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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month

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Pairing: Aleksander Moroza x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Summary: Alyra Koshkova has always lived in the shadows, concealing her true nature to survive. But when tragedy forces her into the heart of Ravka's Second Army, she finds herself under the watchful eye of General Kirigan, the Darkling—a man as enigmatic as he is powerful. Struggling to come to terms with her newfound role, Alyra must navigate a world of hidden threats and dangerous alliances. As secrets unravel and the Darkling’s intentions grow ever more unclear, Alyra’s choices could reshape the fate of a nation—or lead to her own undoing.

Series Masterlist

Read on A03

Additional Tags: Canon Divergence, Language, Depictions of Violence, War, Political Intrigue, Horror Elements, The Darkling has a Heart, Grisha!OC, Grisha Sympathetic, Alcohol, The Darkling was right about a lot of things

Chapter 1: Drüsje

The ancient floorboards groaned under Alyra’s boots as she stepped into the dim sanctuary of Obratsov’s Apothecary. The mingling scents of incense, spice, and damp greeted her like an old friend. Behind the counter, Pavel Obratsov was too engrossed in his work to notice her.

Alyra watched as he, gray-speckled mustache twitching in concentration, fought a battle of wills with a stubborn root. Armed with a pestle, he hammered the tuberous tendrils against the stone mortar until a piece finally broke free. A triumphant grin spread across his face.

A soft chuckle escaped Alyra, drawing his attention. Pavel pushed his spectacles up his long nose, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he looked up.

“Good morning, Alyra,” he greeted, setting the mortar down on the worn wood. “Back so soon?”

Alyra slipped the moth-eaten scarf from her hair, tucking it beneath her arm as she stepped forward. “It’s afternoon,” she corrected, a teasing lilt in her voice as she rifled through her canvas bag. She produced a small satchel of fresh herbs with a satisfied smile. “Slow day?”

Pavel shrugged, accepting the satchel. “Mrs. Yeshevsky came in earlier for a poultice.”

“For Vlad’s gout?” Alyra asked, leaning against the counter and blowing a flyaway hair out of her face.

He nodded. “He loves his liquor too much. Her son Leo is on leave, staying for at least a month. Always a handsome boy, that one.

Alyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes, leveling him with a skeptical look. She had known the baker’s son since they were twelve. And while Leo, with his soft blue eyes and dimples, had undoubtedly grown into an attractive man, it was soured by his own acute awareness of his looks.

Pavel chuckled, raising a hand in supplication. “I just wanted to see you happy, Alyosha. And with Mash in Os Alta, who else’s life do I have to meddle in?”

“Lucky me,” she sighed but planted an affectionate peck on his cheek. “Anyways, Andrei should be landside soon,” she added, ignoring the disapproving snort he gave in response. “Now that the ports are open…”

Orbratsov, who had upended the satchel and spread the contents on the counter in front of him for inspection stilled, his eyes locking with hers. “The ports are open?”

The news had been the talk of the town from the moment Alyra set out this morning. Bracing either side of the Sokol River, Ryevost was the largest of the Ravkan port cities. Resting in the southern foothills of the Petrazoi with Os Alta only a short journey east, it had become an economic center. With the country sundered in two by the fold and entrenched in war on two borders, its importance had only grown tenfold. Merchants and military alike relied on the waterways for a constant flow of supplies, while fishermen and netmakers made their living off the river’s steady through.

Three months ago, the cycle of life around the Sokol came to an abrupt stop. The arrival of summer meant safer passage through the mountains and with it came an uptick in Northern raids, which quickly escalated from shelling into full-blown armed conflict between Fjerda and the Ravkan First Army. In a desperate attempt to protect supply lines and cut off further hostile expansion into the country, the mouth of the Sokol had been damned. Trade ground to a standstill and no one from the quayside fishmongers to the Silk Quarter elite was spared the effects. In the last months as resources grew scarce and men desperate, hollowed cheeks and sharp knives became the latest fashion. The city had been holding its breath ever since.

“Early this morning. They’ve been working since dawn to clear the rubble.”

“How? Why?” Pavel mopped at his bald head with a patched kerchief, his face creased with confusion.

Alyra leaned closer, lowering her voice. “The king must have realized Fjerda is better equipped. Word is they sent in the Second Army and it was quick work after that.

Pavel’s expression darkened. “It is always in when the Black General is involved.”

She hummed in agreement. “First ship came through just before noon.”

“And the cargo?”

Alyra’s finger traced the rough woodgrain of the counter. “Would definitely interest you.”

Pavel’s lips pressed into a thin line as he eyed the front door. “You trust this information?”

She nodded. “Paid Dima a full vlancka and a favor for it. But you know his father’s worked the docks his whole life. If he says it, I believe him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Pavel, that’s not all. There are rumors of Druskelle raids a few miles north.”

“It hasn’t stopped me before,” Pavel replied, though there was a hint of unease in his tone.

Alyra placed a hand over his. “Pavel, with the added security at the gates, it’s riskier than usual. And if they catch you…You remember Yelena—“

“Of course, I remember,” he said sharply, then softened when he saw the worry in her eyes. “I’ve done this a hundred times. We just need to be extra cautious.

She followed his gaze to the wall behind him, where shelves lined with glass bottles reflected the afternoon sunlight filtering through the filmy window. As she watched the sun motes dance in the light, she tried to not think of Yelena Volskya’s screams when the Druskelle dragged her from her home.

When she turned back to him, Pavel’s gray eyes were pleading. “No, Pavel. Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “You know I don’t mix myself up in that business.

“The Satrinov job—“

“Was a one-time deal and nearly a disaster,” she countered, her voice firm. “Besides, the night watch doesn’t try me the way they do you.”

Memories of that desperate nighttime flight flooded back—damp air clinging to her skin, the sharp jolts of fear when the guards nearly caught her. She fought down the urge to shiver.

“Alyra…”

She sighed, shifting her weight onto her forearms. “If you need a message delivered or someone to keep an eye on Galina, you know I’m your girl. But I can’t risk it. You know I can’t.”

Pavel squeezed her hands between his own, voice gentle. “Alyosha, I understand. But Galina’s health has been so poor this summer, and I’m hesitant to leave her. Tironsky was picked up last week for brawling, and Vikhrov is with her mother in Adena. There is no one else.”

Alyra’s resolve wavered as she thought of Galina’s frail form, coughing through the night. She tried to pull away, but Pavel’s grip tightened.

“This is bigger than you or me. And you can’t hide in the shadows forever, my darling girl. That is no life.”

His words hung heavy in the air, filling every corner of the room. Alyra stared out the window, her jaw clenched, fingers drumming on the counter. The weight of her plea bore down on her, and finally, she sagged, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” she muttered, resigned. “But never again, Pavel. I mean it.”

Pavel’s eyes misted with gratitude as he rounded the counter, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you, zaika,” he whispered, planting a kiss on each cheek. “Thank you.”

---

It was long past dark when Alyra limped back to Lowtown, exhausted and sore. Curfew had come and gone, and slipping past the guards had been a nerve-wracking ordeal, fitting for the chaos of the last three days.

The first snag in Pavel’s air-tight plan had been the late arrival of the Wave Viper. Known for its speed and the captain’s discretion, the barnacle-laden fishing vessel had docked hours behind schedule due to an impromptu inspection. Waiting by the river, Alyra’s breath had caught, fearing the worst, but the captain assured her the cargo—a handful of Grisha families seeking sanctuary—had gone unnoticed. The summer storm that followed drenched her and her frightened charges to the bone, emptying the busy streets she had counted on for cover. Forced to change course, she led them out through the east gate, far from the bribed guard at the south. A small fortune she would never see again. But they made it out, passing the group off to Pavel’s contact in a small village south of the city. Her involvement should have ended there.

Now, as she navigated the narrow streets of Lowtown, the paranoia of discovery still gnawed at her. Her legs felt leaden, her heart leaping at every moment as if each shadow hid an enemy.

Rounding the corner, she almost wept with relief at the familiar warm glow at the end of the street. Her salvation—a chipped, plum-colored door—was in sight. She was already imagining Pavel’s gratitude, a hot cup of tea, and a cushioned chair when a resounding crash shattered her thoughts.

The front window exploded into a million pieces, glass raining down, and a man stepped out, his uniform dark and silver-trimmed. Alyra’s head leapt into his throat, recognizing him instantly— a Druskelle.

Heavy footfalls echoed as he was joined by another man. Inside, she heard barked orders in a language she didn’t understand. They had been found out.

Flattening herself against the nearest wall, she prayed the shadows would hide her. Her mind churned with possible actions, but each led to the same dead end. There was no one to call for help, no one would risk their lives for Lowtown apothecary and his family. So she watched.

The first Druskelle scanned the street, his cold eyes passing over her hiding spot. She held her breath, sure he’d seen her, but then he turned away to murmur something to his comrade.

She took a cautious step away from the scene, only to collide with something solid.

“Going somewhere, little mouse?” a voice growled in fragmented Ravkan. Alyra spun around, her heart thundering as she met cold blue eyes. Panic surged. She darted back, but he snatched her arm, grip like iron. Without missing a beat, he dragged her towards the shattered window, her struggles an exercise in futility.

No matter how she kicked and wrenched, trying to break free, she was no match for his strength. Even when the heel of her boot met his shin, his grip only tightened.

The first thing she saw was Pavel, bound and bloodied, a deep gash on his forehead. When their eyes met, she saw fear and regret mirrored back at her.

“Let her go,” Pavel begged the two uniformed men flanking him. “She’s just my apprentice, she had no part in this.”

One of them laughed harshly as they frog-marched her inside. A kick to the back of her knee nearly sent her sprawling, but she managed to stay upright, defiant even as she was forced to her knees beside Pavel.

A shadow loomed over her. The sandy-bearded man towering above them exuded authority, his coat finer than the rest and adorned with medals. The leader.

“Be careful what lies you tell, old man,” he warned, voice smooth and deadly. “We have been watching your operation for some time.”

“And what operation is that?” Pavel asked, voice steady.

“Smuggling drüsje into this wicked country is a crime against the King of Fjerda, as well as Djel.”

It didn’t matter that they were neither Fjerdan citizens nor followers of their religion. Pavel stared at him, chin high. “We’ve done no such thing.”

The commander’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening. “Do not take me for a fool. We know about the Grisha you’ve been hiding, the ones you’ve helped cross the border.

Anger flared in her, a white-hot knife slicing through the fear. “It’s easy to find conspiracies where there are none, especially for witch-hunters. Isn’t it funny that your big, bad target is a healer and his sick wife?”

“Alyra, be quiet,” Pavel snapped, his voice sharp with a conviction she had rarely heard from him.

The commander’s smile was thin, cruel as he turned his attention to her. “A sharp tongue will bring you nothing but suffering, genta,” he sneered. “I would cut it out, but I need for a least a little longer.”

Alyra swallowed hard as she met his gaze, defiance warring with the fear that twisted her insides. Her hands trembled, but she kept her jaw set. Pavel, however, was quick to step in.

“Leave her be. She’s just a girl.”

The commander raised an eyebrow. “A girl you used to help smuggle grisha into your country. Now talk, or we will make you.”

Before Pavel could respond, the door to the upstairs apartment creaked open, and Alyra’s heart sank. She knew who she would see before she even turned her head, but the sigh was no less painful.

Galina Obratsov, Pavel’s wife, stood in the doorway. Her hazel eyes, wide with shock, narrowed as she took in the scene before her. Her fingers turned white around the handle of her walking stick.

“What is the meaning of this? Let them go immediately,” she demanded, all five feet of her radiating the authority of a woman who a run a shop in the slums for years.

Laughter rippled through the ranks of the Druskelle, their leader amused at the sight of her. “And who are you to give orders, old woman?”

Galina’s lined face hardened, exhausted eyes hardening. With a swift motion, she raised her hand, and the shattered glass littering the floor began to stir. Shard lifted into the air, tiny, shimmering daggers glinting with menace. With a flick of her wrist, they shot forward, tearing through flesh. One of the men staggered, clutching his arm while another less fortunate fell to the ground, a fragment buried deep in his throat.

“Alyoshka,” Galina called, moving towards Alyra with surprising speed for her age. Her face was flushed from exertion, strands of gray hair escaping the confines of her braid to hand in her face. “Get out of here.”

“What?” Alyra asked, bewildered as the Druskelle dodged the last of the broken glass. “I’m not leaving you—“

“Do as you're told, child,” Galina growled. “Now, go.”

Alyra hesitated, torn between staying to fight and obeying Galina’s command. The decision was made for her when the Druskelle recovered, expressions shifting from shock to fury. She couldn’t waste the gift they were giving her—this final kindness.

With a last lingering look at Pavel and a squeeze from Galina, she dove between bodies and broken glass, avoiding grasping hands and angry shouts. The night was calm, beyond the shouting and shuffling feet that followed her out of the apothecary’s shop.

But Alyra did not stop running, not even when she heard the punctuating bursts of gunfire. All she could do was muffle her choked sobs as she fled into the dark, tears streaming down her face.

---

The canals glistened in the morning sun as Alyra pressed through the bustling market crowd. The intermingling aromas of sweat, salt, and fish assaulted her senses, but she pushed on, ignoring the stiffness in her legs and the ache in her joints. She had been hiding in a back alley since the night before, terror and grief rooting her in place until the morning brought a better chance of escape. Now, she knew she had little time with the Druskelle hot on her trail once more. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she counted three of them, their silver-trimmed uniforms flashing in the daylight as they pursued her through the maze of streets. Alyra’s boots skidded over the dusty cobblestones as she rounded a corner, slipping into a narrow alley between the butcher and the tanner. The passage was cramped, filled with shipping crates and refuse, but she knew it well. Under the cover of darkness, it was a spot for late-night trysts and below-board transactions. In the light of day, it was barely more than a shadowy crevice. She shimmied between the splintered crates, hugging close to the damp wall, trying hard not to think of the grime beneath her hands, clinging to her skirts. Salvation lay at the other end of the alley, where it opened onto an interior street. From there, she could disappear into the anonymity of the square, cross the next canal, and head for the gates. Freedom was so close, she could almost taste it. But the Druskelle were close now, their footsteps echoing off the walls. Her heart pounded as she heard one of them shout, “Drüsje!” Panic piqued, and she scrambled forward, her skirt snagging on a protruding nail. With a curse, she yanked the fabric free and emerged from the alley, blinking in the bright sunlight of the square. The High Street marketplace was teeming with activity but offered little sanctuary. Her auburn hair, tumbling free from its style, was in a beacon in the crowd. Still, she was not a tall woman by any means. She ducked between stalls, dodging vendors and patrons alike, but the Druskelle were relentless. A rough hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist. Alyra recoiled, adrenaline coursing through her as she prepared to fight, but she was met with the rheumy dark eyes of an old woman. “Red is all the rage in Os Alta this season,” the merchant croaked. “I’ll give two whole vlachki for your lovely curls.” Alyra wrenched herself free, ignoring the woman’s cursing as she fled deeper into the crowd. She skirted around a vendor hawking love potions and ducking past a group of lacemakers, chest heaving. The center-town bridge loomed ahead, her last hurdle before the gate. But as she approached, her heart dropped through her boots. The bridge was out, reduced to a pile of rubble and broken planks. Workers swarmed the site, hauling materials to repair the damage. She hesitated, then surged forward, hoping in her desperation to scale the debris and clear the gap. But a broad-shouldered man blocked her path, his leather face scowling down at her. “Bridge is out,” the foreman growled, shoving her back towards the crowd. “Go around.” Terror clawed at her, but she had no time for detours. The Druskelle were closing in, their shouts growing louder. With a last glance at the wreckage, she made a decision. She bolted for the bridge, but the forearm’s arms caged her in, dragging her back. “Did you not hear me? Bridge. Is. Out,” he snapped, tossing her down onto the cobblestones. “Find another way around, you daft bitch.” Frustration boiled over, and she scrambled to her feet, fists balled at her sides. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she took a menacing step forward, but the man only laughed, incredulous. “Drüsje!” The cry snapped her back to reality. She shot the foreman a withering glare before sprinting away.

The sun tipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings as she ran. Her lungs burned, every breath a struggle, but she couldn’t stop. Not now, not when death was licking at her heels. She crossed the next canal and darted into a narrow wynd, hoping the lose her pursuers in the labyrinth of streets. But when she reached the end of the alley, she bit back a sob. A stack of massive crates blocked the exit, leaving her trapped.

Alyra spun around, searching for another way out, but the Druskelle were already there, advancing on her with a grim determination. They pushed her back until her heels met the wall of crates, and there was nowhere left to run.

The formation shifted, parting to allow the lean figure of their commander to step forward. “There’s nowhere else to go, genta,” he said, extending his hand out like she was a frightened animal that he might soothe. “It will be better for you to come quietly. Djel is forgiving to the repentant.” Her chest was heavy and sweat plastered tendrils of hair to her brow. The sting of weariness thrummed in her bones, curled up in the space behind her skull. It would be easy to surrender, to let them take her. But as the commander stepped closer, her eyes flicked to the gun at his hip and she remembered the feeling of Galina’s hand on her shoulder, the sound of gunfire echoing off the streets. Djel may be forgiving, but she was not. She waited until he was within reach, then closed her eyes and focused on the steady beat of his heart. In one fluid motion, she raised her hands and tightened them into fists. The commander choked, stumbling to his knees. She didn’t hesitate, twisting her hands to the side. He cried out, clutching his chest. “Grisha bitch," he spat, blood bubbling at his lips. The alley erupted into chaos as the Druskelle rushed to their leader’s aid. Satisfaction flared in Alyra’s chest as she watched him fight for breath in the muck, but it was short-lived. She was still outnumbered, one woman against a throng of trained hunters. The fastest of the group was rapidly approaching. With a tug of her wrist, he lurched sideways, clutching the wall for support as he wheezed. “Sounds like a collapsed lung,” she said. “Pity.” Two more advanced. Her eyes drifted closed, her focus on drawing on a well of power. Nothing happened. Panic surged as she realized her power was faltering, drained by disuse and exhaustion. They were nearly upon her. One of them seized her by the wrists, yanking them apart and pulling her close. She shrieked, kicking and thrashing like a wild animal in his grip, but she was no match for his strength. Her nails collided with flesh. There was a hiss of pain, the hold on her loosened. A fist collided with her ribs, driving the air from her lungs. She gasped, the world tilting on its axis. Her arms dropped to her sides as the Druskelle’s arms wound around her waist, solid and unyielding. The air above her whistled, and she looked up just in time to see the club descending. “Fuck,” she whispered before everything went black.

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