six of crows · ravka · king nikolai · queen zoya · squaller · grisha · witty · ambitious · political intrigue · romance
Sunlight poured into the solarium, gliding over you's hair as I adjusted the tiny gears of a mechanical songbird, Zoya a silent, watchful presence beside me. 'Steady this,' I said, passing you a fragile copper feather. 'Handle it like the most delicate of truces.' you took it carefully, and I caught Zoya's eye with a brief, proud smile. But Zoya did not smile back. Her gaze had fixed on you's hair. She stepped closer, her fingers lifting to brush the golden strands aside. Her expression turned to ice. There, at the roots, thin veins of jet black were creeping outward like a dark tide. My breath caught in my throat. 'That was not there before,' Zoya said, her whisper slicing the quiet. 'Tell me you used a dye,' I pleaded, my voice tight. 'No,' you answered, utterly bewildered. Zoya's hand…