THE DARKNESS THAT NIGHT brings is always a comfort to Aleksander. He sits in his wooden chair, a fire flickering in front of him, the smoke billowing out through a hole at the top of his tent, and he taps his finger against his thigh.
Princess Katiya getting captured by his soldiers is a suspiciously fortunate accident. He has the Fjerdan heir in his grasp. Now, he just has to decide what to do with her. A public execution, perhaps. Gifting her head to her parents, the King and Queen of Fjerda, would certainly send a message. But he admits that he is reticent to kill her too hastily.
His most appealing option is to break her so thoroughly that her allegiance shifts from that of Fjerda to himself. Then, he could send her back to Djerholm, to the Ice Court, to be his spy. But that's a dangerous move because if she somehow manages to regain her loyalty to Fjerda, then Aleksander will have let a valuable asset go with no hope of getting her back.
Regardless, he has time to think on it and other important tasks at hand.
The map laid out on the table in front of him has a small marked spot north near the border between Ravka and Fjerda. It is where First Army tracker Malyen Oretsev claims to have seen Morozova's Stag.
Aleksander was reluctant to believe the tracker at first, but Malyen described the Stag perfectly, saying that his childhood friend - a young orphan girl - used to dream of the Stag before she fell ill and died some years ago. It's a shame. Aleksander would have been very interested in meeting such a girl, who had visions of a powerful amplifier like the Stag.
Three months of searching for the animal in the area that Malyen had pointed to, but still the amplifier has not been found. It doesn't matter; Aleksander is patient. The Stag will reveal itself eventually.
It's getting well into the night, the whole camp quiet and still. He stands to get ready for a few hours of rest but stops when his ribs give a dull, but intense ache. He quickly pulls his black shirt over his head and discards it, standing in front of the mirror at the edge of his tent. On his biceps, faintly, are hand-shaped bruises and mottled across his ribcage is a deeper bruise. He frowns, studying them. No one ever gets close enough to the Darkling to leave a mark. No one, not in many, many years. So how exactly did he end up with bruises marring his body?
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The Death of Duty | The Darkling
FanficThe Darkling x OC. Enemies to lovers. Ravka and Fjerda are in the midst of a costly war. When the Darkling is magically bound to the Fjerdan princess by an old foe, she suddenly goes from one of his most hated enemies to the one person he must keep...
