Notes: Dedicated to harry-up-n-kiss-me on tumblr, who requested a Nikolai x Alina x Darkling triangle :B (it will end up being Alina x Harem but I hope you enjoy it all the same!) ! Starts at the same place as chapter 21 of Shadow and Bone. First lines are taken directly from the novel.

Warnings: There will be violence, character death, darker themes re: the Darkling and his control over Alina, and the rating may possibly go up later.

Prologue: A Different Mercy

o.

Because the collar can't give you what you want. I have no choice but to serve you, but if Mal comes to harm, I wll never forgive you. I will fight you in anyway that I can. I will spend every waking minute looking for a way to end my life, and eventually, I'll succeed. But show him mercy, let him live, and I will serve you gladly. I will spend the rest of my days proving my gratitude.

i.

There are twenty six bars on the door of his cell. The first time he counted, it was twenty five, but the next ten counts confirmed that the first estimate was an error. There is a draft from just below the wall that rests on top of the stairs, which he estimates have fourteen steps. Two of which creak.

It's been about a week since he's seen her. He thinks.

Mal Oretsev stares into the only lamp in the room, and tries to tell himself that he isn't scared. Maybe he isn't, or at least, he doesn't think he is for himself. He's been shot at, he's seen his friends die, and he's intimately familiar with the knowledge that death is inevitable. So he knows that he's probably not going to ever leave this cell, unless it's to be blindfolded and lined up in front of a firing squad. Because he's a deserter, and that's treason. And treason meets its end at the barrel of a gun more often than not.

So that's not scary.

Not that scary.

There are better things to be afraid of. For.

Mal closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold, uneven stone wall of his cell. The edge of an old brick digs into the base of his neck, but he lets it because pain is one way to keep focus. And he needs something to keep him steady, to allow the compass in his thoughts to keep pointing due North, because there's something that's more important to think about than whether or not he's afraid of being killed.

Behind his eyelids, he sees Alina brushing her hair over a shoulder. Sees his fingers trailing over her neck. Sees her breath come in shaky when he touches her skin. The image makes a flash of sour anger rush through him, and his fist slams against the cold, stone floor of the cell. Mal is starting to get used to failing. But he can't fail her.

Because deep down, Mal knows that he could fail Ravka, fail the First Army, or even fail Keramzin, and it would be okay. He can fail anyone but her and be okay. As long as Alina's safe, Mal can be unafraid of the firing squad or the noose or even the volcra. Maybe even the monster that has her now. Because that's what love is, and it's something that allows people to run from armies and travel across permafrost without a blanket, and it's something that the Darkling can never, ever take away from him no matter how hard he tries or how many bars he puts on his cell door.

And love makes him unafraid of whatever fate awaits him, as long as it's not a fate that's shared.

…the first three nights, he had demanded to know where she was. If she was okay. What they wanted from her. One of the Grisha—a bastard in a red kefta and a constant aura of superiority—had only said she was where the Darkling wanted her to be, and ordered the guards to silence.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth nights, he sat alone and counted bars on his door and tried not to feel pathetic. He failed at that, too.

The seventh night is tonight. And he has company besides his thoughts and the memory of Alina being shackled like an animal.

The door with a draft underneath it swings open, and Mal keeps his eyes closed. He listens as two pairs of boots make short footfalls down the fourteen steps—two of which definitely creak. He doesn't run to the bars of his cell, into the light so he can see who it is. And he doesn't make any demands or pleas. He won't give them satisfaction of thinking he was waiting for them. Instead, he calmly keeps one hand against the rock (the knuckles sting from hitting it earlier, but that's fine) and the other fisted over his knee.

It's not until he hears the voice of the second pair of boots that he tenses.

"Bring the boy."

Every single muscle in his body becomes a coiled spring, and Mal slowly opens his eyes. They take longer to adjust to the dark (he remembers a time when that used to scare him, when he would see fingers and claws in the spaces filling dark corners and shadowed doorways) but he can make out the two gray eyes staring into his cell. He can see how they're devoid of anything human—two chips of granite, with all the warmth and sympathy of stone.

Mal knows—instinctively, undoubtedly—that this man is here to kill him.

He does not move either hand. Does not move to the cell door. Does not let the Darkling think he was waiting for him. And closes his eyes again. Let them get their hands dirty. He wasn't going to make his own execution easy for them.

He hears a click, the sound of a key turning, and his cell door with twenty six bars swings open. Mal evens his breathing.

"Get up," the voice belongs to that same Grisha from before, and it's not long until Mal feels the edges of a boot swing into the spaces between his ribs. He does what he knows will give the least pleasure: his body goes limp, his eyes remain closed and his face is devoid of expression save the slightest clench of his jaw when the Grisha's boot connects with his side for a second time.

"Ivan."

One word from the monster is enough to get the Grisha to stop kicking. And Mal cherishes this small, quiet victory before the Darkling speaks again.

"I expected you to be louder."

Mal's lip curls, just a little, but he doesn't respond.

He hears the Darkling walk forward, into the cell. The Grisha in red relaxes his leg. Mal can feel the Darkling's presence as he approaches closer to him. His body blocks the weak light of the lamp. It's nearly silent before he continues.

"Alina certainly was."

All Mal sees is red, and it's so encompassing and blinding that it's not until he's launching himself at the Darkling that he realizes he's actually opened his eyes. He goes to swing his fist into the Darkling's face, to hear that satisfying crunch of bone as he shatters the bastard's nose in, when something tightens around his chest like a vice.

It's like a fist has grabbed hold of his heart, and Mal lets out a pathetic, strangled noise as his body stills. He can hear blood rushing into his ears, feel the painful strain of his heartbeats in between the aching labor of his breaths. He looks over, and sees the Grisha in red standing with his hand outstretched. There's no sign of strain on his features, no indication of concentration. Not even an expression.

Does it really take them so little? Filters through his mind at the same time as she's not like them, she's not.

"What…have…you…." He can't finish the question, because his tongue won't move. Because his lungs aren't getting enough air to form words.

The Darkling lets out a small, bored sigh, and only turns to the Grisha.

"Keep him conscious."

Mal thinks he sees the Grisha go slightly paler. But he only nods, and Mal sags to his knees. Sees the dots of black creeping into his vision. It takes him everything just to inhale.

"She's not your concern, tracker. Was never your concern, and if you weren't so blinded by…sentiment, it would have saved-" the Darkling shakes his head, his jaw tightens, and Mal sees him decide he's not worth words. And Mal tries to snort but can't. Of course he's not. He's a dead man.

He's a dead man who can't breathe. Whose heart is hammering in his chest. And the rapid staccato of his rib cage makes him think about rabbits. About how they would look at him with their dark, wet eyes right before he was forced to kill them in their snares. Run rabbit. Run to the meadow.

The Darkling looks down on him, like he's a stain on the floor. Mal feels blood trickle from his nose, coating his lips, and pooling under his chin.

"You know why I'm here."

It takes every muscle, every nerve, and every drop of willpower he has to spit at the Darkling's boots. But he does.

The Darkling steps aside harmlessly, and looks to the Grisha, "Let him speak."

Air floods his lungs in gracious, clean amounts. The spots recede. He almost gags as he lies there on the ground, hunched over and cowering.

"Where-" he needs to know. He needs to know more than he needs air, "-is she."

"Predictable, at least." The Darkling says coldly, "But I've already wasted enough time on childish theatrics."

"Let. Her go-"

"As I said, tracker. She's not your concern," he nods to the Grisha, and Mal feels horrible nausea flood his stomach as he bows down. His fingers curl into a fist and if he's to die, he wants to die standing, and he can't because of whatever this bastard can do to his insides.

The Darkling crouches down, grabbing the hair at the back of Mal's head like he's a dog in need of disciplining. His neck snaps back, and he looks straight in to the Darkling's gaze. He stares at Mal, and he doesn't know what it is he wants to see, but something cold and angry passes over his face as he speaks into the darkness of Mal's cell.

"You are nothing. And she will forget you."

Mal forces his lungs to gather enough air to manage conviction, "No. She won't."

The Darkling scowls, "It was easy. To make her think you abandoned her. So very, very easy. And it will be just as easy to do it again."

The confusion must register on his face, because the Darkling presses on. The grip he has on Mal tightens and it betrays the anger he is trying to keep hidden underneath that stony exterior, "You're going to Tsibeya, tracker. You are going to Tsibeya and never returning."

Mal swallows. It tastes like the blood from the back of his nose. And he doesn't understand. Is this mercy? From him? And what, saints what, has Alina done to secure it for him?

"Whatever she promised…." He breathes, "It's not worth-"

"Your life. I agree." the Darkling releases Mal's hair, and stands. His gaze is once again cool and calculated, the clench of his jaw relaxing as he turns to the Grisha, "When you've finished, dispose of it quietly. Avoid the barracks."

The Grisha nods, and the expression makes Mal realize that he is not going to Tsibeya. His fingertips dig into the stone as he desperately tries to stand, but can't.

"Tell…Alina…"

The Darkling doesn't even slow in his step as he exits the cell. As he goes up twelve stairs, as he makes two more creak.

Mal coughs, choking, and tastes blood and bile in his throat.

"I'll be faster than a noose," the Grisha grunts, almost apologetically but not quite, and his fingers clench tighter in their fist.

Mal feels his heart twist—which should be impossible, hearts don't twist, do they?—and sees white flood his eyes. He sees Alina, rolling her eyes and calling him a moron at one of the summer festivals, her face illuminated by fire. Feels her small hand wrapped around his own in the dark. Tastes her lips against his as he finally understands what it means to find a home. Hears the old piano, as it makes harsh clinks because she never really learned to play it.

Malyen Oretsev's heart stops with the smell of grass from the meadow filling his nose instead of blood.

ii.

Across the camp, Alina wipes the tears from her eyes and solemnly prepares for the journey through the Fold.

It's worth it, she says to herself as she feels her heart split in half. The black kefta, the collar, the bargain—it's all worth it, because Mal is going to be alive.

And he's going to be on his way to Tsibeya.