Thalia hears the wind talk.

She is alone. Dinner was served not long ago, and after eating what she could stomach, Thalia resigned for the night and carted herself off to the Grisha tent. Zaria had bid her a vacant farewell, interested more in her conversation with Zoya than Thalia's gradually decreasing mood.

She is not tired. Far from it, actually. She had taken five minutes to rub her eyes harshly in order to look it before confronting her general, bidding them adieu and making way for the tent. Her only company is the wind, and Thalia is sure she can hear it speak to her.

This is not an unusual occurrence. It's become somewhat of a staple to see Thalia Vassilieva flinch during training because of a particularly hard breeze. She's earned the nickname Blur, and people like to taunt her. One harsh wind and she is gone. Through the crowds and out of sight like a blur.

Soldier of the Second Army, and she can't even go a day without listening for her mother's screams in the wind. Pathetic.

Sleep is not easy for someone like Thalia to come by. When you are plagued by your own mind and coated in guilt as a second skin, it is natural instinct to stay awake. Stay alive. You cannot outrun your past: it will always come back to bite eventually.

Sometimes, Thalia wishes that she could slow her own heart. Send herself into a deep sleep. Forget the guilt for a little while. Forgive herself in the hours that she is unconscious. Does she deserve to be forgiven?

The answer is simple: no. In what world, what universe, would someone who did something so dreadful deserve to be forgiven? Someone who betrayed her family and threw away everything they ever did to protect her on a whim.

Most days, Thalia finds herself wishing that she hadn't. It was stupid— entirely, utterly brainless. Her wits had gone for a single moment, and now Thalia is set for the rest of her life. She cannot run. The Fold separates her from her only chance at freedom.

A single candlelight is not enough to guide Thalia Vassilieva through the very thing that had given her nightmares for a week after her first trip. And a candlelight is about the only thing she can manage right now.

The lanterns glowing in the tent flicker as a harsh gust of wind pushes in. Thalia flinches involuntarily. She squeezes her eyes closed, praying to every Saint she can summon to for it to go away.

Go, she begs. Leave me alone.

The words 'leave me alone' have become a natural response for Thalia nowadays. She speaks them to Zaria, when the girl begs for company to one of the fights between First Army servicemen. Liz, her Healer friend, had soon learned to stop asking all together. She simply regarded Thalia with a tight smile and a wave, now.

Her Kefta feels confining. It always had. The red material strapped over her chest, enclosing her heart beneath and choking her at the neck. She has clawed the collar until her skin was red raw, blood dug beneath her fingertips. Her lips are sealed shut as Liz works over her neck in the dark of the Grisha tent, no words exchanged between them. There is nothing to say.

Scars line her neck. A reminder. A meagre punishment before she is touched by death and receives her rightful damnation.

   "Saints."

Another voice in the wind. Perhaps her father— Thalia does not remember his voice all that well. An older man. Nearing fifty when Thalia was taken. His skin wizened and his hair greyed, despite her mother's trying attempts to keep it dark with dye made from the ashes of burnt coal.

Her mother has not left Thalia's mind since the day she left home. Wendeline Vassilieva, Lina. She had met Thalia's father when she was twenty, the butchers son and the bakers daughter. The businesses had soon collapsed, the war causing the small town that Thalia did not remember the name of to fall in on itself.

They had retired to Grandpa Vassilieva's farm. It did not bring in revenue, the animals elderly and malnourished. But it made Thalia happy. She enjoyed milking the cows when they were well enough to provide for the family. She liked to feed the pigs, stuffing the bread from dinner beneath her dress and sneaking out early the next morning to assure they were fed.

When an animal passed, the family ate well for a week. They did not know rationing. They did not harness the supplies to savour meat and keep it fresh. Soon, the farm was no more than the skeleton of what once would have been a home.

But she had a good childhood. There was no denying that her mother and father did everything they could to ensure that Thalia and her brother were looked after and that she valued what they had done for her. They had loved her. They had went without meals to certify their children were well fed.

So why had she thrown it away without a regard?

"There you are."

Thalia flinches as the voice speaks again. Closer. Clearer. Cautious. Not a voice in the wind. Someone is in the tent. She does not spare a thought before rising from her bed. She does not recognise their voice, nor their heartbeat. She has memorised the voices and heartbeats of her Grisha peers. How they got past the Oprichniki, Thalia does not know.

Her footsteps are quiet. Deliberate and practiced. She has treaded the carpeted, Fabrikator forged floors of the tent hundreds of times. She has spent hours learning the quietest spots so she can move without a sound.

She catches the perpetrator as he is footsteps away from the doorway of the tent. Not thinking twice, Thalia guides her hands into a practiced movement and slows his heart, thus slowing his footsteps.

"Turn around." She demands. Nasty. The words make her feel sick to her stomach. The man turns as fast as his body will permit him with his slowing heart rate. "Who are you?"

He holds his arms up, surrendering. "Mal. Tracker."

Thalia does not recognise his name. She recognises his profession, but not his name. She has conversed with Mikhael of the trackers before. Any non-Grisha that has entered the tent before has always been accompanied by someone who was actually permitted to be there, but this tracker is alone. "Why are you in the Grisha tent, tracker?"

"I'm hungry," Mal said. He quickly regrets his phrasing, shaking his head as he amends it. "Well, my friend is hungry. I wanted to make sure she ate before she went off to bed."

That's nice, Thalia thinks. Making sure your friend eats before they sleep. Going to bed hungry is something Thalia has not had the misfortune of in a long time.

"Did she not eat at dinner?" Thalia checks. "That is usually what dinner is for."

Mal let's out a quiet laugh, under his breath. "She was busy."

Okay, Mal. If you say so. Luckily for him, Thalia is not feeling particularly up for a fight or an argument tonight. She's willing to let him go. She lowers her hands, setting his heart rate back to it's usual pace.

"You better leave before one of the guards realise you're in here."

Relieved, Mal gives Thalia a single nod and makes for an exit with a small bowl of grapes in hand. He is blocked by Zoya, who enters surrounded by her usual aura- sexy and terrifying. It may seem silly for Thalia to be scared of Zoya Nazyalensky after knowing her for so long, but it seemed that the more time they spent together, the more Thalia's fear heightened.

Pitiful.

Zoya gives Mal an appraising look, scanning the room and landing on Thalia. She seems to connect the nonexistent line easily, lips quirked. "Who's your friend, Thalia?"

Thalia frowns. "He's not my friend."

"I don't suppose you know why he's in our tent, then?" Zoya checks.

"I invited him," Thalia replied, backtracking on her previous words. "I needed help reaching something and he was there. He's leaving now."

Mal nods along, looking exactly like he does not have a clue what's going on. "Exactly. That's what happened. I'm leaving now."

"Funny," Zoya whispers, looking between them. "Tell me, Thalia, have you—"

Thalia does not have time for this. "You know what? I'm really tired, so I'm going to bed. See you later, Mal. Goodnight, Zoya."

As far as Thalia is concerned, Mal can stay and talk to Zoya for as long as he likes. She's done her part, and now he has to do his. As she flops down on her bed, Thalia resorts to pulling her pillow over her head and shielding her ears from Zoya's obnoxious flirting and Mal's cumbersome replies. He can thank her later. For now, Thalia has sleeping to do.

If only they'd shut up.