Six months had passed since the fire in Velinsk.
It was now early summer in the capital. The air was warm, thick with the scent of roses and the sound of celebration. Lanterns glowed across the palace gardens, music played from a quartet near the fountains, and golden light spilled through the ballroom windows.
Inside, nobles gathered, dressed in their finest. The hall shimmered with silk and jewels. Glasses clinked, laughter rang out, and servants moved swiftly between the guests. Perfume lingered in the air. Gowns rustled like soft whispers. A night meant for joy.
It was the Czar's birthday banquet.
Ivan, now sixteen, stood alone in the palace library, away from the music and the laughter. The large window was open, and he leaned against its edge, staring out at the courtyard below. He had grown taller. His shoulders were broader now. His silver mask—smooth and cold—rested over half his face.
The light of the ballroom didn't reach him. It hadn't in years.
