fₒᵣ ᵢ ₐₘ bₑcₒₘₑ dₑₐₜₕ, dₑₛₜᵣₒyₑᵣ ₒf wₒᵣₗdₛ
Anastasia Morozova is a kinslayer. Anya Varamyr is a murderer. Anastasia is a decorated soldier. Anya is a backstreet cutthroat. Anastasia would die for her country. Anya would die for her friends.
Anastasi...
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Her journey to and into the Treasury had been ridiculously easy; almost as though the fates had decided to grant her this one small favour.
One of the corridors she was faced with was pristine and white, the only one littered with guards. A strange instinct filled her gut - Grisha. If she'd had the time, she would have run back to the others, filled with the certainty that she'd found Bo Yul Bayur. But they'd likely be long gone, and she had her own task to complete.
After a moment's pause, she tore off the hem of her furs and jumped up to tie it around one of the pipes hooked to the ceiling - surely someone would notice it. Fists clenched with determination, she slid past the populated corridor and turned into the more traditional section of the Treasury. As she walked, the lights dimmed till only the occasional lantern remained. The heavy door at the end of the corridor called to her, sang to her even.
Like calls to like.
She made quick work of the guards. A flick of her wrists and they were blind; and sudden motion of her hands slicing through the air and they'd both been cut in two, blood and entrails pooling at her feet. The doors screamed to her now, tugging at the very core of her essence; a split soul yearning to become one once more.
Like calls to like.
She didn't quite know when her hands had stopped shaking, or when her breathing regulated itself, but before she could quite register what she was doing, she'd flung the doors of the chamber open and stepped inside - and then she could breathe.
There was no need to search, or scramble for clues; no need to sift through the countless Grisha relics haunting the looming shelves and precariously balanced glass cases; no need to scour the chests filled with gold and jewels and gems. Her feet carried her to where she needed to go. She flung the gossamer curtain aside and stepped into the antechamber. There was no need for any ornate framing, or attempts at grandeur - the Grisha steel dagger was nothing special to look at, but the power it resonated would have knocked any otkazat'sya to their knees.
Take me, it whispered. Take me back. Take me home.
Her hands lingered over the handle for a second. Was she walking towards something she should have been running from? Baghra's warning came to mind; the thirst for power, the never-ending hunger. The darkness was like opium to the Morozova family. Perhaps the only reason she'd ever managed to stay so rooted was because her power had been taken from her. You have the heart of an otkazat'sya, Aleksander had said. Would she still? Would she be able to return to Ketterdam with both her soul and her mind in one piece? Would she be content with simply handing the King of Scars one last thing to remember her by, or would she want something more? Would she still want to return to the filth of the Barrell. She thought of Jesper and Wylan; Nikolai's hands free of the jet black lines that tortured him so; Alina safe and sound in front of a fireplace with Mal; Inej and Nina; even Matthias. She thought of Kaz and his devastating piercing stares.
