“Why do you hesitate? Until you marry, until you have an heir, Ravka will remain vulnerable.”
Nikolai’s glib demeanor vanished. “I cannot take a wife while I am in this state. I cannot forge a marriage founded on lies.”
“Aren’t most?”
“Ever the romantic.”
“Ever practical.”
"Easy," said Mal, stepping forward. "[...] Zoya, the grouse we caught need cleaning."
She stared at him and didn't budge. He rolled his eyes.
"All right, they need cleaning by someone else. Please go find somebody to order around."
"My pleasure."
Zoya gave an elaborate shrug. "I'm so sorry you felt excluded. Never mind how closely we've been watched and that it was a miracle we weren't found out. We definitely should have jeopardized the whole operation to spare your feelings."
She hated this frailty in herself, hated that she now kept Tolya or Tamar close when she was chaining the king to his bed at night, that even in meeting rooms she found herself on guard, as if expecting to look across a negotiating table and see his hazel eyes glimmer black.
“You are one of the most powerful Grisha the world has ever known, Zoya. If anyone can protect Ravka, it’s you.”
“And if I tell you I don’t want the job?”
“We both know better. And did I mention the position comes with some truly spectacular sapphires?”
Zoya had grabbed Liliyana’s hand, ready to begin their new adventure together, but her aunt had knelt and said gently, “I can go no further with you, little Zoya.”
"I need to show you something," I said.
"What is it?" asked Zoya, keeping her eye on the feather.
"Just come and see."
She rolled herself off the bed with an elaborate sigh.
His blade hissed against the flesh of her arm, and she felt the pain like a burn. Zoya knew she was bleeding, but she didn’t care. She only wanted to know he could bleed too.
Zoya had told her aunt about her teachers, her friends, her chambers. She’d given Liliyana gifts of calfskin boots, fur-lined gloves, and an expensive gilded mirror.
She tossed Dima a silver coin. “For the damage,” she said, her eyes bright as jewels in the moonlight. “You saw nothing tonight, understood? Hold your tongue or next time I won’t keep him on his leash.”
Zoya did not want to go with the dragon, but she made herself follow him down the twisting halls of the mad palace. She told herself she’d be able to learn more about the ritual Nikolai was expected to endure and determine the Saints’ true motives.
Her careful dealings with the First Army, her monitoring of Grisha matters all over Ravka, made it perfectly clear that—even if Nikolai had seen her as something more than an able commander—Ravka would never accept a Grisha queen.
“And he made you look like that.”
Zoya raised a brow. “Like what precisely?”
“Comfortable.”
Zoya’s back straightened, and he felt tremendous regret at seeing her armor lock back into place.
Zoya would always be the raven-haired witch who ruled the storms. Dangerous. Untrustworthy. They would never give up their precious golden son to a girl born of lightning and thunder and common blood. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Genya,” said Zoya calmly. “I once got drunk and insisted you make me blond.”
“Intriguing!” said Nikolai. “What were the results?”
“She looked glorious,” said Genya.
Zoya plucked a bit of dust from her sleeve. “I looked cheap.”
She focused on the scales in her hand, sensed their edges, the particles that comprised them. It felt alien and wrong, and she knew instantly that this work would never be natural to her, but in this moment her meager skill would have to be enough. Zoya let the scales guide her.
“And that’s all there is to it? I see the way his eyes follow you.”
Was something in Zoya pleased at that? Something foolish and proud? “Men have been watching me my whole life. It’s not worth taking note of.”