❝𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥,
𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦❞
or in which a grisha and a criminal battle the darkness of their world
[ shadow and bone season 1- ]
[ fem!oc x alina starkov, male!oc x...
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oooo. prologue
THE SUN HAD BARELY RISEN, AND THE GIRL'S HOME WAS BURNING. Flames danced across the thatched roofs of the cottages, caressing the woven straw with the gentle touch of a lover; painting the morning sky in shades of burnt orange and crimson.
It had been an accident, of course. It always was.
Her mother had warned her, had forbidden her from using her power. Those in the world blessed with a sin like the girl's were unnatural, her mother warned. An abomination.
The fire had started with her, borne of her quick temper; an inferno that had swallowed their small cottage whole.
And now she clutched onto her brother for comfort, small faces pale, fresh tears leaving tracks in the ash that already stained their skin. The children huddled in the charred ruins of an old barn, hiding from the villagers that now wanted them dead.
"Cathain a fhillfidh ár Máthair?" her brother sniffled, bottom lip trembling. When will Mother return?
The girl did not reply. She knew the answer - how could she not? - but the words couldn't leave her mouth. Her whole body was frozen, seized by fear, grey eyes wide in lingering horror. Distractedly, she looked at her hands, unchanged in spite of what they had just done.
Her silence alarmed her brother, who began to cry in earnest.
As though awoken by his cries, the girl blinked before clamping a hand over his mouth. Silence had been their saviour so far, and to break it would condemn them both.
"Fan!" A rough voice called, making the children shrink further into their hiding-place. "Sílim gur chuala mé rud éigin thall ansin!" Wait! I think I heard something over there!
The girl's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribcage, fear spreading its dark wings inside her chest - they were done for.
There was silence for a second, as though the very world was holding its breath - before someone grabbed her from behind.
She thrashed against the arms holding her, screaming until she thought her lungs would burst. Her fiery tresses had escaped their braid, hanging in a mess around her face, over her eyes. Her brother's sobs reached fever pitch from somewhere on her left, spurring the girl to struggle harder, desperate to reach him.
Twisting around, she recognised her captor as Cillian, the man who owned the farm near her family's cottage. He was built like an oak tree, with a scrubby shock of red hair. His usual kindly smile was gone, however, the merry light in his eyes replaced by a new hardness.
