To the world, he was an anomaly. To Grisha, he was a miracle. To Drüskelle, he was a witch. To The Darkling, he was his son. To himself, he was a monster.
WORK IN PROGRESS
2023-20234
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
014. birthdays
˚ · • . ° .
440 | THE LITTLE PALACE, OS ALTA, RAVKA
"He's not here,"Baghra spoke as she saw Aleksander walking her way.
"Who?" The possibilities of whom Baghra was referring ran through his mind.
"The tracker. Yes, I know about him. And your little mission." Aleksander lifted his chin while taking slow steps forward towards Baghra.
"What have you done with him?"
"Disposed of. Along with your hopes of locating The Stag."
Aleksander scoffed, "I always have hope, Mother. Even you can't kill that."
Baghra took a step forward. "That isn't hope. It's greed. You would use Alina against the rest of the world."
"You mean against our enemies?" The Darkling tilted his head slightly. "Without me, there's just her. Standing alone. She is all that matters now, not me. She is the future. She is the one—"
"Yes, but where is she?" Aleksander's face darkened to something malicious.
"Careful. You don't really matter now anymore, either." He took more steps forward until he was directly in front of his mother. "If you have put her in harm's way...think about what I might do."
"Empty threats will do nothing, Aleksander," Baghra argued, shaking her head slightly and staring up at her son.
˚ · • . ° .
The doors to Lukas' chambers were closed, an oprichniki and a Heartrender standing guard outside. Although it was late, at least an hour past midnight, Luke wasn't asleep. He was lying on the soft duvet, his cat, Koshka, lying across his torso. His fingers were absentmindedly threading through the smooth black fur of the cat as he felt the vibrations of Koshka purring and listening to the fire crackle.
Luke started up at the dark fabric of the canopy, his thoughts racing at what felt like the speed of light. In the back of his mind, he contemplated all the possibilities of what could've happened. Perhaps if he had stayed in the ballroom and didn't go out to the gardens or hadn't worn the black kefta, he wouldn't have been such a big target.
Luke had known for years that there was always a threat of assassination, but he'd been perfectly fine for fifteen – now sixteen – years. He was a target. Not only was he a rare Grisha, most likely the only of his kind, but he was also the Darkling's son. It had always been a heavy burden on his shoulders.
