Of Crows and Eagles // Grishaverse

The Age of Saints

Alina

"I find it strange," Alina said, "how easily you can forget your own death."

"Awful, isn't it?" Mal murmured, gazing out the window.

They, along with Misha and a rather cross-looking Oncat, had been traveling across the Vy for the better part of three days now, on a spur of the moment trip to Os Alta. A week ago, a letter had arrived bearing the silver dragon seal of the Nazyalensky dynasty, requesting their presence in the Dream City. The contents of the letter had explained, briefly, that Her Royal Majesty, Queen Zoya Nazyalensky, had pushed forward her wedding to Nikolai Lantsov by nearly six months, an odd and seemingly uncharacteristic occurrence, especially when one considered who the groom was. In the many years that Alina had known Nikolai, he had never seemed the type to rush through the planning of such an important event.

Now, as they neared the walls of Os Alta, altars to the Sun Saint seemed to be sprouting up like weeds, a constant reminder of Alina's supposed martyrdom nearly seven years before.

Alina glanced out the window. In the distance, she could faintly see the silhouette of Os Alta's outer wall. She, Mal, and Misha returned to the Ravkan capitol once or twice a year simply to visit, but Alina knew that, though she and Mal had been happily married for the better part of six and a half years, he still associated the city with the unhappy months they had spent there after Nikolai first met them, sailing across the True Sea.

Alina herself had nothing against Os Alta, but seeing confident, snarky Mal flinch as they stepped through the doors at the Grand Palace made their yearly trips a good deal less enjoyable.

Out the window, Alina glimpsed another altar, decorated in black silks and crude art of the moon in eclipse. An altar to the Starless Saint. The Darkling. Alina winced. It was hardly her business who the Ravkans chose to worship, but there was a still a feeling of betrayal around the whole matter, as if her suffering had all been for nothing.

"Isn't it lovely?" Mal asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"The altars?"

"What else?" Mal sneered.

"It's what he wanted, you know," Alina said carefully. It still hurt to admit that there was any humanity in the man who had created the Fold, who had nearly killed everyone she cared about, countless times over. 

"Respect from a country that he did everything in his power to destroy?"

"I understand it's the kind of philosophy that makes more sense when you've lived five hundred years," Alina replied, smirking. In truth, she could recognize the Darkling's motives for what they were, but she still found it was difficult to explain them to anyone else.

Eventually, the lull of the carriage and the steady sound of the horse's hooves on the paved surface of the Vy was enough to send Alina into a peaceful, if dreamless, sleep. 

The carriage jerked to a halt, and Alina's eyes snapped open. They had reached the outer wall of Os Alta, hemmed in by the usual crowd of beggars and pilgrims. Alina tugged on her scarf, making sure it covered any visible strands of white hair.

Outside, Alina could hear the shouting of children and the chants of pilgrims. Sankt Petyr. Sankt Grigori. Sankta Zoya. The Age of Saints, it was being called. Genya had told her it was the best time to be Ravkan in the country's entire history. The fact that they had managed to maintain some level of peace for three years was enough for Alina to believe her.

The gates clanked open, and the carriage started forward with a jolt. Alina's scarf slipped and Mal gently tugged it back into place.

As the carriage rattled over Os Alta's cobblestone streets, talk turned to the upcoming wedding.