SEVEN DEVILS | ❝ Oh, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The devil is after both of us. ❞
❝ Lay my curses out to rest, make a mercy out of me. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. ❞
In which Captain Marya of the Repentance is ready to tear the world in half to f...
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MARYA SHOULD HAVE LEARNT BY NOW THAT the Second Ravkan Prince excels at many things. Striking deals for his own benefit, being a two-faced bastard, taking a punch like a champ. By all means, the list is as bothersome as it is extensive. But, above all, lying and misleading happen to be at the very top.
And so, Marya should not have been surprised to find out that Prince Nikolai Lantsov did not intend for them to journey straight to Os Alta. Rather, he had the thought-out plan of stopping by every city, every village, every outpost to declare his return.
Marya cannot exactly pinpoint the moment their journey to the Royal Palace became a parade. A spectacle of sorts in which the prince can display himself alongside Alina Starkov. A power play— that much is obvious.
The Captain of the Repentance has lived countless lives— traveler, acrobat, drüskelle cargo, refugee, thief, farmer, pirate. And yet, she never, never thought she would ever see the day when she became one of His Highness' royal entourage.
It makes her sick.
"I should have aimed for his mouth," Mal mutters besides her, features twisted into a scowl.
Up ahead, by the center of the plaza, stands His Most Royal Highness on a black horse. He grins and speaks words that don't quite manage to reach Marya's ears. Besides him, Alina tries to smile and nod at the villagers and the town's mayor— but the weariness is becoming evident. The prince must have struck some deal with her; after all, Marya gets the distinct feeling Alina would not let herself be swayed by pretty words from a liar.
Nevertheless, Mal's frustration is well-founded. It's no surprise that three days straight of being paraded around is starting to take a toll on Alina. On all of them.
"He'd find a way to keep talking," Neyar grumbles, shaking her head. The three of them hang back, away from the crowds.
It was during the second night that Marya came to the inevitable conclusion that sticking with her cold clothes would help nobody. And so, alongside Neyar, they both took First Army jackets from one of the crates. As she put it on, Marya reminded herself that it was to fend off the cold— that it meant nothing more. That she wasn't accepting a prince's favor. That she wasn't a First Army soldier. But the sour feeling building up in her throat felt unbearable. And so, in the early hours of the morning, Marya put what little affinity she had with textiles into destroying any symbol the jacket had of the First Army. In the end, it landed Neyar and her with jackets that were a shade darker, with torn seams and ripped golden threads.
