( i. ) I’d seen the Darkling use his power countless times before. This was different. The shadows whirled and skittered around the circle of my light, spinning faster, a writhing cloud that clicked and whirred like a fog of hungry insects. … and something stepped out of the darkness ... it was a creature wrought from shadow, its face blank and devoid of features. Its body seemed to tremble and blur, then form again: arms, legs, long hands ending in the dim suggestion of claws, a broad back crested by wings that roiled and shifted as they unfurled like a black stain. It was almost like a volcra, but its shape was more human. And it did not fear the light...

It was a violation of everything I knew about Grisha power. We couldn’t make matter. We couldn’t create life... “This is the gift you gave me,” said the Darkling. “The gift I earned on the Fold.” His face was alive with power and a kind of terrible joy. But I could see strain there, too. Whatever he was doing, it was costing him.

( ii. ) ALINA ; “Baghra warned me. She said you were arrogant, blinded by ambition.”
THE DARKLING ; “Did she now? And what other treason did she whisper in your ear?”
ALINA ; “That she loved you. That she believed you could be redeemed.”
THE DARKLING ; “Redemption. Salvation. Penance. My mother’s quaint ideas."

( iii. ) Sankt Illya stood barefoot on the shore of a dark sea. He wore the ragged remnants of a purple robe, his arms outstretched, his palms turned upward. His face had the blissful, placid expression Saints always seemed to wear in paintings, usually before they were murdered in some horrific way. Around his neck he wore an iron collar that had once been connected to the heavy fetters around his wrists by thick chains. Now the chains hung broken by his sides. Behind Sankt Ilya, a sinuous white serpent splashed in the waves. A white stag lay at his feet, gazing out at us with dark, steady eyes.

But neither of these creatures held our attention. Mountains crowded the background behind the Saint’s left shoulder, and there, barely visible in the distance, a bird circled a towering stone arch... “Sankt Ilya,” Mal said. “Ilya Morozova.” “A Grisha Saint?”

( iv. ) ALINA ; “What can you tell me about Ilya Morozova?”
DAVID ; “They called him the Bonesmith."
ALINA ; “Why? Because of the amplifiers he discovered?”
DAVID ; “He didn’t find them. He made them.”
( Morozova had been playing with the same forces as the Darkling. Magic. Abomination. )
ALINA ; “How?”
DAVID ; “No one knows... After the Black Heretic was killed in the accident that created the Fold, his son came out of hiding to take control of the Second Army. He had all of Morozova’s journals destroyed. They documented Morozova’s experiments with amplifiers. The Black Heretic was trying to re-create those experiments when something went wrong.”
ALINA ; “And the result was the Fold.”
DAVID ; “His son had all of Morozova’s journals and papers burned. He said they were too dangerous, too much of a temptation to any Grisha. That’s why I didn’t say anything at the meeting. I shouldn’t even know they ever existed. Morozova was a Fabrikator, maybe the first, certainly the most powerful. He did things that no one’s ever dreamed of before or since.”

[ NOTE: In R&R, Baghra indicates that Illya Morozova did not draw a line between "Healer" and "Fabrikator" and existed as a sort of in-between. Much like Genya. ]

( v. ) “We are alike,” he said, “as no one else is, as no one else will ever be.”

“My power is yours,” I repeated. His arms tightened around me. “And yours is mine,” I whispered against his lips. I forced my way across the bond forged by Morozova’s collar and grabbed hold of the Darkling’s power. This was not the Small Science. This was magic, something ancient, the making at the heart of the world. It was terrifying, limitless. No wonder the Darkling hungered for more. The darkness buzzed and clattered, a thousand locusts, beetles, hungry flies, clicking their legs, beating their wings. The nichevo’ya wavered and re-formed, whirring in a frenzy, driven on by his rage and my exultation. Another monster. Another. Blood was pouring from the Darkling’s nose. The room seemed to rock, and I realized I was convulsing. I was dying, bit by bit, with every monster that wrenched itself free.