The next morning came, but Ivan was still asleep. His body lay heavy on the bed, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, but his mind was far from rest.
In his dream, he was just a little boy. Barely four years old.
The house was small and quiet. Too quiet. There was no sound of laughter. No sound of footsteps. Just silence.
The little boy stood on his toes, reaching for a piece of cake placed on a high shelf. His tiny hands stretched upward, but it was too far. A stool sat by the corner, and he dragged it over. He climbed on it, wobbling, trying to balance himself. His eyes sparkled at the sight of the sweet cake just within reach.
But the stool wasn’t steady.
Just as his fingers touched the edge of the plate, the stool gave way.
Everything happened fast. His hand struck a vase beside the shelf. It toppled and came crashing down with him. The sound of breaking glass filled the air, followed by the sharp sting of pain.
The vase had shattered on his small arms, cutting deep into his skin.
His little body trembled as blood streamed from his arms. He sat there on the cold floor, in pain, in fear, and worst of all—completely alone.
His breathing was heavy. His chest rose and fell quickly as he sat up. His whole body was covered in sweat. His eyes darted around the room, disoriented.
He looked down at his left arm.
The scar from that day was still there.
He ran his fingers over it slowly, his heart aching. Some pain never left—even after years.
As he wiped his face, trying to calm himself, he suddenly noticed someone sitting quietly by the window.
Ivan blinked in surprise.
Before he could say a word, Boris looked at him and asked softly, "Do you still have nightmares, Your Highness?"
Ivan gave a slow nod.
Boris sighed and gave him a half-smile. "Of course, you do."
Ivan tried to speak, but Boris raised his brow and continued, teasing, "Maybe your nightmares wouldn’t be this bad if you didn’t sleep alone every night."
Ivan rolled his eyes, already knowing where this was going. "Don’t start."
But Boris wasn’t done. "You’re married now, yet you’re still hugging your pillow like a lonely old man. If you spent your nights with your wife instead of sulking alone, maybe your dreams would be sweeter."
Ivan snapped, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at Boris. "Shut up."
Boris caught the pillow with a laugh. "Oh, come on. You’ve been threatening to kill me since you were twelve. I’m still alive."
Ivan stood up and walked over to the table to pour himself a glass of water. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept his face calm.
Boris leaned forward, voice more serious now. "But really. Why?"
"She likes you," Boris said gently. "It’s clear as day. She looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. She’s kind. She’s beautiful. She’s not afraid of you. So why, Ivan? Do you not like her?"
Ivan lowered the glass and stared blankly at the floor. Then he whispered, his voice soft and full of pain, "Does it matter?"
Boris frowned. "Of course, it matters."
Ivan gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "The moon and the sun never meet, Boris. One rises when the other sets. Even if they long for each other, they live in different skies."
Boris stared at him in silence, unsure how to respond.
Ivan sat back down on the edge of the bed. His voice broke a little. "Everyone who’s ever cared about me... ended up hurt. I burn everything I touch. I don’t want her to be next."
His eyes were glassy now. Shining with the pain he always kept buried. "I’m not a man, Boris. I’m a monster. A devil. There’s nothing good in me."
Boris wanted to say something—to tell him he was wrong. But the words never came.
Then Ivan’s voice turned sharp. "Why are you here, Boris? Did my father send you to spy on me?"
"Yes, Your Highness," he admitted. "His Majesty is... concerned about you."
Ivan’s face turned cold.
"Tell him to keep his concern to himself."
Boris tried again. "But he’s still your father. And you’re still his son—"
"Father?" Ivan scoffed bitterly. "I’m no son of that man. I’m just a weapon. A shield to protect his throne. A hunting dog he keeps on a chain until he needs someone killed."
His voice grew louder, colder. "Don’t you dare mention that man in front of me again. Or I’ll forget whatever friendship you claim we have."
Boris bowed his head. "Yes, Your Highness."
But at the door, he stopped and said gently, "Your Highness?"
Ivan snapped. "What is it now?"
Boris hesitated, then asked, "Where’s your mask?"
Ivan looked away. "I lost it. I’ll have another one made."
Boris nodded. "No need. You don’t need to keep hiding behind it."
He paused again. "I’ll be leaving today."
He just looked out the window, silent.
In Lydia’s chambers, morning had come.
But Lydia didn’t feel like moving.
She lay quietly in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were dull. Her body heavy. The sadness in her heart weighed her down like a stone.
A knock came on the door.
"I want to stay in bed," she said softly.
"Shall we bring breakfast to your room, Your Highness?" one asked.
She shook her head. "No. I’m not hungry."
The maids looked at one another, worried. But they obeyed.
A while later, another knock came.
Lydia sighed and sat up a little. "Come in."
He gave her a small smile.
"I came to say goodbye," he said.
She nodded, her voice faint. "Safe travels."
"I left a small gift for you," he said. "In the music lounge."
She looked toward the door and whispered, "I’ll get it later."
He bowed. "Take care, Your Highness."
Outside, Boris mounted his horse.
As he rode toward the gate, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.
He stared at it for a moment, then without a word, threw it into the lake beside the palace. The water rippled as the mask sank to the bottom.
He watched it disappear.
Then he said softly to himself, "It’s high time you stop treating yourself like a monster."