When he looks into the Saintess' eyes, everything he's read clicks with such speed Aleksander feels foolish to not have realized before. He curses his foolishness, and the touch of her hands on his face feels - wrong, now, like the warmth he'd felt before all escaped from the Saintess.

"You're the White Witch, aren't you?" Aleksander spits, and there's a genuine, almost gleeful, surprise in her brown eyes. Aleksander can see himself reflected in it, and wonders if this is how she sees him: a boy, barely old enough to be in the Ravkan Second Army, who does not know much of his powers beyond what he's learned - a kid in the long infancy of the eternal life she had.

The Saintess' eyes widen, and her hands leave his face, long strips of warmth that remind him of the Fold. The burning scorch of that place still haunts him, blindingly white like her hair.

"You figured it out pretty quickly." The facade falls; the Saintess melts into the White Witch, a figure from stories he's been told as a boy to sleep. She's not a terrifying figure with claws of light to blind stray children and wolf's teeth to break their bones: she's a Grisha, pure and simple. "Was it the Apparat's little book?"

Aleksander bits his tongue, does not speak for a long second. He's still reeling it in, observing her movements with distrustful grey eyes. The Saintess sighs when she does not get a reply, puts a hand to her face. Her kefta is blindingly white, blends into her hair. Aleksander regrets ever thinking she was beautiful and kind: her true colors shine through in the barely lit War Room.

"Yes, I am the White Witch. What is it to you? You'll be a good little boy and obey me." She puts a hand to her face, drums the fingers there. "I mean, unless you want that sister of yours to suffer. Inej, isn't it? Such a sweet girl. I've heard she does wonders in our intelligence department, all thanks to your recommendation. She's going to Ketterdam right now, and accidents happen at the sea all the time."

Aleksander's heart clenches at the thought of Inej, drowned because of him, and his fingers curl into fists, digging marks into his palms that'll blossom into red, angry crescent moons. The Saintess notices, and the smile she has is nothing short of cruel.

"Leave my sister out of it." Aleksander manages, and she leans in, close, too close. He can't breathe, intoxicated by her. These feelings in his chest will be his demise.

The Saintess smiles, tightens the metaphorical noose on his neck, goes to sit in her chair. She puts her hands in her laps, the perfect image of the saint she is not.

How did they even buy her story? Did her charitable veneer, the one he'd seen when they'd traveled back to Os Alta, really work? Was she really buying her place in the army, in the church, simply by giving the people scraps of food and coin? The people of Ravka couldn't be that stupid, could they?

"Then obey my orders, Aleksander." She has pleasure in saying the syllables of his name, and Aleksander can't help but shudder: once, he'd heard this with love in her words, but now he sees that all she saw him was as a tool - convenient for her plans of… He doesn't know. Aleksander does not want to know, too. "Now, be a good boy and wait until we've found that deer. I just need one more amplifier, and we'll be able to rule this country."

"There's not much we when you'll be doing all the ruling, will it, Witch?" He asks, and she smiles.

"Depends on how well you behave, my love." She purrs, and with a wave, dismisses him. Aleksander does not think of how she calls him my love. "Go train, now. And keep quiet, will you? It wouldn't do for poor Inej to pay for your tongue."

Aleksander bows, and looks at her with rage simmering inside his heart. This will not do.