“Sweet boy,” Alina says, stroking the curve of his cheekbone, for he is that, all silky hair and eyes big and dark as the shadows that spill from his hands, looking up at her with such trust, such devotion for Sankta Alina, savior of Ravka. “I am sorry.”

And she is, sorry for the confusion in his eyes as she slices the stag’s throat neatly with a blade of light, sorry for the hurt and betrayal splashed across the beauty of his face with the hot rush of blood, but someday - someday, surely, he will understand: “It’s for the good of all Grisha,” she says, tender, loving, light as ever, even as the severed antlers are locked around his throat, hers to keep for all eternity.