Nepenthe • Something that can make you forget grief or suffering.
Never feeling like they belonged was a feeling that Lissa Dragomir lived with, even with her family and life long best friend, although they aided in that feeling not being so strong...
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The heavy, iron-scented air of St. Jude's always seemed to cling to Dimitri's duster, a reminder of the duty-bound life he had led before Kate had rewritten his world. As he walked toward the boy's dormitory, the rhythmic thud of his boots against the stone floor felt less like a march and more like a countdown. He was returning to St. Vladimir's—back to the Academy, back to the Princess, and back to the woman who held his soul—but first, there was the matter of the boy who held his blood.
Nikolai was in his room, the small space smelling of cedar and the institutional soap provided by the Dominion. He was already in his pajamas, a simple set of grey flannels that made him look painfully small and vulnerable. When Dimitri knocked, the boy looked up, his expression a complicated tapestry of hope and guardedness.
"I'm leaving tonight, Nikolai," Dimitri said, his voice low and steady, though a rare flicker of emotion tightened his throat.
Nikolai didn't argue. He simply stood, grabbing a thin robe, and followed Dimitri out into the quiet hallway. They walked in a silence that was thick with things unsaid until they reached the courtyard, where the winter air nipped at Nikolai's bare ankles.
Dimitri noticed the boy's shoulders tense against the cold, but he didn't shiver. He stood rigid, jaw tight, hands balled into fists inside the sleeves of his robe. Anger—not loud, not explosive, but simmering—lived in the way he held himself. Dimitri had seen that posture before in young novices who had been wronged by the world long before they had the strength to fight back.
"Let's go back inside," Dimitri murmured, nodding toward the dorm. "You'll freeze out here."
Nikolai didn't move at first. His eyes—dark, sharp, and too old for his age—searched Dimitri's face as if trying to decipher something hidden beneath the calm exterior. Only when he seemed satisfied that Dimitri wasn't about to disappear without explanation did he turn and walk back toward his room.
Once inside, Nikolai climbed onto his bed, pulling his knees up and resting his arms on them. He didn't look at Dimitri, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Dimitri sat on the chair across from him, the wooden legs creaking under his weight.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, quietly but with a bluntness that made Dimitri's breath catch, Nikolai asked, "Who is my mother?"
The question hit with the force of a stake to the chest. Dimitri's posture stiffened, and he exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. He had known this would come eventually, but not tonight—not when the boy was already wound tight with unspoken emotion.
Still, he owed him the truth.
"Her name is Natasha Ozera," Dimitri said, lifting his gaze. "Most people call her Tasha."
