Ivan sat alone in his study, the fire in the hearth crackling quietly, but its warmth couldn’t reach the cold sinking into his chest.
His elbows rested on the desk, fingers rubbing slow circles against his temples. The candlelight flickered softly above the untouched parchment in front of him.
He had been thinking for hours. Turning the same thought over and over again.
He couldn’t leave. Not now. Ruslan was close — too close. He could be hiding anywhere, watching anyone. A messenger wouldn’t make it two steps out of the palace without being caught and killed. Ruslan had too many eyes. Too many hands.
He glanced at the window, then the small birdcage in the corner. A faint idea sparked in his mind.
Ruslan was a good shot. One of the best.
But he wasn’t perfect.
Ivan stood from his desk slowly and walked to the cage. There were five birds — strong ones. Trained. He opened the door gently and stroked one of them with care.
"If I send one," he whispered to himself, "he’ll shoot it down."
But what if he sent more?
If he sent several birds at once, on the same path, then maybe... just maybe... one would survive.
Ruslan’s hands were quick, yes. But Ivan knew his own mind was quicker.
He sat down again and quickly wrote a short message:
"Ruslan is alive. I need your help."
He folded it carefully and wrote something else — something hidden — using vinegar. The words would only appear when the paper was gently heated.
"Help me find his weakness."
This was meant only for one man. General Nikolai.
He folded the message and attached it to one bird.
The others — four of them — he sent out with same notes. Just enough weight to feel real. Just enough to fool anyone who got curious.
He handed the birds to his most trusted guards.
"All at once," he ordered. "Same direction. No mistakes."
They moved to the balcony and, on his signal, opened their hands.
One after the other, wings flapping fast and strong into the cold sky.
Ivan stood still, watching.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t blink.
A few miles outside the palace, Ruslan was crouched in the shadows of a snowy pine tree, his rifle aimed and ready. Beside him, Anatoly stood silently, watching the sky.
The moment the first bird appeared, Ruslan fired. The shot rang out sharp and clean.
Another came. Another shot. Then another bird.
Then a third bird flew out, and a fourth.
He fired again — hit one — missed the next.
He fired a fifth time — missed.
He narrowed his eyes and lowered the gun.
One bird had gotten away.
Ruslan stood slowly, his eyes following the tiny shape disappearing into the pale clouds.
He gave a slow, sharp smile.
"Still smart after all," he muttered.
Anatoly bent down and picked up one of the fallen birds. He removed the note and handed it to Ruslan.
Ruslan read it, his brow furrowing. It was vague — too vague. There was no name, no address. Nothing useful. Just informing someone that Ruslan was alive. He couldn’t see the hidden message.
Anatoly looked up at him. "What is it, sire?"
Ruslan didn’t answer immediately. He just kept staring at the sky.
"He thinks he’s clever," Ruslan finally said. "But he forgets... that bird will return."
He looked down at the bird in his hand.
"And when it does," he added coldly, "I can still kill it. And get the message before you do. So all your efforts are for nothing. Dear Prince Ivan."
Back inside the palace, the fire had burned lower in Ivan’s study. The message was gone. The birds had flown. There was nothing else to do but wait.
Ivan leaned back in his chair, exhausted.
The clock ticked loudly on the wall. The silence was heavy.
The door creaked open anyway.
Lydia stepped in quietly, holding a small tray of food. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her cheeks still soft with the flush of evening.
"Leave," he said sharply.
She paused, surprised by the coldness in his voice. But she didn’t back away.
"I noticed you haven’t eaten all day," she said softly. "So I brought you something."
"Still," she whispered, walking to the desk, "I’ll leave it here."
She placed the tray gently on the corner of the table.
He still hadn’t looked at her.
She turned to leave, but something in her heart made her stop at the door. She looked back at him.
"You know him," she said.
Ivan’s head lifted slowly.
"The man who killed my parents," Lydia said, her voice steady but low. "You know him. Don’t you?"
She stepped forward again, speaking gently.
"That’s why you’re doing this. All of this. You’re trying to protect me."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "His name is Ruslan Zaitsev. Someone I used to know... someone I should have killed years ago."
Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.
She had guessed it... but hearing it confirmed sent a wave of cold through her chest.
Her lips parted. "Why didn’t you?"
Ivan looked away. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke.
"I was young. Foolish. I thought there was still something good in him."
He clenched his fists. "But there wasn’t. And now... he’s haunting us both."
Lydia stepped forward again, her voice trembling now.
"Do you think he’ll come again?"
"I know he will," Ivan said. "He’s playing a game. And he always finishes what he starts."
She lowered her gaze. Her voice was almost a whisper.
"And what will you do if he comes for me?"
Ivan’s answer came instantly. He looked her dead in the eyes.
There was silence again.