Immediately, Ivan rushed into the corridor where he and Lydia’s rooms were and shouted, "Get away from that door!"
Lydia, who had been sitting quietly on her bed, jumped at the sound of his voice. Her heart pounded. For a second, she had forgotten where she was. Ivan’s voice brought her back.
The suspicious man was already outside her room, his hand raised as if he was just about to knock. At the sound of Ivan’s voice, the man quickly dropped his hand and staggered back a little, raising both arms.
"My apologies, Your Highness," the man said, slurring his words slightly. "I had too much to drink... got a bit lost. I thought this was my room. Didn’t mean no harm."
He tried to laugh, as though he were embarrassed, then turned and began to stagger away, as if drunk. But Ivan didn’t buy it. He didn’t smell any alcohol on the man. His steps were too steady. His eyes were alert, sharp. That wasn’t the walk of a drunkard. It was a performance—a cover. Plus he knew who he was. The man just called him your highness, proving he knew exactly was he was doing.
Ivan clenched his fists but said nothing. He watched as the man passed him. He memorized the man’s face. The curve of his nose. The thin scar by his jaw. The color of his coat. The callouses in his hands, showing he was a swordsman.
Just then, Lydia opened her door, her face pale. "What happened? Why were you shouting?"
Ivan turned to her and gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Nothing serious. Just a drunk man wandering around."
She nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t believe him. Her lips trembled slightly, and Ivan could see she was trying to stay calm, trying to look brave. But her eyes betrayed her. They were pleading.
He wanted to. He needed to. So, without saying a word, he stepped into her room. He closed the door behind him.
Outside, in the snowy night, the man Ivan had chased off was already reporting back to Ruslan.
"Sire, my apologies," the man said, bowing his head. "The Grand Duke was there. I couldn’t get to the girl."
Ruslan raised a brow, amused more than angry. "Ah. So you got scared."
"It’s alright," Ruslan interrupted, still smiling. "He is strong. I don’t expect you to take him down alone."
"Shall I gather more men? We could go back tonight. Kill them both."
Ruslan looked toward the distant lights of the inn, then shook his head. "No. That would make it boring. I’ve already seen what I wanted to see. For now... let them live."
His fingers brushed snow from the edge of his coat, calm and patient. But his eyes stayed fixed on the inn, burning with thought.
Inside the room, Ivan and Lydia lay on the bed. They weren’t touching, but the closeness between them was real. Ivan lay on his side, his back to Lydia, eyes fixed on the door.
His sword was just under the bed. Within arm’s reach. His muscles were tense, ready. He wasn’t going to sleep. Not until he was sure they were safe. Not while Ruslan was still out there.
Lydia turned slightly, looking at his back. The flickering light of the candle on the table made soft shadows dance on the walls.
She hesitated, then said quietly, "You must think I’m pathetic. Weak."
Ivan immediately turned to face her. "What?"
Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she held them back. "I try to be strong. I really do. But every time I close my eyes, I see him. His face. His scars. The way he looked at me. The way he smiled when he..."
Her voice broke. She swallowed hard and kept going.
"He killed them in front of me. And he enjoyed it. That’s what haunts me. It wasn’t just murder. It was joy."
Ivan reached out, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.
She continued, her voice cracking. "For a long time, I thought it was my fault. That maybe I did something wrong. Maybe if I hadn’t spoken that day... maybe if I hadn’t... But I know now. I know I was just a child. I didn’t deserve that."
Her voice shook. "But no matter how much I tell myself that... I’m still scared. I still feel him watching me."
She leaned into him. Her face found his chest, and she broke. Her tears soaked through his shirt as she cried quietly.
Ivan wrapped his arms around her. Slowly, gently, he stroked her hair. He rested his chin on her head, his heart aching.
"You’re not pathetic," he whispered. "You’re not weak. You’re the bravest person I know. You survived him. You’re still standing. That takes strength."
She didn’t reply. She just held onto him tighter. As if letting go would break her apart.
"Nothing will happen to you," he said again. "Not while I’m here. I promise you that. I won’t let anyone hurt you."
Her sobs slowed. Her breathing softened.
Minutes passed. She cried herself to sleep in his arms.
Ivan stayed still, holding her. He could feel every rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers were still clutched at his shirt, as though even in sleep, she was afraid he’d disappear.
He looked down at her face, so peaceful now. Yet he knew what pain hid behind it. He had seen it too many times in his own reflection.
She deserved peace. She deserved to sleep without fear. To smile without forcing it. To live without looking over her shoulder.
And the only way that would happen—
—was if Ruslan was gone.
Not hiding in shadows. Not threatening her from afar. Gone.
Ivan’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the door again, eyes cold.
He would kill Ruslan. Not just for revenge. Not for pride.
Because this was no longer about the past.
It was about the future.
Hers. And maybe his, too.