PRELUDE  ♰
Stop Turning Me Into A Saint!

𝕱ire and sun saints have existed ever since light was born, they say. Ever since, the world had no place for women, they say. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Fate is written in stone the second a girl is snatched from the safety of her mother's womb. Girls, as they grow into women, are expected to be cool as ice and carry themselves with the grace and harmony of a dove. Rage burns beneath women's skin, forbidden from letting loose. Why raise women to be delicate little creatures if the world is bound to destroy them? You may ask. Well, hatred runs deep in the world's veins. Society never wanted women to adapt to the cruel world with their cruel hearts. They'd rather young girls suffer; burnt, buried, betrayed. After all, the only thing worse than a woman is an angry woman. An angry woman was parallel to Grishas who were thought to be as unnatural as they came— enemies burnt them at stake.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎According to Ravkan legends, that is how fire and sun saints were created. Rage is as hereditary in women as it is their fate to be soft-hearted. Saints were mythically products of thr past who sustained their fury and kept it buried deep in their hearts. As generations of ancestors built and built up their fury, the fire in their daughters intensified, and so did the number of enemies.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Vera Bardot was born as a droplet of water that enlarged into an ocean; whilst it's pretty on the surface under a glinting sun and moon, there is so much darkness underneath, so much unknown. The Kerch Grisha's power fell just as mystically from lips as the mysteries of the depths of an ocean. She, too, was a product of generational trauma— carrying fire from all women in her bloodline who weren't allowed to display their anger. Creatures like her—ones that can summon blue flames, and she's known as Kresnika.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Wind and sage-green leaves in her hair, she got wrapped in some strange rows of ivy and branches as Vera ran through a wretched forest. Twig limbs gnawed and fettered, prickling the goosebumps on her skin. Vera thrashed, clawing through the branches, ripping splinters from the wood with her fingernails. She wrenched herself free from the bramble, and didn't have time to pluck the thorns in her side, the lashes of trees peeling big wounds out of small ones. She just ran.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A blockage in her way stopped her. A man grabbed her, and she used her fire to burn his hands, sending him stumbling back as he screamed in pain at the sizzling feeling. "Grisha," his tone burnt with hatred alone, they're going to kill me, Vera realised upon the Fjerdan accent as a group of them launched the attack. She braces herself. The Fjerdan howls as he stumbles back, frantically rubbing his eyes after the searing ball of blue light bursts in his face. His blindness is probably temporary, Vera thinks—unfortunately—but it gives her time. Time to do what, she doesn't know, she realises after a second. She doesn't have any weapons—an egregious oversight she should correct at the first opportunity—and the exploding fireball is her best party trick.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Faintly, she heard footsteps of a horse and carriage being dragged but adrenaline prevented her from paying attention to that.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She truly focuses on the power within her, the one she's hidden and buried. A serrated cord of light distended from her palms, like a shard of lighting, coiling around a tree. It looked like a snake wrapping its figure around its prey, electrifying veins-like things around the tree—like a Dionysian. When the thick string of blazing silver travelled up to the canopy, right into the sky, and spread around magnificently until there were small blobs of fire everywhere.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎One of the elongated balls of fire above trembled and blinked relentlessly, and the brightness in it merged together to create some sort of explosion in the far, far expanse of the black sky. A tree is caught on fire as those balls of fire start to drop. A burning branch falls, and it falls right on a luxurious carriage that just parked.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She hears the three Fjerdan, recovered, trying to catch her as she runs around the haze maze. There's smoke everywhere, and the light of the burning forest makes it easier to locate her, she realises upon a cough and a jolt of horror.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She's smart enough to have incredible survival instincts, but she's not a coward either. She reached the carriage she's just set on fire, heart leaping at the thought of deaths of innocents. Vera tries the door and hisses when she touches the handle, still burning hot from the fire. She cradles the tender red palm with her other hand, wondering if the fire has done enough damage to the door for her to brute force it open and save whoever is within. Before she can muster the strength to make the attempt, a shadowy tendril effortlessly tugs the door open for her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Suddenly, something hits her head, and with an ear-splitting ringing in her head, she falls to the ground like a pile of bricks. Vera forced her frantic eyes shut and stared into the empty depths. There was the smell of blackcurrant plucked from summer-dry shrubs, the wine-dark stain on her fingers.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Silently, a wave of darkness crashes upon her. It takes a moment for Vera to realise she hasn't fallen unconscious, or died. It's literally darkness. She blinks and slowly stands up. The flames have been doused by shadows, which are now surrounding the remaining Fjerdans, choking some and slicing others into pieces.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She steps around as the darkness recedes, letting her flames pave the way through the shadows so she can see. Fjerdan corpses litter the site. Vera tries not to look too hard at them, especially not the dismembered heads and limbs. Inevitably, her gaze is drawn to—

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎To the Black General, who is exiting the burnt carriage. His carriage that Vera's just set on fire. He strides towards her, his expression remarkably calm for someone who just massacred half a dozen people. Then again, Vera supposes he's done it before—and she finds she can't hold it against him, not this time at least, since he saved her life in doing so.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The only footsteps approaching were his, carried by the swish of virgin serge: a slow, sure pace, a power thrumming with it. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He watches her, and Vera trembles at the intensity of his dark stare. On the ground and backed against a tree, she holds her head up, looking him in the eye. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, fleetingly. Kirigan's silhouette appeared like one of classic paintings, framed by the burning blue trees and his dense dark clouds. He stepped into the light, beautiful but frightening, hair dangling in his eyes, lips curving softly into a smile—

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Allow me," He offers, extending his arm covered in pure-coal black sleeves of his Kefta. He was everywhere and everything. His voice was in the clouds, in the dewdrop grass, in her head and the soles of her feet.‎ ‎

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎To say the least, Aleksander Kirigan was beyond intrigued. If this was General Kirigan's soul, Vera didn't want to begin to wonder what he might do with it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The power that surged from the girl was like a universe within a universe. Something resembling a fiery lighting bolt very close—but not quite that—clawed right up to the sky, mimicking a scene where the sky was almost split in half, revealing a massive beam of blue light.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her fingers locked his, and he tugged her to her feet, his eyes never leaving hers. Once they're face to face, however, she realises his dark eyes are swimming with emotion—rage, primarily, but also something that resembles fear. Vera lets go of his hand.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The Blue Flame was just as mythical and rare as Shadow and Sun Summoners. Like all the legends that are stated in myths, a Kerch Prophecy-teller suggested, "the moon wandered too close to the sun" and reinforced the generational fury in women in all the symbolic ways. The moon stands in front of the sun., the moon playing the grotesque role of society that stands in the way of the sun— a young girl. The immense burst of fire comes from the sun and the moon. So, the black moon meteors that drank the fire of the sun, the black cloud of darkness spreading from the blinded celestial saint — this is the birth of Saint Ognyena Maria hundreds of years ago, the "fire mother" who gave birth to a Kerch Princess in a city of summer, raised in lap of luxury. It is believed—according to trusted legends—that the refusal of the fire in one's chest resembles a raged wild animal. Eager to escape, hungry to aim, all violent. Without the fire of her being, the princess grew sickly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎As we discussed, the world cannot handle a powerful woman. The Princess's powers were good for nothing and deemed as an abomination. She doused the burgeoning fire inside her and tried to pretend she was perfectly ordinary. Once she reached her limit, she burned down her palace with her entire family in it. Everybody thought the princess to have perished in the fire.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But she ran. Wood splinters and burn marks on her ravaged body—a young girl with hair as red as burning flames, who smelt like grapefruits—as she rummaged through the deep forest.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Hundreds of years later, a seventeen-year-old girl caged in an orphanage—whose hair was the colour of citrus, who doused her burgeoning fire, also—wounded half a forest to make a run for it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎So, General Kirigan wonders if he's had the privilege to have just wandered into the lost princess of Kerch.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Who are you?" He asks simply.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Vera Bardot."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And you can summon the blue flame?" He asks smoothly, like he's asking her something simple like how she takes her tea.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There was no point in playing dumb. He's already seen it all. "Yes."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He takes her hand into his. The General takes a slow moment to analyse the midnight-blue ring gem on the ring around her index finger, his brows twitching in a manner that tells Vera that he finds familiarity in the ring. He then brings her hand up and kisses the ring, the blue flame haloes around her fingers but it doesn't burn him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bardot."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Sorry," She apologised guiltily, "I set your carriage on fire."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're going to be an expensive asset to the Palace, aren't you, Miss Bardot?" The Darkling's eyes glinted with something she cannot recognise. He locks his hands behind his back, and turns to squint in the direction of the Ravkan Palace, "We shall walk, our destination isn't far."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Vera takes a second glance at the burning carriage, and then turns to the tall man, "I apologise for my bluntness, sir," she says, "but I'm not taking orders from you."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Of course, you're not fighting for the second army just yet," the Black General agrees, with perfect politeness, "my orders are just for my soldiers."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're going to turn me into a soldier?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do, Miss Bardot," he muses, bending down just a little to her height. "You have a rare gift, and if you please, the world is yours."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎That did not sound nearly as amusing to Vera, the world is everybody's— not some more than others. She exercises by walking back and forth to keep blood pumping through her legs. They felt frozen, and the ache in them dug deep into her bones. She pivots on her heel to pace another length and nearly runs straight into the General. She's about to stammer out an apology—even though she's pretty sure it's his fault for standing so close—when he speaks. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Come with me, Miss Bardot, we shall take care of you."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Well, sir, you don't have to take me, I can just go back home," the word felt bitter on her tongue, a frown etched to her face, "they're not very kind to people like us but they take in refugees."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"If you were seeking kindness," the General says softly, "we would've granted you asylum had you presented yourself to the Little Palace. I would've thought you'd feel more at ease in a courtly setting than a small border town prone to raids."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I think palaces are overrated," she admits, taking note of his use of the word 'courtly' as though it is everybody's dreams, "even a little village full of love will surpass grand ceilings and ballrooms."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎And then he whisks her away on horseback, travelling at a punishing pace. Not against her will, she ended up agreeing to General Kirigan's offer soon enough; what she did not agree to was shattering her tailbone.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Who are your parents?" He asks.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Vera eyes him warily, her arms around his torso as she holds onto him to avoid falling, "I never met them," she answers, "I grew up in an orphanage." There is one thing she does— she takes off her ring and hides it securely in a pouch under her shirt, out of his sight.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Were you not tested as a child?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"To be Grisha is to be a soldier," she returns. "It's compulsory in Ravka, but that is not something I wished for." She tells him how easy it was to escape those tests. When Vera approached the testers, her knees were bleeding from an 'accidental' fall. She was turned away, and whenever the testers returned in the following years, her caretaker claimed that Vera had already been tested before. No one outside bothered to remember otherwise. She did have "friends"— as a kid, she ran amok with the other village children, playing explorers and tag. But there had always been that silent barrier, the knowledge that she was Grisha and they were otkazat'sya who may have burned her at the stake several generations ago. Albeit, surely, being a soft-spoken, quiet and compassionate outcast amongst those people hadn't been easy but the fate of a soldier is much worse.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Everybody tries to make a martyr out of deaths in a war. A war is just bloody and half those "heroes" that sacrifice their lives most of the time contribute nothing to the end of a callous reign. It's upsetting but the honest truth. Nothing about a war is heroic or symbolic. 

𝕿hey arrive at the Little Palace, and Vera takes a moment to admire the elegant lines and columns of the architecture. Whoever designed it had good taste, she decides, eyeing the gardens and anticipating the many rambles she could have there.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎General Kirigan tells her that he will assign an oprichniki and other handmaids to guide her and take care of her as he hastens off to whatever job he has. Her suite is utter luxury, nicer than anything she saw in her home. She tests the mattress of the large bed and immediately wants to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But first, she is filthy. At home, she could never go to bed without washing off that day's dirt. Vera plods into the adjacent bathing room just as the door bursts open again to reveal a series of maids marching in. "Oh, hello," she greets with a pleasant smile but they all ignore her as they prepare a steaming hot bath. It was a laborious process. They help her get into the tub, making her soak into it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎More maids march inside, their uniforms indicating a higher rank than the preceding chambermaids. Leading them is a flawlessly beautiful redhead wearing a cream coloured Kefta. The woman places her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. "Saints, don't they feed you?" She comments, "you're all bones, no pleasant sight for the tsar."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Vera chokes on the air she breathes in, "excuse me, the tsar? I literally just arrived. Whatever for?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎They all help her clean off the dirt from the road and the attack as best as they can. "He wants to see you, of course." The woman snaps her fingers, and one of the maids scurries forward with a towel. "I'm Genya, and I suppose the General would've told you about this presentation, or at the very least, you would've known."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm Vera," she returns. She looks at the other maids, and leans close to the redhead with worry etched to her features, "and to be fairly honest with you, I know nothing... about anything."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Genya almost smiles, but some sort of melancholic look prevents that. "Then I shall teach you everything," She offers, "Education is a privilege but one that you of all people undoubtedly deserve."

𝖂hen Vera runs into General Kirigan in the afternoon who has come to accompany her to the tsar, she feels relief. She's dressed in the simplest white dress, one she could've picked up from the village seamstress, but for the fine material and exquisite embroidery. The briefest flash of white teeth at the sight of Vera, before the General's face resumes its usual unreadable mien.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So, you know nothing about your mother." He muses.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No," she communicates the same thing again warily, "I never knew her... you seem very interested in my mother."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He almost chuckled, "I hope you do know rumours are harsh, and when word gets around that my Kresnika might be the descendant of a disgraced princess, people will start to ask questions. There have always been curiosity about your kind but with your presence, they raise more questions than answers."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Vera halted on her steps, and the General came to stop too. Her heart leaped because despite how he spoke in riddles, there was the slightest bit of indication that he wasn't requesting her about her family's lore, he was demanding an answer. She glares at him, knowing he can feel its intensity through the veil, as the guards escorting them shift uneasily. "Are you threatening me?" she says lowly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No, Miss Bardot," he says just as softly, his voice only meant for her ears, "I'm warning you. But you need only ask for my help." At his signal, the doors to the throne room are thrown open.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There are only the tsar and the tsaritsa in the Grand Palace as Kirigan enters with Vera through the double doors. At first glance, the tsaritsa looks younger than expected for a woman with grown sons. Vera knows that Genya has spent countless hours erasing wrinkles and highlighting her blond hair to a golden shine. But the longer Vera observes her, the more unnatural the utter lack of crow's feet at her eyes and the smoothness of her cheeks.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Kirigan holds her hand as they step closer, and much closer to the thrones. Vera demonstrates whatever she has to show. However, her power was nowhere nearly as interesting as this morning's.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So, what are you, if nothing but a simple village girl?" The tsaritsa asks, almost bitterly. At first, Vera thinks the grimacing Queen didn't like the sight of her. But her thoughts jump on one another when she catches the Queen turning to her husband, furrowing her brows at the way the King looked down at the young red-headed girl. Vera swore Kirigan's fingers tightened around her hand.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm Vera Bardot," she declares, "and I'm a Kresnika."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"A girl as powerful as her belongs to the country." The Queen, Tatiana, sternly reminded the General who was obligated to remain silent for a few seconds out of mere respect. His fingers curled even tighter around Vera's hand, and she feared he may shatter her bones. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"She belongs to me," he replied after a stretched-out pause, receiving a not-so approving look from the royals, "I do not wish to see another soul mentoring her, hovering around her. I shall train her myself and she shall grow to be... one of the greatest Grisha to ever walk this palace."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His Kresnika that belonged to the people, he internally scoffed at the thought before exiting the court. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Does it bother you," she questions and instantly beats herself up for ever asking it; he's escorting her back to her room now, and unlike last time, he didn't leave the task to his oprichniki, "that the tsaritsa refers to me as the people's Kresnika?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He looks at her. Really looks at her. Their faces are the closest they've ever been, and she can see every detail of his eyes—dark and sad, weighed down by an eternity of loneliness—as she holds her breath.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It is not their right to claim your gift, Miss Bardot," he says, "the fact is I'm much more interested in whether your maternal lineage is Kerch, or if you're Ravkan, or part otkazat'sya, even. I am curious about the capacity of your powers, and everything about you. Nobody else can say that, nobody but me."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You suggest nobody else is interested in my abilities?" Vera's fingernails dig into the flesh of her palms.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He leans in, so closely that his breath caresses her ear. "Not like I am, no, Miss Bardot, and I will be waiting to see how much you're willing to share with me." Her body is inexplicably flushed with heat as he straightens. His gaze seems to rest where the pouch holding her ring hides beneath her shirt. Vera resists the urge to cover the spot protectively.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Thank you," she says with a smile. "For being so kind, and for everything else."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's the least I could do." Before he leaves, he takes her hand again and presses a courtly kiss, where the ring had been. He notes its absence, "I hope you didn't lose it."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's safe," Vera affirms.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Good." There is something knowing in his eyes, and she desperately wishes she had her mother alive to tell her what it means. "It's quite a unique piece."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Before he can say anything, she blurts out, "Do you suppose it means anything? The ring, can it lead me to my family?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"If I believed in folklore," he says, "I'd suggest you're the daughter of a supposedly dead princess of the enemy. If it were facts rather than a myth, the tsar might keep you as a political prisoner, or try to marry you to one of his sons, which would be the same thing."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Saints forbid." She cheekily says. Marrying a royal sounds grotesque. "At least I'm safe from execution, despite it."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His lips curl, "A disgraced princess in hiding doesn't command a high market value. But you, Miss Vera Bardot, you're priceless, and now everyone knows it." He takes her hand into his, finger gracing the spot where the ring once was, "The walls of Os Alta will protect you physically. But you must be on your guard for other dangers. When the courtiers look at you, they may see a supposed enemy, or a myth come to life, or both— based on whether they believe in folklore. I'm sorry to say that anyone seeking to befriend you will have an ulterior motive." To this day, Vera never understood if he said that for her own good, or isolated her from friendship to cage her... or both.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Do you," she manages to utter, "believe in folklore?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I believe in you," he says with a smile alluring enough to make her forget her own curious question, much straightforward and the mystic look around the edges of his face communicated that he was being sincere, "you and I are going to change the world, Miss Bardot."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝕮ara speaks.

hello, hi hi !! I'm literally so excited for this, updates will be between this book or death to daphne every week. i wish u had as much fun reading this chapter as I had writing this. vera isn't lying when she says she doesn't know shit, she's utterly clueless and naïve... 

there will be many more flashbacks of vera's os atla years but i didn't want to spoil everything in the prologue. 

I do want to tell everyone that half the things here are completely made up. If u try finding connections or sources to all references... I'm afraid u won't find any =( ; most of this is heavily inspired by slavic myths, since that is what a lot of S&B universe is based on. I definitely intend for the whole vera/darkling/alina lore to be very deja vu / silver spring coded in the most dramatic way possible— so this first encounter, and a lot of darkling&vera interactions will resemble ones he had with alina. hope u enjoyed !!