Olga was in her room. The night was quiet, the palace hallways dim, the air carrying the faint smell of burning oil from the lamps. She sat in front of her mirror, her long black hair falling smooth and heavy as she brushed it slowly. The brush moved through her strands with care, each stroke neat, each sound soft. Her robe was deep blue silk, tied gently at her waist.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her lips curved in a small satisfied smile. Everything about her was calm, polished, controlled. Yet beneath that calmness was a sharpness, a cruelty that lived in her eyes.
She was just about to set the brush aside, ready to blow out her candles and rest, when a knock came at her door.
"Come in," she said, her voice smooth.
The door opened, and Pavel stepped inside. He bowed low, his tone careful. "Your Majesty, the Grand Duke has returned."
At those words, Olga's lips lifted into a slow smirk. Her dark eyes gleamed with something wicked.
