CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
▪▫▪▫▪

MORANA WAS NEVER A SWEET INNOCENT LITTLE GIRL. It was not fathomable that she could've been one. She was born in the Barrel, raised by a bitter woman who resented her for merely existing, and the blood flowing through her veins was dangerous and dark.

She was never a sweet innocent girl thrown into a cruel world. She was born from the depths of hell, a villain for a father, shadows for a family, a monster for a mother.

Her childhood had been poisoned by her mother, she'd grown up not as a little girl but as a sweet little poisonous abomination. She had to learn to make herself kind. To grow her sympathy where there had been no seed. She had to learn to trust and love on her own, for her mother was not going to be the one to teach her.

Bluebeard was her first real... role model. A rum-scented pirate with a black beard and blue swirls and images tattooed on his bald hair. Learning how to yield a sword and make man flinch by a mere look, learning how to parlay and talk as if she had a point to distract captors was useful. It was something. But Bluebeard hadn't taught her how to trust nor love. He'd died while she ransacked his ship with another crew, shot through the heart by another pirate, and swallowed by the sea.

Morana Zoreslava hadn't cried when her mother died. But she did shed a tear for Bluebeard.

Learning how to trust and love came with time and Morana wasn't sure she fully knew either of the two.

She did know she'd die for her friends; the ones she picked up over the years; the ones she admitted to herself were her family when she'd joined Sturmhond's crew. And now she could not picture her life without them, her other life, as the Crimson Mirage was like a far-off memory and... in all honesty, Morana wasn't sure she wanted to return to it. To a life of mistrust, and lackluster in love and friendship and light.

Morana smiled as she looked at Alina and Baghra walking in the front of the group, leading their horses by the reins at their side. Her gaze fleeted over to Mal, riding beside her.

"You alright?" she asked him lowly and Mal tore his eyes away from Alina, looking at her with a nod.

"Could be better."

"We're at war with a maniac," said Morana, "we could all be better."

"He's your father," Mal pointed out.

Morana rose an eyebrow at him. "And?"

He shrugged, "You're calling him a maniac. Which is true. But what if it's hereditary?" he said with a small smirk and Morana reached over to shove him in the shoulder.

"I'm not a maniac, Mal, darling," she told him, "But I can become one if you annoy me enough."

"What's the limit then? I wouldn't want to cross it."

Morana rolled her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her lips. "You'll know when you cross it."

"Does that mean I can annoy you some more?"

Morana let out a laugh. A genuine one. A laugh reserved for not many people.

Morana and Mal had just clicked from the beginning, even when she'd lied to him—multiple times—and perhaps it was their link but she was glad to have found a friend in him and that's not something she'd often admit.

But really, she'd been admitting a lot of things recently. Trusting a lot of people. Caring for a lot of people. Confessing her usually reserved thoughts to a boy—a king—with hazel eyes and golden hair. A man, engaged to another, a king with duties far more important than a little abomination from Ketterdam with blood of merzost.

Still, despite every reason not to trust him. Not to love him. Nikolai Lantsov had taught her both. And Morana had fallen into his golden trap because when she was with him it was like she was looking at the sun and all the shadows fell behind.

Their last kiss plagued her mind as they rode towards Morozova's workshop, the way Nikolai had held her as if he never wanted to let her go. The way he'd shown her his own vulnerability because in the end... they were two people who'd grown up in isolation looking for a home in a cruel home. Nikolai was her home. She'd known that since the first time he held her as she slept, but that didn't quite mean she could stay with him forever.

Soon, the four of them were sitting around a fire, on tree barks, as they ate a rabbit Mal had tracked, forcing Morana out of her thoughts, forcing Nikolai's eyes to the back of her mind as she paid attention to her company.

"Lucky rabbit was just a rabbit," said Baghra as she finished her piece of the meat, looking at the bone unimpressed. "No power in that bone."

She threw it at the ground and Morana looked at her in amusement. "Not everything can be an amplifier. Otherwise, grave robbery would be a common felony amongst Grisha."

"You talk like a girl from the Barrel, girl," said Baghra with her lips pursed, "Couldn't your mother have gone to Lij?"

"Ketterdam has better job opportunities." Morana shrugged. "But we did go to the countryside once. She was trying to find an amplifier after the merzost ruined Small Science for her."

"Ridiculous," said Baghra, "This notion of amplifiers. If it wasn't for Morozova and his rapacious notion, I might still have my little finger."

Morana glanced at her grandmother's bandaged hand and looked away. She couldn't understand the thirst for power. At least not the thirst for amplifiers. Perhaps it was because her magic was made of the same thing, it was amplified at dawn. The only power she craved was power over herself, the power to set herself free from her monsters, the power to find a life she loved, sink her claws into it and never let go.

"You were very fast at catching that rabbit," said Baghra as she looked at Mal. Alina nodded proudly, hesitantly glancing over at the boy.

"Mal can make rabbits out of rocks."

Baghra hummed. "You're very good at tracking things. Rabbits..."—she glanced up at him—"and more miraculous creatures. The Stag, the Sea Whip."

The old woman looked at Mal like she was trying to crack a puzzle, to get confirmation on something Morana could not quite tell. But something told her Mal was the key to the firebird. Something told her he was connected to her because he was connected to Morozova's merzost. Somehow.

"Yeah," Mal replied dejected, "I'm not having much luck with the Firebird though, am I?"

"We'll find it once we reach Morozova's workshop," said Alina. "I don't know where his amplifier is, but it's strange to think he was a real person, not just a myth."

"I'm going to tell you a story," said Baghra, "I used to tell a little boy filled with shadow."

Morana looked up from her place next to Mal, meeting her grandmother's eyes. It was hard to imagine her father as a little boy. But he was certainly her father. Filled with shadow. Just like her.

"Morozova was the greatest Fabrikator who ever lived," began Baghra. "Obsessed with the boundaries of Grisha power. He used merzost and his finger bones to resurrect the Stag and the Sea Whip to act as amplifiers for the Grisha, who would find them, kill them, and take their power as their own."

"Then he completed the triumvirate by creating the Firebird," said Alina, and Baghra shook her head.

"No. And then... his wife became pregnant. While he made plans for the Firebird, the girl who was born started to show a power like nothing ever known. She could summon darkness."

Morana knew part of the story, of course. She knew herself to be a Morozova and Baghra to be Morozova's daughter. Alina though seemed shocked by the news. "Morozova was your father? The Bonesmith?"

Baghra pursed her lips. "In the Istorii Sankt'ya, he's known as Sankt Ilya, bound in chains and drowned in the river for his sins after he resurrected a village boy cut in half by a plow blade. That's the version everyone's been taught. Only some of it is true." She paused, looking up at Morana. "All families have secrets. Some more than others."

Baghra's eyes landed on Mal again as the boy gathered his things saying, "Should get back on it while we have light."

"What of your family, boy?" asked Baghra stopping him in place and Morana's brows raised a fraction because she was right. Mal had something to do with the Morozovas. "What do you know?"

"My family are all gone," said Mal, "I was orphaned by the war in Dva Stolba."

"You'd have passed through Caryeva and its three orphanages on your way," pointed out Baghra.

Mal shrugged. "I just kept on going until I... Until I found one that felt like home."

His eyes found Alina's and Morana saw the girl fight a smile. "Home," Alina said. "So much about it defines who you become."

I'll always miss you, Nikolai's voice echoed through her head and Morana's hand reached up for the compass around her neck, clutching it tightly. A souvenir from her favorite privateer, from the King of Ravka. From Nikolai. Her sun. Her home. Yet still, never really hers.

"Yes, it does," agreed Baghra. "I had a sister there, ten years younger. An otkazat'sya girl who should have lived a boring otkazat'sya life. My father had made this little clay swan for me, in a moment when he still thought of me, before she was born. I cherished it the way he cherished her."

Baghra paused, sighing. She looked up at Morana, before continuing; understanding in her eyes. Morozova's weren't destined to be born from light. They were born from shadows and they'd have to find light themselves. Make themselves kind. Or become who they were born to be. Villains. Enemies. Monsters. All too powerful beings because there was no such thing as harmless power.

"One day when she was six, she broke its neck. I lashed out with the Cut," her grandmother said like she was telling an old tale. "Tore her small body in two."

"Surely it was an accident," said Alina.

"What did it matter? The damage was done and I was banished. This isn't a return home. It's a return to the scene of the crime."

•••

"Only a Morozova can open it." Baghra took Mal's blade as they stood before Morozova's workshop. A stone chamber, with a stone door. She ran her thumb across the steel, painting it with blood before she reached up to the door, pressing her thumb to the stone, allowing the door to swing open.

"Light the torches, boy," Baghra ordered Mal.

Mal looked at Morana with an incredulous look and the girl bit down a laugh as he went along lighting the torches in the first chamber; two tombs lay on the ground and Baghra stopped in her steps.

"Your sister?" asked Alina.

"And my mother. Died of the pox before I was banished." Baghra grabbed Morana's hand. "How my mother feared me. She always told me I was one of my father's abominations."

"She was wrong," said Alina, and Baghra scoffed.

"She was right. Have you not been paying attention?" she spoke again, leading them into the following chamber filled with papers and trinkets, that survived the centuries. "Morozova was corrupted with merzost. Seeped into everything he created. And unbalanced merzost is poisonous."

"You said I wasn't my father's monster," Morana said lowly and Baghra gave her a tight smile.

"You're not, my child. You're the first of us with both light and dark. With balanced merzost. The first of us that could choose whether to embrace the darkness or find the sun," she said meaningfully and Morana's hand found itself clutching the compass again.

"Are you sure the Firebird was made here?" asked Mal as they looked at the drawings on the stone walls, the sketches of the Stag and the Sea Whip, illegible inscriptions. "With the Stag and the Sea Whip, there was a frequency I could hear. Morana too. I don't hear anything in this place."

Baghra's lips pursed and she narrowed her eyes at Mal. She glanced at him and Morana, "Follow me." She turned to Alina, "You, stay. Start sorting through his journals for any mention of the Firebird."

Morana followed Baghra after hearing Alina telling Mal to wait and found herself in the chamber with the tombs again. "It's something to do with Mal, isn't it?"

Baghra nodded. "It certainly is."

After a few minutes, and a lot of effort on Morana's part at not eavesdropping on their conversation, and Baghra's blatant disregard for it and eavesdropping without shame, Mal joined both of them.

Baghra looked down at her sister's tomb and spoke to Mal, "Open it. Let me make peace with whatever's in here."

Mal huffed out a breath and grunted as he pushed the stone aside, just a fraction, and it was all they needed. The coffin was empty, except for a clay swan. Baghra sighed and leaned down to grab the broken swan.

"He made me watch him while he built this coffin. His tears, his cruelty, and he knew he'd never use it."

"Did he take her body with him?" asked Mal.

Baghra stood up. "The bones aren't here because my sister was never buried. For hundreds of years I suspected as much. There was no "village boy" saved by Sankt Ilya. There was only my sister. And there was no Firebird. At least not the version you're trying to find."

Morana's lips parted as everything clicked into place and one look at Baghra confirmed everything.

"You think he brought her back to life?" asked Mal.

"More than that. He'd done it twice before. Resurrected a creature with merzost and one of his finger bones. Why wouldn't it work for her the way it had worked for the Stag and the Sea Whip?" Baghra looked at Mal meaningfully. "She was the third amplifier. An otkazat'sya girl who'd passed on what she was through generations."

Mal swallowed a lump in his throat and Morana saw the pieces of the puzzle fit into place inside his head only they were coated by denial.

"Don't you see, boy?" asked Baghra. "That's why you're here. That's why my granddaughter has a link to you."

Denial. A funny ignorant thing and Mal seemed to be enjoying its feeling. "I've been tracking all wrong. We're looking for a person."

"Not anymore," Morana spoke up.

Baghra nodded. "How is it that you found the Stag and the Sea Whip, but can't find the Firebird? How is it that you walked past other orphanages until you found the one that felt like home? The one where the Sun Summoner lived? The one person who is your destiny?"

Baghra gestured for them to follow her outside and Morana slipped through the doorway not missing Mal's clenched jaw or the way he was grasping for anything that might tell him what he was about to learn wasn't true.

"Close the door," said Baghra. Mal didn't move. Baghra sighed. "How do you find yourself unless you admit what you are, boy? Give me your blade." Mal hesitated but passed the old woman his blade and didn't flinch when she ran it over his thumb. "Do it."

Mal took a deep breath, looking at the door like he wanted it to turn to ashes until finally, he reached over, pressing his thumb to stone. The door immediately swung close between rumbles.

"You can't hear the frequency because it's you," said Baghra.

"You're lying... You're lying. I'm not a Morozova."

"Mal," said Morana and he turned to her, "you know it's the truth. You felt the Fold. We're linked to each other for a reason. The merzost of the amplifiers is unbalanced and it's calling for its equals, for balance."

Mal shook his head, refusing to believe it and Morana grabbed his hand, and just then realized his hands weren't the only ones trembling. Because in the back of her mind, she knew what it meant for Mal to be the Firebird and she wasn't ready for him to die.

"We are the cursed progeny of a madman," added Baghra, "and you, Malyen Oretsev, are the Firebird. You have to accept what you are. You must sacrifice yourself upon her blade or the Fold remains. And the girl dies trying to save everyone."

Mal stumbled back and Morana wrapped her arms around him as the boy hugged her tightly, his head shaking against her shoulder. "It's a lie," he whispered, no conviction in his tone.

"I'm sorry, Mal," whispered Morana, "We're all cursed. I never wanted you to be a part of that."

"At least we have our answers," Mal said dryly as he let go of her, his jaw clenched as he looked at the door of the workshop like it was his own worst enemy.

Morana was about to answer when something stirred inside her. Her head snapped to the workshop and Baghra was already opening the door. Something was wrong with Alina, and Morana could feel her father's merzost nearby.

The three rushed inside to find Alina pressed to a wall, light vibrating off her, like raw power. Baghra grabbed a torch from the wall, "I will end this once and for all. Once I've killed my son, my time here is done. All this goes with me," she said before throwing the torch into a box of papers.

She turned to Morana grabbing her hands. "What... Please don't," said Morana in a whisper and Baghra smiled a small smile.

"Find your light, Morana. Find your way out of the shadows that plague you, find your balance, my child. And don't forget you're no one's monster nor abomination. Be powerful, for good or bad." Without waiting for an answer she turned to Mal, "You know what you have to do. And close the door on your way out."

Morana wasn't sure what happened next. But at some point Baghra shoved Alina away and then just stood there, connected to her father as Mal dragged both Morana and Alina out of the workshop. The flames consuming the work of Morozova. Consuming a family member Morana never knew she needed or wanted. A grandmother that in a day or two managed to make her feel more wanted than her mother ever did.

Find your light. Your way out of the shadows.

But what if she couldn't? What if Morana was cursed to live in dawn without ever reaching the day? Cursed to live in limbo. Cursed to never have her sun because she was nothing. No one of importance in the world, a hidden daughter to a cruel man, a ghost of the sea. But never really someone.

She was never a sweet innocent girl. She was born in a cruel world. And she could try and claw her way out but the world would remain cruel. She'd have to grip her sun and never let go, no matter how painful it burnt because hell burnt just the same and it didn't take her out of the shadows.

She might never have her home, but she'd carry the memory of him anywhere she went, just to make sure the sun remained at her side. The last thing she remembered before she sunk to her knees outside the workshop, a tear streaming down her cheek, and a burst of light and shadow leaving her, was the compass clutched in her hand.

It's an excuse for us to see each other again, remember?

▪▫▪▫▪