𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

Chapter 1

A gentle but firm knock filled the small house, which was unusual for the family- they never had visitors. But it was expected, testers has come to see the little girl which lived in it.

"What will you do when the testers come in, Y/n?" A mother asked her young daughter. The girl must have been around eight or nine, with both fury and fear visible in her eyes which gleamed with tears. 

At first, the girl said nothing, she only looked at her mother, chin held high. But it only took her a few moments to have her senses returned to her. The girl was in no position to argue with her mother, though she wanted to. "I'll stay in my room until they leave." The girl murmured quietly, her voice frail as she turned away from her mother.

"I don't want you taken away. Understand that this is for us." But the girl did not understand. What was so horrid about being Grisha? She knew that she would be taken away from her mother and brother, likely to never see either of them again. But the girl knew that regardless of the pain, she would cut her losses and move on. Just as she did when her father died. 

The girl's father was Grisha, a deserter of the Second Army. There was a time he wore those peculiar red Grisha robes and lived a stable life within the walls of the Little Palace, but he traded it all for the life of a peasant. The girl's mother was Otkazat'sya, a rather cold and spiteful one, but she could be loving and warm as well. 

The idea of leaving her family did not seem too bad to the girl, it would mean she wouldn't have to deal with that horrid smell of kvas or with her mother's tempers. It would mean she could have full meals and warm drinks when she wanted them. She would be trained to be a Soldier of the Second Army, she would be Grisha. 

But the girl remained as silent as a kitchen rodent within her room, with her ear pressed to the wall, hoping to hear what was going on. 

She heard her mother murmuring a lie. "She has tsifill." 

"Is the father Grisha?" Asked a man, the girl slightly opened her door to see them. A man and woman stood in front of her mother, they had the red robes Grisha wore, the girl tried to remember what her father had called it once, but the memories of him were only faint. 

"No." 

"She speaks lies," Spoke the woman with firmness in her voice. The woman turned to look at the mother, "You forget yourself, Otkazat'sya. I am a Heartrender, I can hear how your heart betrays your words. Is the girl even sick?" 

"The girl is listening." Said the man as he turned his gaze from the mother to the girl who stood at the ever-so-slightly opened door. The man gave the girl a sympathetic smile and raised one hand up to give her a little wave. The girl returned the smile, but remained where she was. 

"Has she shown signs? Don't bother lying, I would be able to tell." the woman asked the mother. 

"Please, don't take her away. I lost my eldest son and husband to the war, and my other son was lost too." Said the mother, her voice broke as though every word pained her. But she pushed it down, though her eyes had welled with tears. 

"What signs has she shown, then?" asked the man. 

The mother looked at both the man and woman, then turned to look at her young daughter who hid behind the door. 

"I think she is corporalki, like her father."  the mother spoke, this time grief was evident in her voice.

"Come out, lapushka. Let us meet you." soothed the woman, walking towards the door that the girl hid behind. 

The girl slowly left her hiding spot, giving curious glances at the man and woman. 

"This'll hurt only a bit. Give me your arm." Said the man who walked towards the girl. The girl looked at her mother, who shook her head. 

"I'm sorry, madraya." The girl softly sighed and lifted up her sleeve. The girl knew what to expect, she knew what she was- and she was unafraid. But the feeling of guilt for abandoning her mother never left the girl. 

That evening, the girl had taken nothing but a scarf her mother had given her for the journey back to the Little Palace. It smelt of her mother, which made the little girl's stomach twist and churn with pain. The girl had told herself she wouldn't miss her mother, but she did. She missed the warmth of her mother's arms and the smell of kvas. She missed home, and she told the man with the red Grisha coat. The girl had learnt that it was not called Grisha coat or robe, it was called a kefta. 

"I miss home." The girl repeated. 

"Look outside, milaya." The man told her. The girl obeyed and looked outside the carriage's window. 

In view was the palace the girl had dreamed of when her father used to tell her stories of it. 

"That is your home, now."