“As was mine. In the end.”
“They say you’re a Saint now,” Misha spat.
“And what do you say, boy?”
“I say they should let me kill you myself.”
“Many have tried before. Do you think you could manage it?”
Mal laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Misha. Threatening him only makes him feel important.”
“What do we call you now?” asked Alina. “What does anyone call you?”
“I’ve had a thousand names. You’d think it wouldn’t matter. But Yuri doesn’t suit me at all.” He peered at her. “You look different.”
“I’m happy. You never really saw me that way.”
“Living in obscurity.”
“In peace. We chose the life we wanted.”
“Is it the life you’d have chosen if you hadn’t sacrificed your power?”
“I didn’t sacrifice my power. It was taken from me because I fell prey to the same greed that drove you. I paid the price for tampering with merzost. Just as you once did.”
“And does that make your grief any less?”
“No. But every child I help heals something inside me, every chance I have to tend to someone left in the wake of your wars. And maybe when our country is free, then that wound will close.”
“I doubt it. You might have ruled a nation.”
“It’s amazing,” said Mal, settling in a chair and stretching out his legs. “You died.” He turned his gaze on Alina. “And you pretended to die. But you both picked up right where you left off. Same argument, different day.”
Alina jabbed him in the thigh. “It’s very rude to make accurate observations.”
The Darkling’s gray eyes studied Mal with more interest than he’d ever shown before.
“I understand we’re blood related.”
Mal shrugged. “We all have relatives we don’t like.”
“Do you, orphan?”
Mal’s laugh was real and surprisingly warm. “He says it like it’s an insult. You’re rusty, old man.”
“Alina’s blade wrapped in my shadows and your blood.” The Darkling’s voice was thoughtful, like he was remembering a favorite recipe. “That was how you almost ended me. Barely more than children and you came closer to killing me than anyone had before.”
“Not close enough,” Misha growled.
“You dragged us out to this miserable place,” said Alina. “What is it you want now?”
“What I have always wanted, to make a safe place for the Grisha.”
“Do you think you could manage it?” she asked, echoing the Darkling’s taunt to Misha. “It’s not like you didn’t get a fair try before. Hundreds of tries.”
“If not me, then who?”
“Nikolai Lantsov. Zoya Nazyalensky.”
“Two monsters, more unnatural than anything either Morozova or I ever created.”
Zoya’s brows rose at that. Being called a monster by a monster somehow felt like a badge of honor.
“I’m pretty sure I’m talking to a dead man,” said Alina. “So maybe this isn’t the time to throw stones.”
The Darkling’s shackles clinked. “They are children, barely able to understand themselves or this world. I am—”
“Yes, we know, eternal. But right now, you’re a man without a scrap of power sitting in a house full of ghosts. Zoya has been fighting for years to keep the Grisha safe. She rebuilt the Second Army from the tatters you left behind. Nikolai has unified the First and Second Armies in a way never seen in Ravka’s history. And what about the innovations of Genya Safin and David Kostyk?”
Zoya stirred her tea, afraid to show how much Alina’s words meant to her. After the war, she had begun her journey as a member of Alina’s chosen Triumvirate, unplagued by hesitation. She’d thought she was born to lead. But through time, and trial, and failure, doubt had crept in.
The Darkling looked only bemused. “If Ravka is so strong, why is Fjerda attacking? Why are the wolves at the door once more? Do you really believe these cubs can lead a nation?”
“Safety for the Grisha. A united Ravka. What if they are the ones to give this dream to us? Why does it have to be you? Why do you have to be the savior?”
“I am the man best suited to the job.”
But there was something in the Darkling’s voice that made Zoya wonder if he was quite as sure as he had been before he’d taken tea with a Saint.