The group of soldiers and Ivan Romanov rode straight to the palace. The gates were already open. The mont they arrived, every servant, guard, and noble in sight either bowed or moved out of the way in silence. No one dared to speak.
Their eyes went to him—the man in the silver mask.
Behind them, tied and beaten, was a prisoner. A man accused of treason. He was being dragged away toward the palace dungeons, his screams muffled by blood and cloth.
At the steps, a servant with shaking hands stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Highness... the Czar awaits you in the throne room."
Ivan said nothing. He simply followed the servant in silence, his steps heavy, steady, echoing through the golden halls.
Inside the throne room, the Czar sat tall on his throne. His na was Czar Vladimir. His beard was grey with age, and his crown rested low on his forehead. His eyes, however, were sharp as ever. Beside him, on a slightly smaller seat, sat Queen Olga—beautiful, cold, and distant. Her black hair fell like ink over her shoulders. Her lips were red, her hands resting stiffly on her lap. She didn’t smile.
The Czar leaned forward slightly. "You’ve done well," he said. "Those traitors in Velinsk were bold. Planning to overthrow the crown with such madness. And now they hang, thanks to you."
Ivan gave a small nod.
Queen Olga didn’t say a word. She turned her head slightly, her gaze never eting his. Her jaw was clenched. She looked like she wanted him gone.
Ivan bowed and turned to leave.
Just as he stepped out of the hall, a cheerful voice echoed behind him. "Brother! Wait for !"
He turned slowly.
Running through the tall doorways was a small boy, no older than eight. His na was Prince Leonid, the Queen’s only child. His hair was golden-brown, his eyes wide with excitent.
"I saw you ride in!" the boy bead. "Were you really at the border? Did you fight again? Did you get hurt? Can I—"
Ivan stopped him by placing a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and pushing him aside. He didn’t speak. He walked past him without a word.
The boy stood still, blinking in confusion. His smile faded.
Just then, Queen Olga rushed in. Her eyes burned as she grabbed her son by the arm.
"How many tis have I told you to stay away from that monster?" she snapped. "Did you not see how he ignored you? He hates you, Leonid. Hates you and wants you dead. When will you learn? Stop admiring him!"
The boy looked down. "But... he’s so brave," he whispered.
"He’s a devil," she said coldly. "And one day, you’ll see it for yourself."
Back in the market, Lydia stood in the middle of a dress shop. The air slled of silk, perfu, and fresh morning bread from the bakery down the street. A kind-faced dressmaker was taking her asurents, wrapping a soft cloth around her waist and arms.
Galina and Daria were nearby, checking fabrics. "This lavender would look beautiful against her skin," Daria said, lifting a sheet of silk.
"No, the blue. It brings out her eyes," Galina argued gently.
While they discussed, another woman—a second dressmaker with wild curly hair—barged into the shop, panting slightly. She waved a piece of paper in the air. "Did you all hear? Ivan Romanov returned from Velinsk!"
Galina looked up. "What happened?"
"They say he killed all the rebels who were plotting treason. The entire village was in flas when he rode through."
Daria gasped. "That’s not all, is it?"
The woman leaned closer. "He had their heads hung up on spikes at the border! Can you imagine? The ssage was clear—anyone who dares rise against the Czar will lose everything. The man’s a demon."
The dressmaker who was asuring Lydia scoffed loudly. "Demon? He’s worse. He’s a beast! Heartless. A monster with no soul. They say he wears that mask to hide his ugliness. Probably got his face scratched by the devil himself!"
Lydia stiffened.
The woman continued, "I heard he doesn’t feel pain. Doesn’t speak. Just kills like a ghost in the dark."
Galina stepped closer to Lydia, noticing the pale look on her face. "It’s alright," she whispered. "People say all kinds of things when they’re afraid."
But Lydia couldn’t shake the chill in her bones.
Back at the palace, Ivan Romanov sat at the edge of a pond. The sun was beginning to set, casting soft orange light across the water’s surface. He sat still, his masked face watching the ripples. Alone. Always alone.
From a distance, the Czar walked slowly toward the palace quarters. He paused when he saw his son sitting by the pond. He didn’t speak, but his eyes stayed on Ivan for a long ti—filled with sothing between sadness and guilt.
But Ivan never turned to look at him.
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