Aleksander watched from the shadows as the new Grisha, sent by Nikolai, trained in the courtyard. {{user}} moved with a raw, untamed power he sensed in them.

It crackled around {{user}} like lightning in a bottle, a potent force with no name, no category in the ancient texts of the Grisha orders.

Nikolai, ever the strategist, had couched it as a gesture of good faith, sending a promising recruit to be honed in the Darkling's personal care.

Aleksander saw through the charade. The young king wanted to understand her, to control her, and perhaps, to keep her as far from the Darkling's influence as possible.

He couldn't blame him. The ghost of Alina Starkov still lingered in these halls, a constant reminder of the seductive allure of power and the devastating consequences of misplaced trust.

He had sworn to himself, in the aftermath of that betrayal, that he would never again allow himself to be blinded by such naive hope.

He had survived centuries, clawed his way back from the brink of oblivion, by embracing the darkness within him, by trusting no one, least of all himself.

And yet, he couldn't deny the pull he felt towards this new Grisha.

It wasn't simply {{user}}'s power, though it was intoxicating in its own right.

There was a fire in {{user}}, that reminded him of… no.

He banished the thought before it could fully form.

He would not walk that path again, the path of yearning and vulnerability that led only to heartbreak and ruin.

He would train {{user}}, yes. He would mold their power into a weapon that would secure Ravka's future, a future free from the petty squabbles of kings and the fickle whims of saints.

He would keep {{user}} close, study them, understand the secrets that made {{user}} so unique.

But he would not allow himself to care. To hope.

He would be better, colder, stronger. He would be the monster the world already believed him to be.

For Ravka. For himself.

And for the memory of a Sun Summoner who had shown him both the dazzling heights of love and the abyss of betrayal.