Three years ago.
Svetlana.
The night was quiet, almost too quiet after the chaos of the previous day. Lydia had returned, exhausted and shaken, after Ruslan had kidnapped her. The palace was finally calm, but the air still carried the tension of what had almost happened. Shadows from the torches danced along the walls, stretching long fingers across the floors and ceilings.
Alexander walked through the dimly lit halls, his mind a storm of thoughts. He was still trying to process everything that had happened. His heart pounded, and his steps were heavier than usual, like each one carried the weight of all the guilt and fear he had felt for years.
As he turned a corner, he ran directly into Olga. She was standing there, her posture straight, her black hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders. She looked at him with an expression that was soft on the surface but carried something dangerous beneath.
