It was a long night. The wind outside howled softly, brushing against the palace walls like whispers of ghosts. Inside the palace, everything was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made your ears ring. Even the fireplaces burned lower, casting faint orange glows along the cold marble floors. But Ivan couldn't sleep. He had spent the entire day in his study, pouring over maps, writing and rewriting plans, weighing the risks. His mind was a battlefield. No matter how much he calculated, one thing was clear — if he left alone, Ruslan would stay behind to hurt Lydia. And if she left with him, Ruslan would follow. But following them... that could be useful.
He rubbed his temples in frustration. His head ached. His shoulders were stiff. The scent of ink and wax clung to his sleeves. He needed a way to draw Ruslan far away. A way that wouldn't put Lydia in danger. A perfect illusion.
Then, just as he stepped out of his study for some air, he paused.
