Chapter Text
Crossing the Fold was a daunting endeavor, even for the normally unflappable Nikolai Lantsov. He allowed himself to take in a last deep breath of fresh air as the skiff passed onward into its embrace. The shadows swirled with ominous shapes. He felt confident that not all of them were Volcra, but in a wall of darkness as tall and wide as the sky itself that was only a meager comfort. He looked around, could barely make out the other two skiffs that escorted him on his journey through this endless night. Each packed with heavily-armed soldiers and the most battle-hardened Grisha. He had insisted on going along an already planned crossing rather than have people risk their necks needlessly on his behalf, but of course his parents had found a way to blow up the number of lives on the line nonetheless. He sighed. At least if he made it to West Ravka, he planned to be more useful than a pretty songbird in its golden cage. So he drew his rifle closer to him and waited.
Carnage found him quickly enough.
If a Fjerdan bullet hadn’t done him in, no stupid shadow monster would either. He simply, absolutely refused to be eaten. Looking around at the screaming, shooting, summoning chaotic mess that had taken hold after one idiot lit a fucking lamp, because he was afraid of the dark, he regretted all the lives it had already taken. He couldn’t even really be mad at the panicked kid who’d attracted the Volcra, he realized with a sigh. Nikolai had been sorely tempted to light a lamp himself, just to have something less eerie to look at than eternal darkness or the faint-blue — fucking blue — glow of the Grisha lamp near the helm. But people were dying, picked up by monstrous talons, and taken Saints knew where to be devoured. Some not even that, lifted from the skiff and torn apart, or dropped down from on high onto their frightened comrades like projectiles, then left lying there. He just wanted it to stop. As soon as the light had been lit, soldiers had grabbed him and dragged him to the relative safety of the canopy at the back of the ship, and he hated it. He’d been to war, Saints damn it! Nikolai didn’t need protection, didn’t want it. Amid the screams, the shots, and the flab of wings, he wanted, no, he needed to be useful. Not huddle himself away in a treacherous illusion of safety that would see all his people dead.
A burst of Inferni fire, so intense he felt its heat on his face, illuminated a sea of bodies. The prince was grimly satisfied that there were a handful of Volcra among them, but the human casualties outnumbered them by far, and there would only be more. They were outnumbered, had no weapons worth a damn against these creatures, and the Squallers were too busy trying to get them across or back to help. Another burst blinded his guards momentarily. Nikolai didn’t think; he just ran. Ran forward into the battle with all the courage granted by certain death. The reaper already held her hand outstretched over the skiffs. Even if he somehow made it off the skiff unharmed, he’d be picked off of the sands or lose his way and die alone on the Fold. He’d rather have a hero’s funeral, even if it was only an empty casket his family buried. At least Vasily would be happy. It was an uncharitable thought to have about one’s brother, but it was true. His father would likely be indifferent, maybe relieved to be free of the rumors… His mother, though, he thought as he took aim by the light of Inferni fire, his mother would be devastated. She would be the only one to truly mourn him. Even as he was shooting, he sent a quick prayer to the Saints that they might at least protect her. He would have done it himself if he could.
With that came the bitter sting of regret. He would have done so much, changed so much if given the opportunity that he couldn’t help but feel cheated now that he knew he would never have the chance. With a start, Nikolai realized that he wasn’t ready to die yet. He would have grit his teeth against the rising tide of despair, but a sudden pressure on his arm caught him off guard, hand already reaching for his sword while he was lifted off the ground. He was vaguely aware of the shouts around him as he glanced up at the Volcra that had appointed itself his executioner. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t done. Not yet, not for a long time. As he plunged his sword into the monster, something strange happened. The darkness lifted with a sudden burst of light. He thought it might have been Inferni fire until he noticed his hand was glowing around the handle of his weapon. He had no time to do more than blink in confusion before he hit the deck hard. Nikolai felt his head thump against the wood, then the world went dark again. Or maybe just his.
———————————
He woke up bundled into a carriage with a Healer still tending to him, and two Heartrenders. Judging by the sound of manifold hoofbeats, the carriage might have been escorted by a regiment. His head hurt. The cacophony of noise — thump thump thump — did not improve his situation at all. The Healer, may the Saints bless her, noticed. With one cool touch of her hand to his forehead the pain vanished.
“Thanks, lovely.”
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Colonel Valensky, your highness. At your service.”
“Oh, does that mean I get to salute you… after?” he suggested with a wolfish grin.
“There won’t be a before, you won’t salute her, and we won’t curtsy,” a rude voice interrupted.
One of the Heartrenders looked ready to feed him to the Volcra himself. Briefly, the prince wondered if he was sweet on the colonel himself, but then the other Heartrender laid his hand comfortingly over his partner’s hand, and Nikolai knew better.
“Did we make it then?” he changed the subject, and tried to look out the window only to find the curtains closed and tied down. “Did we cross the Fold? We were attacked.”
“You made it back, Your Highness,” the second Heartrender offered. “I’m Fedyor. This is Ivan. We have been ordered to take you to the Little Palace at once.”
When they explained why, Nikolai burst out laughing. Him, Ravka’s spare heir and rumored bastard prince, a Sun Summoner — why, it was a jest, surely?! Their faces did not look amused, however, when they told him all the survivors’ reports concurred that they were saved by a sudden burst of sunlight emanating from him. To be sure, they were rushing him to the capital, an attempt on his life by Fjerdans included. Nikolai had just broken the last attacker’s nose, kneed him, and thrust his sword into his gut when the Darkling himself came to the dashing rescue with an impressive display of power that cut the man clean in half and came a bit too close for comfort. Nikolai looked from the body pieces to the general, and eyed the other man warily.
“What now?” he asked before the general had fully opened his mouth.
“Now we find out if you’re indeed a Sun Summoner. In which case we make for Os Alta with all possible haste, moi tsarevich.”
“And if I’m not?”
“We’ll happily return you to the Fold to make a second attempt to cross it.” The Darkling’s amusement was predatory.
“And if I am?”
He watched the Darkling’s approach with some trepidation, unsure what he should expect from this. Or hope for, as it were.
“Then you’ll be trained at the Little Palace to save Ravka.”
“No pressure then.”
————————————
He was a Sun Summoner, and that was the first and last civil conversation he and the Darkling had managed. The strife began with a black-and-gold kefta he found in his room at the Little Palace. He hadn’t minded not staying with his family. He’d lived in simpler accommodations during his time in the infantry and had done so gladly. Nikolai liked to give himself over to each new endeavor. Otherwise, what would be the point… Unexpected as this development had been, he relished the opportunity it gave him to do his country the greatest service. Black just wasn’t his color, though, and he wouldn’t wear the Darkling’s. There’d been a heated discussion over it since he was a prince and the Sun Summoner and shouldn’t be equated with all the normal Grisha. So the general’s argument, to which Nikolai had pointed out that he’d worn a regular First Army uniform before, so he either wore an Etherealki kefta or nothing at all. The general must have read on his face how serious he was, because he’d provided him with the requested kefta. Blue and gold — Lantsov colors. Ravka’s colors. Nikolai was proud to wear them. Meanwhile, his working relationship with his new commanding officer went downhill from there.
If anything, dealing with Baghra was even more difficult. He’d never known a woman so exacting and so naturally immune to his charm. Or so sensitive to the cold. The one time he’d taken off his overcoat, she’d shrieked at him as if he actually had paraded around naked, but her stubbornness had met its match in him. He refused to be baked alive in her hut, she refused to train him. Win-win. At least combat training with Botkin suited him. He’d been in his fair share of tangles at the front, so it was the only subject on which he wasn’t behind. On the others, he did his best to read up, spending many late nights in the library. Since he also had serious trouble sitting still, he decided to push himself. He trained harder and longer, allowed the other Grisha to summon in a fight in hopes the threat might pull the light from him again. When he discovered many children manifested their powers for the first time in a moment of sudden pain, he had one of the initiate Heartrenders perform his craft on him repeatedly. He wanted to memorize the feeling of his power coursing trough him, so he might recreate it thereafter. Nikolai’s light could not be hidden, so naturally the Darkling found out quickly enough by that stage. He’d been furious to discover the prince had deviated from his carefully crafted training schedule, though he never raised his voice. He tried with honeyed words instead, but that simply made him more rebellious. It was almost a relief when the Darkling rebelled, tried to overthrow the King, and kidnapped Nikolai to collar him with Morozova’s Stag.
At least all the cards were on the table.