𝕬𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖘 𝕷𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖇𝖞 - [𝗞𝗮𝘇 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗸𝗸𝗲𝗿]

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢. 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄 — gifts and geels

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 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐀𝐃 called, and Aleksa knew she couldn't turn away. The woman made of nothing but pure sunlight had begged in her letter, she had pleaded for Aleksa to help her. Like calls to like, the very words Aleksander had always sprouted were finally coming to fruition.

 The three of them; The Black Heretic, the wily Shadow Summoner, and the Sun Saint... it would have to end with the three of them, wouldn't it? It would always come down to the three intertwined in ways beyond anybody's imagination.

 Thus, at the revelation that Aleksander had survived the Volcra... Aleksa had answered Alina's call.

 It had only taken a day for Aleksa to board a boat resting within Ketterdam's docks. It was scuffed and the wood was covered in barnacles... The poor thing looked as though it'd be swallowed by furious ocean waves, but it was all that could be gathered.

 When Aleksa had found herself right where Alina had beckoned her... Alina hadn't been alone. There was Mal, of course... Mal was always right by the Sun Summoner's side. But there was another, a man with a cooked nose and scars covering his skin. Sturmhond was his name, a privateer with sea salt still etched within his flesh.

 Aleksa's eyes had almost immediately drifted to the Shu twins flanking his sides, curious as to why they'd settle beside this privateer with such vigour in their gazes, such protectiveness forcing their hands to settle against their chosen weapons.

 Aleksa had stared at the man; tracing his features with a scrutiny one could only learn through Kaz Brekker. She had found no traces of scarring, no bruises or welts of red tracing his flesh. Only the crooked nose... a nose that seemed to have been set in such a specific way.

 But it wasn't just those things that had made Aleksa privy to the secret being held; it was the weapons and the clothes they donned. The King of Ravka wouldn't dare permit a lowly privateer enough coin to drench himself in woven coats and steel of Grisha craftmanship.

 "Alina?" Aleksa had cooed, leaning over the table, squinted eyes unrelentingly upon Sturmhond, "You've called me here, and I answered. My face is out in the open and you're asking the world of me... so why, pray tell, is this man tailored?"

 There had been a bout of silence that 'Sturmhond' had been the first to shatter. His lips had curled, a boyish grin alighting his face as he leaned back in his chair, "Oh, you're good!"

 "And you'll soon see that pristine Tailored skin of yours bruised and battered if I don't get an answer —" But then Aleksa's lips parted. Enough coin to buy pistols and axes and golden-trimmed coats. A face planted beside Alina Starkov while his own personal bodyguards held their ground... he was important. He'd come in the place of the prince — or did he?