Three years ago
It was noon. The palace was quiet, its long corridors filled only with the distant echo of footsteps from servants going about their duties. In the library, Ivan sat alone.
The shelves towered around him, heavy with books. Dust floated in the sunlight that ca through the tall windows. A book lay open before him on the table. His eyes were fixed on a single page, but he had not turned it for nearly an hour.
He had co here with the intention to read, to distract himself from the thoughts that constantly consud him. But no matter how hard he tried, the words blurred before his eyes. His mind refused to obey.
All he could think about was Lydia.
Her face, her voice, the way her presence had once made everything in his world feel alive. He wondered where she was now. Was she safe? Was she warm? Did she have soone by her side, or was she alone? The questions tornted him.
He sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face. He tried again to force his eyes onto the page, but it was useless. His heart was restless.
Then he heard it.
The sound of rain. At first soft, then stronger, until the heavens opened fully. Heavy drops pounded against the tall glass windows of the library. He turned his head and stared at the storm. The sky was gray and violent, the rain falling like it carried anger.
The sound filled the room, and with each strike against the glass, Ivan felt a growing unease.
A knock broke the rhythm of the storm.
"Enter," Ivan said.
A servant stepped inside, bowing politely. "Your Highness, new reports and ssages have been sent today."
Ivan did not even look up fully. His voice was quiet. "Put them in my study. I will have a look at them later."
"Yes, Your Highness." The servant bowed again and left.
The door closed, leaving Ivan alone with the rain once more.
He remained in the library the rest of the day. He could not explain why he stayed there. Perhaps it was because the rain matched the storm inside him. Each strike of thunder echoed the heaviness of his chest. The sound of water beating the windows grew louder and louder, ringing endlessly in his ears.
For so reason, he felt disturbed. It was as if an invisible hand was squeezing his chest, stabbing at it with needles.
He pressed a hand against his heart, frowning. Why did he feel like this? Why today?
Even when he tried to ignore it, the feeling only grew stronger. He was uncomfortable, restless. The storm outside raged on, and inside him, the sa storm refused to calm.
By nightfall, the rain beca heavier, pounding so loudly it seed the palace itself trembled.
Ivan left the library and went to his chambers. He needed peace. He needed rest.
When he entered his room, Katherine was there with a tray of dinner. She set it on the table and turned to him. Her eyes lingered on his face. He looked tired, worn, distracted.
But she said nothing. She only bowed and quietly left the room.
Ivan sat down before the tray. The food was warm, rich with flavors. But when he lifted the spoon, his hand felt weak. The food had no taste. Each bite felt heavy, choking. His appetite was gone.
He pushed the tray aside and leaned back in his chair. The unease doubled. His chest ached as if sothing inside him was warning him, screaming at him.
He stood, restless. Walked to the window. The rain was endless, hamring down as if the sky itself was breaking. He closed his eyes, but the sound did not leave him. It only grew louder inside his head.
It felt like his heart was being squeezed, like a hand of iron pressed down on it, twisting.
He gave up on eating. He gave up on trying to distract himself. He lay down on the bed, hoping sleep would bring him escape.
But it did not.
He turned from side to side, his eyes open, staring into the dark. The ceiling above him looked endless. His thoughts circled back, over and over, to one person.
Lydia.
Her face haunted him in the shadows. Her smile. Her tears. He could not run from them. He could not rest.
What if she was out there in the rain? What if she was suffering while he lay here doing nothing? The thought stabbed at him again and again.
At last, his body surrendered to exhaustion. His eyes closed. He fell into a restless sleep, his chest still heavy.
---
Morning ca.
The storm had ended at midnight, leaving the world washed clean. The sky was now bright, painted in gold by the rising sun. Birds sang again. The air slled fresh.
Ivan rose from his bed slowly. He bathed, letting the cool water calm his tired body. He dressed neatly, then ate a small breakfast, though his appetite was still faint.
Finally, he went to his study.
The desk was covered in parchnts. Reports, requests, petitions—duties that waited for him. He sat down and began reading.
As his eyes moved across the words, a servant entered carrying another stack of docunts. He placed them carefully on the already crowded table.
"Your Highness," the servant said, "the mill and several houses were destroyed yesterday because of the rain. This parchnt needs your signature for their repairs."
He placed it directly in front of Ivan. "I will need the signature as soon as possible, Your Highness."
Ivan sighed and looked at it. His eyes then moved across the table, scanning the mountain of parchnts before him. His duties never seed to end.
But then, in the midst of the familiar reports, his gaze caught sothing different.
A letter.
It was smaller than the others. It looked personal. It looked nothing like the official docunts that normally ca to his desk.
Ivan frowned. He stretched out his hand and picked it up.
"What is this?" he asked, holding it up.
The servant shrugged. "I don’t know, Your Highness. Maybe it ca in yesterday. Perhaps it is an invitation?"
But Ivan already knew it was not. Sothing in his heart told him this was not an invitation, not a report, not a formality.
His fingers trembled slightly as he broke the seal.
The paper unfolded slowly, revealing the writing inside.
It was a letter.
A letter from Lydia.
The mont his eyes fell on her na, the air in the room shifted. His heart stopped, then beat harder than ever before.
His hands tightened on the paper, his breath uneven. For a long mont, he just stared at her handwriting, unable to breathe, unable to think.
She had written to him.
After all this ti, she had written to him.
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