Prologue


A/N: So uh...hi. Yes it's me with another story. Although marked as Darkling/OC, there's a lot more to this than just that, and the dynamic between Irina and the Darkling is complicated to say the least. Reviews are, as always, amazing.


Irina Lantsov was fourteen years old when her twin brother Nikolai left court to begin his military service.

"I don't want you to go," she begged tearfully, clinging onto him for dear life. In the past few months, Nikolai had gone through a growth spurt, and he had finally achieved his childhood goal of being taller than Irina.

It was a cool day, she remembered, the middle of winter. Irina sobbed and buried her face in Nikolai's military uniform as he attempted to extricate himself from her grasp, half-embarrassed and half-upset. The twins told each other everything, shared every secret, and yet Nikolai had not breathed a word of this departure to Irina, who it would hurt the most.

"Saints, Irina." Vasily's impatient voice was like an ice-cold chill racing up her spine. "You ought to behave less like a child and more like a princess."

"Go away, Vasily," Irina snapped. Perhaps their brother didn't care about Nikolai's departure and believed himself so much more mature at the age of seventeen, but Irina was allowed to shed tears over the departure of the person who meant the most to her.

"I have to go," Nikolai insisted, catching his sister's wrists and staring down at her with the bright hazel eyes they shared, "You don't understand."

Impatience flared through Irina, although with indignation. "You've not even tried to help me understand."

"It's this court," Nikolai murmured, eyes shifting to fix upon his standard-issue black military boots, "It's stifling. I feel like I'm suffocating."

"What about me?" Irina cried, pushing his shoulders hard as her infamous temper flared. Everyone knew not to get on the wrong side of Princess Irina during one of her moods, and even Nikolai wasn't exempt from her rage. "You'd leave me behind."

Nikolai heaved a frustrated sigh. "We knew this day was coming, Irina. We couldn't be inseparable forever."

Foolishly, she had never planned for that day, and so she found herself heartbroken that it had arrived. Her bottom lip trembled, but she held back more tears. Not for the sake of Vasily's chiding, but because her devastation clearly did not sway Nikolai. When she made to turn away, her twin gripped her wrist in tight fingers.

"Don't trust him, Irina."

For a moment, Irina thought that Nikolai was talking about Vasily. Their brother preferred drink and horses to his duties as the future King of Ravka, but he was a fool, and they both knew it. As Nikolai released her wrist, Irina turned to see the Darkling on one of the balconies, leaning against the balustrade as he watched the younger prince depart Os Alta.

Nikolai's last words to Irina were a warning, one that she took to heart. So it was that the spoilt princess began to morph into something else, something unexpected by her family, and most certainly unexpected by the court and the Grisha.


As a child, Irina had been thrilled at the prospect of masquerade balls. In the first few instances, she had insisted upon crafting her own masks. These attempts were often followed by temper tantrums, as she lacked the skills necessary to create the kind of glittering masterpieces she saw amongst the court. In the future, she had them designed for her specifically.

The mask that Irina spent the following years crafting for herself was far more layered and difficult than those she'd created for balls, because the mask was not a physical one, but a charade. As she grew up, she regarded her parents and her older brother with disdain. Fools, all of them, content to listen to the Darkling and his suggestions. The Darkling, Irina thought, had far too much power within the royal court.

She projected exactly what the people thought they should see. A teenage princess who laughed and danced, whose greatest delight in life was whatever party she could throw next. Irina's cold cunning was obscured beneath a mask of glitter, alcohol and revelry. A fool, just like the rest of her family.

No one was careful around a pretty little fool, especially when her brow pinched and she crinkled her nose and asked what they were saying meant, because of course she didn't understand discussions of strategy and politics.

She was a spy, nestled in among the layers of court unsuspected, learning what information served her family's best interests. For though her family might not care about tedious affairs, Irina did not intend to be a mere figurehead. As she blossomed into her late teens with curves and confidence, she began to use that to her advantage too.

Irina was a notorious flirt, known for giggling and batting her lashes at Heartrenders and Inferni. Rumour had it, though Irina would never confirm nor deny, that she had even found her way into a Grisha's bed once or twice. She made no attempts to put a stop to the gossip. In the fact, the more that the court talked about who she flirted with or kissed or slept with, the safer Irina's true intentions were.

It was only when Irina was nineteen years old that her perfect plans began to crumble around her. At a ball to celebrate Vasily's birthday, Irina made several choices that set into motion a series of, quite frankly, inexplicable occurrences.

The first of these mistakes was to consume a third glass of port. She had never been too good at handling her alcohol, and the port was stronger than she had given it credit for. Vasily had, of course, indulged in far too much alcohol already, red-faced and stumbling. She kept her expression neutral, lest her contempt for her older brother show too obviously.

The second mistake was accepting the Darkling's offer to dance. He did not often show at these sort of events, far too involved in more important matters, but he showed his face once in a while. It was rare for the Darkling to pay her any attention at all, so she supposed he must be doing it out of politeness.

"You are looking radiant tonight, your Highness." The words were hollow, false promise with the goal of flattery. Irina let a blush come to her cheeks and she giggled and tossed back her hair, as would any little fool with a crush on the Grisha's handsome leader.

"You are far too kind."

It was as she twirled, heady from the alcohol in her system, that something called to Irina, something enticing and terrifying. In a way, she supposed she'd felt it before, but never this strong. It begged for the chance to be set free, and she forced it down with all the strength she could muster. Whatever that part of her was, she didn't want it. She didn't need it.

The Darkling tilted his head to the side and observed her with something that frightened Irina: curiosity. She wasn't meant to get that sort of look from him. She was just a silly little princess who went too hard on the wine and spent ridiculous sums of money on dresses and jewellery. It was like a cold stone had dropped in the pit of her stomach.

"Are you alright, Irina? You look pale."

"Far too much to drink." Irina stepped back, swaying gently to prove her point. "If you'll excuse me."

They both knew she was lying. Irina's heart hammered in her chest as she strode from the ballroom, and whatever waking beast had crept up inside her, it was slumbering again now. The cool night air was a refreshing balm against her warm face as she stepped outside, closing her eyes and letting the autumn breeze wash over her.

Irina had spent so long carefully putting together the persona she showed to others, and now there was a rogue element, one that she didn't understand. She could begin to guess what it was, and she refused to acknowledge its existence. Irina was so used to having control that the idea of an unpredictable surprise was abhorrent to her.

One week later, Irina Lantsov disappeared from the court and Ravka entirely.