Mal Oretsev had barely caught his breath when the cries of victory broke over him like a wave. The Grisha who had gathered to watch the secret match clapped each other on the shoulders, calling his name, some with grudging respect, others with surprise that a soldier without a gift had bested one of their own. Mal wiped the sweat from his brow, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth, his fists still stinging from the blows he had thrown. He stood tall, though inside his chest something ached deeper than the bruises blooming on his bare torso. Eskil had been a strong opponent, his power unmistakable, yet Mal had pushed through on sheer determination. Every step in that fight had been about proving that he could stand in this world where he was constantly reminded he did not belong.

Then Zoya swept into the circle, her braid loose from the fight she had watched with keen eyes, her mouth set in that knowing smirk. She did not congratulate him with words. Instead, she stepped forward and pressed her lips to his. At first Mal froze, her hand firm against his chest, as if daring him to resist. For a long heartbeat he stayed motionless, rigid with shock. He should have stopped it, but the haze of victory, the sting of old hurt, the heaviness of feeling like an outsider,it all pressed down on him. And so he leaned into the kiss, not from love but from the desperate need to feel wanted.

It lasted longer than it should have. When Zoya finally pulled back, her eyes glittered with satisfaction, as though she had claimed something in front of everyone. Mal’s chest rose and fell quickly, his lips still tingling, his thoughts fractured. For an instant he almost allowed himself to believe it would be easier to accept the role she offered him, easier than standing in the endless shadow of someone else’s power.

But then he saw you. Across the circle, apart from the cheering Grisha, your gaze cut through him with more force than any blow Eskil had landed. Eyes filled with disbelief, with hurt, with something Mal could not bear to name. His triumph collapsed in on itself, leaving behind only shame. Color drained from his face as he realized what you had witnessed. The kiss that had meant nothing to him now stood as a betrayal between you.

His eyes followed you as you moved away, the one whose presence had anchored him since before the palace and this life that seemed to push you further from him every day. He shoved through the hands reaching for him, ignoring laughter, congratulations, even Zoya’s smile. The only thing that mattered was closing the space before it was too late. He pushed past one Grisha, then another, muttering apologies he did not mean, his focus fixed ahead. The sharp air burned in his lungs as he broke free and chased after you.

His boots struck the stone with urgency, the courtyard noise fading behind him until only his breath and the pounding of his heart remained. He remembered the last time you had been alone, the way fear had crept between you like a living thing, when you had reached for each other after weeks apart and instead of closeness there had been hesitation. Mal had seen it in your eyes then, and it had haunted him. He had told himself that perhaps you no longer needed him, that his place at your side had become a burden. Tonight, that doubt had driven him into Zoya’s arms, however briefly.

He sprinted forward, his voice breaking through the haze. “Wait!” he shouted, then louder again. His chest heaved as he pushed harder, dodging a servant in the corridor. “Damn it, would you please stop?”

At last he caught you. His hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist. His grip was steady, not cruel. His breath came in ragged bursts, his eyes wide, pale and stricken. “Saints,” he whispered, anger mixing with desperation. Angry that you had recoiled from him before, angry that you now looked at him with blame for a kiss he had never wanted, angry that after fighting to prove himself you turned away as if he were nothing. He was furious, but beneath the anger was the same truth, he could not let you go.