have been repurposed by the Fjerdans and the Novoravkans. What used to be looms and workrooms are now hosts to meetings and war councils. It's a place where the border control of the city makes their base.

And right now, it's under attack.

The people who must be the remnants of the Bol'shoy wear no consistent uniform. They are clad in the ragged clothes of refugees, an assortment of darkly colored pieces. The force is small, and their tactics are questionable, since they're taking on what is practically an armored fortress from the ground. Bol'shoy hide behind fountains or market stalls as Fjerdan snipers pick them off like rabbits from the window.

She moves forward, but Aleksander grabs her arm.

"Not yet," is all he says in a clipped tone, barely audible over the exchanging sound of fire.

Alina scowls, "You'd rather wait until we're the only ones still standing?"

"I want to see if they have Grisha."

"Does that really matter right now?"

Aleksander gives a miniscule shake of his head, "Not the Bol'shoy. The Fjerdans."

She sends him a grim look, "The Fjerdans burn Grisha. Or did you forget."

A stillness goes over his entire body, the fingers on her arm flex quickly, "No. I won't forget."

"Then let's go."

He doesn't let go of her sleeve, instead he's looking her over, checking for cracks.

Alina clenches her jaw, "Aleksander."

His eyes snap back to her face.

"I'll be fine."

Aleksander releases a slow breath, "…I've never had a doubt."

Alina snorts, "Then stop holding my arm like you're about to pull the pin on a grenade."

After a few seconds, and the sound of what appears to be a bomb or an Inferniand Squallerfiring together, he drops his grip. He surprises her when he brings his mouth to hers in a quick, violent movement. His fingers wrap in her hair, and he presses his other hand between her shoulder blades to draw her closer. Before she can react, either to kiss him back or to shove him, he pulls away.

She blinks slowly, before shaking her head. Sunlight glows around her hands.

"Dlya Ravka," she whispers.

Aleksander nods, "Dlya Ravka."

They stand side by side, and it takes both sides a few moments to realize there are new performers on the stage. And that they are here to dance a waltz.

First step. Alina's arm swings, and a flash of light draws a diagonal line down the length of the textile factory. Everything is still, too still, for a single handful of seconds before the top of the building slides off, and crashes to the ground.

Second step. Aleksander brings his arms overhead, and in a smooth, circular movement, crashes his palms together. A loud boom fills the area before everyone is plunged into darkness. Unlike the building, this is not still. Screams of confusion from both sides can be heard, but thankfully no one fires off any weapons.

The third, final step. A different set of screams are heard, and they only grow louder after the leathery noise of wings echoes throughout the darkness.

Alina stands still, as she hears the Fjerdans and Novoravkans cry out in the dark. She keeps her hands at her side, even though they tremble. And she takes slow breaths even though it feels like she can't get enough air into her lungs. Her stomach twists and her throat burns. She hears the Fjerdan word for help screamed into the dark before it goes abruptly silent.

But she doesn't perform her bow until they've finished. Once she feels Aleksander's approval through their bond, she brings her arms up, and claps them together-boom. Light streams out in ribbons, wrapping around the shadows and the nichevo'ya and suffocating them with warm, golden movements.

Soon, there is only the two of them, the natural darkness of the night, and about thirty members of what was once the Bol'shoy, who are staring at them in mixtures of awe and horror. A few even drop to their knees.

Alina clears her throat. She doesn't look at what's left of the Fjerdans or Novoravkans, pieced together in the rubble. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained ahead. Like a soldier. Like an Etherealki, "We're here for Ravka."

An older woman with a sniper's rifle strapped over her back takes a hesitant step forward. Alina notices that she is sending Aleksander a speculative look, as if she's seen the face but can't place it.

"I am Yana Kirsanova. And I am a Tovarish of the Bol'shoy," she looks at the building behind both of them and it's a grim sort of smile that paints her lined features, "And I am glad you are not here for Fjerdan."

The dance stops, and the march begins.

xlix.

What's left of the Bol'shoy has been making camp underground. For a brief moment, he sees the mouse girl once again when her nose wrinkles at the news.

Much like his first time with the Bol'shoy, no one knows quite what to make of them. But their story comes easily enough.

He is the illegitimate grandson of the famed Commander, who led the first marches onto Fjerdan soil and liberated the villages of what is now Novoravka.

She is his wife, and no, they don't know who her family is, or how she is able to accomplish what only the famed Sankta Alinacould do. Yes, she was named after her, and yes it is a funny coincidence.

They are both Ravkan, though they hid in Fjerdan for safety when their village of Kopingbran surrendered.

It only takes the pair of them leading three successful guerilla strikes to be admitted into the inner circle. From there, it is made clear that they know what they are doing, that they wish to reclaim Os Alta in the quickest, most merciless way possible, and they are soon given positions of command.

He watches some life come back into her eyes as she gives orders. As she makes directives. As she creates drills for the Grisha members of the Bol'shoy to practice. As she does whatever she can to bring back Ravka to Ravkans.

Her taste for power runs differently from his own, but it seems as though it has finally managed to develop.

Yana is not the Commander of the Bol'shoy, but her elder sister is, and she arranges an introduction. Polina Kirsanova does not meet him in a garden, and does not have the regal stance of a queen. Instead, she slumps over a desk that is half rotted, with her fingers wrapped around a glass of vodka. She smells it like the former Tsaritsa would smell her roses, before it's tossed back in one swallow.

"You're the dark one."

His lips press together firmly.

Polina stares at him with cold, blue eyes, "The peasants talk about you. Quite a story, they've managed to cook up. Would you like to hear it?"

The Darkling gives a small nod, "Stories have their purpose."

She returns the gesture, "They do. And we think this particular story has some advantages," she pours another glass of vodka, "The girl, is she really what they say?"

"She is a Sun Summoner, yes."

"No, I mean is she your wife."

He frowns, but does not hesitate, "Yes."

Polina eyes him, but he has been glared at by far more powerful women, in far more powerful positions than a commander of a dying army, "She has no family?"

The Darkling keeps his tone even, "Once."

She dips her head, and takes another harsh swallow, "They think she's a Lanstov. A descendant of the Sankta," Polina snorts, "An orphan coming back to reclaim the throne."

He doesn't miss a beat in this silent offering, "And if she was."

"Well, now. I'd say a prodigal Lantsov is a better figurehead for a resistance army than a retired Squaller," it's only now that he notices the tip of her nose is blue with broken veins, "Wouldn't you?"

He leans back in his chair, "Yes. I would."

Polina snorts from the back of her throat and drains the rest of her glass, "Then dlya fucking Ravka!"

He anticipates many things from Alina, but sometimes she still manages to take him by surprise.

"Alright," is all she says when he tells her of Polina's plan.

It's a tired word, but one that is accepting. When he thinks to ask her about it further, she only rolls her eyes.

"I have commanded armies before."

"This means they will try to give you the throne."

Alina sighs, and goes back to her clumsy knitting, "I've already had a throne, too."

They make her a figurehead with surprisingly little time. The Durasts (all five of them, this rebellion has not been kind to those of the small science) begin construction of kefta for the Grisha members of the Bol'shoy, which is explained as a necessity due to the Grisha being the first target of snipers. Kefta, can deflect bullets, after all.

They debate what the new sigil will be. Finally, it is decided that the banner of the reformed Bol'shoy, controlled by the orphan Lantsov, will be a red dog howling at a pale silver moon.

It's Alina's design. And the clench of the Darkling's jaw only relaxes when the soldiers take quickly to it. No one has forgotten that the famed Korol Rezni of legend, the Fox Tsar that was married to the Sankta the Lantsovs descended from, flew colors as a privateer first: a red dog on a teal field.

The pale moon, Alina explains to him quietly as the otkazat'sya soldiers slip on new armbands over their coats, is an addition for a reason. Neither gold, nor black. Light nor shadow. Something in between.

…He'll tolerate it on his kefta, until Os Alta is back under control. Until black uniforms are no longer associated with Novoravkans.

All the kefta are the same shade of navy blue.

The outskirts of Os Alta are disorganized by their occupiers. And it is easy to remove them from the board, piece by piece. Patiently. Smoking them out like they are pests. He feels nothing as he hears the screams of dying Fjerdan and Novoravkans. He notices that Alina has stopped trembling whenever she sees a rifle.

Slowly, they improve. They gain ground. And after every conquered outpost, the Darkling and Alina balance the euphoria of using their powers by using each other wherever they can.

They reach the outside heart of Os Alta on the longest day of the summer: the Sankt Quarter. It is where they keep the royal graves.

l.

She finds it by accident.

Nightmares are not uncommon for Alina. Not after the camp. Not after Kopingbran. She wakes in a cold sweat, unable to remember anything from this particular one except that she was putting bodies onto a pyre. That alone is enough to keep her from rest for the night. Beside her, Aleksander is still. His breath is even. She can't understand how easily he sleeps, night after night after night. How nothing he's done can wake him.

Would it be so terrible, Alina, to be like me?

She shivers, rotating so she can step out of their bed. As the new (former) commander of the Bol'shoy, her quarters are slightly better than the rest of the Tovarish. Hers has a door. And only one place in the ceiling where it leaks.

Alina runs her fingers through her mostly still-brown hair. On Polina's suggestion, she has started to let it grow back out white. And at the moment, it's a mess of colors. It's horrible, and she can almost hear Genya making a strangled noise in the back of her head.

Alina stands, and moves to gather her clothes. She knows she won't be able to go back to sleep, and is in need of a distraction. Any distraction.

She is pulling her kefta over her head when she feels a stare. Alina shrugs the rest of the garment on, before she turns and sees Aleksander's grey eyes trained on her. He's lying propped up on an elbow and blinking sleep from his eyes.

"Where are you going," it comes out still raspy with sleep.

"Out," she replies calmly, fingers lacing the sash tightly around her middle.

"It's late."

She pulls her hair back and turns her attention from him, "Can't sleep."

He is quiet, and as she laces her boots, she thinks he's gone back to bed. Until she hears his voice once again, cutting through the shadows just like her summons.

"Are you coming back."

Her eyes flicker from her boots to the door. She bites down on her lower lip. "…yes."

She hears the creak of the mattress as he rolls onto his back. And Alina can practically visualize him running his hand through his hair, "Don't go."

Alina stands, "It's just a walk."

The sound of the door closing is quiet, final, and hollow.

The sun is just starting to peak when Alina steps out of the hidden encampment and onto the streets of Os Alta. It's dangerous, she knows, to be walking around in the open in her navy blue kefta, but she also knows she is equally dangerous. And maybe part of her is trying to find some trouble, some new obstacle to overcome, so she doesn't have to think about what the words assassination or haxa mean.

She very rarely made trips to the Sankt Quarter during her time as Alina Starkov, and less so as Alina Lantsov. For a living saint, she discovered she had little use for ceremony or religion. Maybe it's because over time, she made the simple realization that every martyr they prayed to was once alive. But she needs somewhere quiet to gather her thoughts, and there is nowhere quiet in Os Alta except for where its people go to bury their dead.

Alina walks for what seems like hours, where the streets are darkest, before she turns a corner she sees her former husband.

Alina's eyes widen, and her feet somehow manage to move towards it even though she can't quite believe what's in front of her. The statue of Nikolai Lantsov is carved in what appears to be white marble and accentuated with patchwork golden leaf. And it's beyond garish.

The rising sun glistens off of his hair, forming an almost beatific halo. He is eternally sculpted as he was when Alina first met him, wearing an outfit that could only be described as rakish, with a golden cape around his shoulders and a saber held aloft in his left hand. His face in profile is so like him it hurts, from the tilt of his grin to the crinkles of laughter around his eyes. The only remarkable difference is the addition of a stylish goatee she doesn't remember him ever sporting in life.

Her eyes are already welling with tears when she notices that his statue is not alone. Besides the dashing, tacky depiction of Nikolai is a matching likeness. And her tears transform into full out barks of laughter when she realizes who it's supposed to be.

The likeness of Sankta Alina is also carved into marble and gold leaf, wearing both a dutiful, solemn expression and a solitary tear on her cheek as she generously spreads her hands to the pack of cherub orphans clinging to her feet. What appears to be doves are sitting on her marble shoulders, all six of whom have an olive branch in their beaks.

She's laughing so hard she's nearly sobbing, and Alina has to brace herself against the base of Nikolai's statue in order to catch her breath. It's only then that she realizes the statues have inscriptions engraved on brass plaques. Alina goes down onto one knee, still laughing, and reads the one for hers.

First of her name, Tsaritsa Alina Lantsov. Patron Sankta of Lost Causes, Sad Orphans, and Marrying Up.

Alina snorts, using the back of her hand to wipe away the tears that are either from laughter or sobs, before turning to read his.

Third of his name, Tsar Nikolai Lantsov. Still the pretty one.

The hand wiping away her tears goes to cover her mouth, failing to stifle the choked gasp she emits when old wounds suddenly reopen. Alina sinks to her other knee, and for the first time in what feels like decades, she finally allows the harsh, wracking sobs she has put aside for so long to escape her body.

He's not there to hold her as she cries, but she sits in front of their ugly statues and lets the catharsis he helped her discover take its hold instead.

The two statues stand outside of a white building, marked by a golden sunburst. It is the headquarters of The Soldat Sol, a charity that gives support to children orphaned by war. Including a significant amount of funding that is donated to Keramzin. The statues were commissioned by Ana Lantsov, Fourth of her name, after following a clause in her father's will.

They—the Sol, the statues, Keramzin—are untouched by Novoravka's revolution.

She doesn't know how long she's been lying there, collapsed in front of the no doubt ugliest statues in Ravka, when she feels him approach. Alina's not surprised to sense his anger through their tether, or his relief when he realizes that she hasn't quite left him yet.

"You didn't come back." His words sound accusatory, blaming. Alina can't find it in herself to care. Not when it feels like she's suddenly taken off a yoke or a brick or both.

"I didn't leave, either," her eyes are red rimmed, and her voice is harsh from tears. She feels boneless and lighter, all at once.

Aleksander kneels beside her, and as he reaches to touch the back of her neck she shakes her head. He frowns, but retracts his hand, instead looking at what she's leaning against.

Due to who they are, what they are, she can sense his emotions even though none are betrayed on his face. Anger, at her leaving this morning after he asked her not to. Fear, when she did not come back. And dark, seething jealousy as he realizes what it is that's in front of him.

"They're hideous," is all he says, fingers tightening in the fabric of his kefta so he doesn't make a fist.

Alina gives a watery smile, "They are."

"You're different."

She looks up once again into that chiseled, golden face with a ridiculous goatee, "…a little."

Aleksander extends his hand in front of her, "Come."

Wordlessly, Alina takes it, and allows him to help her stand.

He takes her to a graveyard.

Not just any graveyard.

The royal plot has somehow managed to be spared desecration, and as Aleksander leads her, hand in the crook of his elbow, Alina starts to recognize the names. Malyen. Anton. Boris. Tatiana. Vasilia. Ivan. Her breath comes in ragged as he finally stops in front of four.

Misha Lantsov.

Ana Lantsov.

Nikolai Lantsov.

And, finally, Alina Lantsov.

"Why," she finally manages to whisper, her eyes trained on the names. Her knees feeling weak and unable to support her own weight.

Aleksander sends her a sidelong glance, before he draws her to him. Alina is numb as he brings his arms around her, as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

"Tell me of them."

She squeezes her eyes close. And does not know why he wants to know. Why he wants her to talk about them. But she moves back from him, and her water-blurred eyes take stock of the names, all of them. All of the pieces of her heart that she has not allowed herself to think about in some time. She feels raw and exposed, looking at engraved stone. As weathered as the edges of the lettering on it.

She clears her throat, "Malyen was our first grandchild. Misha and Svetlana's son. He…" Alina looks down. She doesn't need to remember, because these names are things she carried. But it is the first time she's ever spoken of them, to anyone, and it means she needs rests before she can continue. "Used to drive the cooks crazy. He'd sneak cakes, all hours of the night, even in his sleep. We'd get him up in the morning and he'd just be covered in sugar."

Alina needs to sit. So she does. And Aleksander stands behind her, silent.

Alina can feel the tears rolling down her cheeks, as she looks at the next one, "Vasilia was Ana's daughter. And Ivan's. She looked so much like Genya—beautiful red hair. Men wrapped around her finger before she was even ten years old. Ivan hated it, but then again, Ivan hated most things."

Her voice cracks, "Ana. Was a privateer, for a few years. Non-sanctioned. She thought I didn't notice when our schooners suddenly disappeared for months at a time. I did, but Nikolai…"

He crouches behind her, and takes her into his arms again. And he waits, as only he can, for her to make it through all the names. For her to cry all the tears she has left. She has no idea how long they stay there, but every name wears her down like a stone against the edge of a knife, until she is nothing but blunt edges. Until she is no longer tempered steel, but something unformed and broken. A cup, that couldn't hold water, but might be able to now that she sees where it needs mending.

They stay at the graves until she falls asleep, and then he carries her once more.

Time heals all things, even Alina Starkov.

Six months later, they retake the Little Palace. Three days after that, the Grand.

li.

Rulers are replaced, kingdoms fall, but palaces remain unchanged save for the portraits hanging in the halls. As Aleksander walks throughout the Little Palace once more, he muses again that this place is no different—its fine carpets are the same, the chandeliers, and the gardens, too.

There is even still a small hut on the grounds, down by the shoreline.

And that's where he finds her.

The evening Os Alta officially belongs to Ravka again is an evening of celebration. It's an evening of kvass and vodka, but instead of being involved in the festivities, Alina is instead curled up by the fire of Baghra's hut. Her hair is white again, beautiful and unbound and hanging around her shoulders.

She does not look away from the fire. And Aleksander does not look away from her as he stands to her side, leaning against the wall of his mother's hut.

"It looks like you've made a ruler of me again," Alina mutters to the flames, resting her chin on the heel of her hand.

He watches her like a hawk might eye a mouse, "This time I only took the army that belonged to me."

She snorts, closing her eyes. She fidgets with the ends of the sleeves of her kefta. It is of Ravkan make, "You've made an impression. Polina has requested that I make you my Consort."

His jaw clenches. Consort. "And are you obliging that request."

Alina frowns in contemplation, "I've never had a Consort before."

"Alina."

She sighs, and she keeps her eyes closed, "Someone once told me there was nothing wrong with being a lizard, unless you were born to be a hawk."

The words twist something within him, and he remembers a woman telling him the same thing as a child. What could have possibly been a millennia ago.

"…I have so many reasons to hate you, Aleksander," she whispers.

He glares at her, the beginnings of a scowl on his lips, "Is that what you need, Alina. Do you still need a villain?"

She bites down on her lower lip, "Would you like to be one?"

The question surprises him, and he turns to look at the fire. It takes him a moment to reply, "I would like balance."

"What would you do for that balance?"

"Anything."

Alina groans, finally turning to look up at him, "You don't make anything easy, do you?"

Aleksander returns the stare, "I forget your unparalleled ability for compromise."

She shakes her head, brushing off her kefta before standing. She matches his lean, and does not draw closer to him, "There is no balance without war. I've learned that."

His lips twitch, "Then there will be war."

Alina sighs, not breaking their eye contact, "Then I suppose I have to keep an eye on you."

Aleksander steps forward, and one of his long fingers curls under her chin, tipping it up. Her hair gleans like an ember with the reflected fire, and he can only think of Kopingbran. Of the scar on his chest. The marks on her shoulder.

"What do you want, Alina."

"I want to rest," she says sadly, "I want this to be clear. I want a Keramzin that has never been burned down, a Ravka left alone, a Fjerdan camp that I never Cut, and to know that this is what I should be doing. I want to know that taking this throne is what is best for Ravka, and not just something I need because I'm tired of feeling guilty and heartbroken," her eyebrows furrow as she traces her thumb over the scars that mar his face, "…I want to be someone who can stop hating you. Because I think I am starting to understand all of you. And that terrifies me."

He takes his fingers from her chin to hover over her own against his face. He brings her hand to his lips, and kissing every finger in slow movements. Then he presses her hand to his chest, to that scar, to the pounding of his heart, "What I want…is to stop being alone, Alina."

Her eyes start to water, "I want to stop being alone, too."

"And you are the only one I want to be with," he brings her hand up again to kiss her palm, "So stop hating me."

Alina closes her eyes, and her voice is a broken whisper, "…Okay."

For the first time in centuries, she initiates a kiss.

Later, they lay together on the floor of Baghra's old hut, watching the fires burn down to ash.

The next morning is her coronation.

lii.

Her coronation is a simple affair. There are no red carpets, no two hour speeches, no Apparat wheezing about her head. Instead, there is only Alina, Aleksander (her Consort, though she somehow knows he does not intend to be just her Consort for long), and the inner circle of the Bol'shoy.

It's Polina, bleary-eyed and hung over, that places a crown on her head.

"Alright. I, with the power of the Bol'shoy and an Os Alta not really in a state to argue differently, now pronounce you Tsaritsa Morozova-"

"No," Alina says firmly. "Not Tsaritsa."

Aleksander frowns beside her.

And she looks at him, a determination burning somewhere in the depths of her gaze as she laces her fingers through his, "Just Sankta."

He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, before he brings them to his lips, "…The Sankta," he agrees, after a moment of contemplation.

Polina frowns, but shrugs and places the crown on her head. And with hands held together, Aleksander leads her to the dais. She takes the first step, before he follows.

They rule longer than anyone has a right to, on two thrones that sit at equal height.

He is the tide, moving forward, washing away whatever is in its path. And she is the moon, drawing him back. As forces of opposition, they will always have war.

But at night, instead of the lonely disquiet of the shadows, or the abandonment of burning lamps, they manage to have each other.

liii.

You were meant to be my balance, Alina. You are the only person in the world who might rule with me, who might keep my power in check.

Glossary.

Russian words and expressions (again not even close to a native speaker, so apologies if I butchered anything—please let me know if I did and I'll be happy to fix it!):

Moya zhena = My wife

Gospodin = Mr.

Sol-nyshka moyo = My sun (always said with a mocking tone when used by the Darkling)

Bol'shoy = Big or grand

Dlya Ravka = For Ravka

Tovarish = Comrade/friend

Skazki = Literal translation is "stories", but used in reference to fairy tales

Swedish words/expressions

Den Vit Offret: The White Sacrifice in Swedish

Skol: Cheers!

Haxa: Witch