Rot ━ Mal Oretsev ✓

𝟬𝟭𝟲 a risk worth taking

Thalia was used to people leaving.

It seemed that for her entire life, she had been fighting for someone to stay. Her brother, who had left the family when he was no more than thirteen years old, off to live his life somewhere that he believed would thrive. Then there was her grandpa, who Thalia found deceased in his bed as a small child.

By the time she had reached early adolescence, Thalia had lost everybody near and dear to her. Some of it came as the result of her own foolish decisions, such as her mama and papa. But there was the odd occasion where Thalia would not have been the cause for somebody to leave, and that hurt just a bit more.

So, when Mal returned to her that day and gave the news that he would be leaving for an assignment the next morning, Thalia isn't entirely sure why she's surprised at the sting that comes with the revelation.

She should have been used to it by now.

   "You can't stay?" She had asked, ineptly. It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course he couldn't stay, but the selfish part of Thalia wanted him to anyway. When Mal had shaken his head, she breathed a heavy sigh. "Where are you going?"

Mal had shrugged his shoulders, bottom lip red from the gnawing he had not been able to quit since taking the job, "Wherever the wind takes me, I suppose."

And then he had been called away by Dubrov, who apparently had some exciting news. She had not been able to bring herself to say a goodbye as he wandered from the tent, the lump in her throat feeling as though it may rise and cut off circulation at any moment.

Thalia has said too many goodbyes in her short lifetime, and she would not say another.

"Soldier," Yakovlev greeted, as Thalia walked into his tent. He was an older man, hair white from age and beard a staple at this point. He was not fond of Grisha, but seemed to push his distaste to the side whenever he came face to face with one. "What can I do for you?"

She nodded in response to his greeting, walking further into the tent. She could see Yakovlev worrying on his thumb, as if thinking that whatever she was here for could not be good. In a way, he was right.

At last, she spoke. "I was wondering if I might ask you a question, sir."

   "You may," Yakovlev granted permission, leaning back in his chair. His desk was scattered with various documents, but the one that stuck out to Thalia the most was the one pinned directly above his chair. Yakovlev followed her gaze, smirking lazily, "I suppose you've heard about the manhunt your General has set us, have you?"

Thalia gave a firm shake of her head, "No, actually. That's what I wanted to speak to you about."

Yakovlev gestured to the vacant seat on the other side of his desk, wooden and worn down. She sat down warily, warning herself not to get comfortable (not that she could, given the splinters of wood that are definitely lodged in her Kefta) since this should only take a minute.

"I hear that Kirigan is holding a fete for the Summoner," Yakovlev acknowledged, twisting a pen between his fingers. It clunkers back to the table as he squares his shoulders, meeting Thalia's eyes. "He must really believe that she is the real thing, going through all this trouble of inviting people from everywhere else."

She gives a noncommittal shrug, "She is the real thing. I saw her at the Little Palace."

Yakovlev laughs, "And I suppose you've seen all types of funny illusions at the Little Palace, have you?"