The great hall of Volkova Manor glowed with the warm flicker of beeswax candles and the steady roar of the hearth, yet the heat did nothing to thaw the ice that had settled in Anya's chest.
She stood in the center of the faded Persian rug, riding boots still crusted with snow, the imperial scroll heavy in her gloved hand. Around her, the household had frozen into a tableau of shock: her father, Boyar Ivan Volkov, broad shoulders slumped beneath his fur-trimmed coat; her mother, Boyarynya Elena, eyes bright with a hunger Anya had never seen so openly; the servants clustered at the edges of the room like frightened sparrows.
The courier stood by the double doors—an officer in scarlet and gold, face carved from granite, flanked by two guards whose silver cloaks bore the snarling wolf of the imperial house.
Her father broke the silence first, voice rough as gravel. "Anastasia… read it again."
Anya didn't need to. The words were already burned into her mind.
*By the grace of the Winter Sovereign and the will of His Imperial Majesty Nikolai the First, Lady Anastasia Volkova is commanded to present herself at the Ice Palace in St. Petrovsk within a fortnight, there to participate in the Great Bride-Show for the selection of the future Empress of Ruslavia.*
She had known, the moment the courier's horse thundered into the courtyard, that something irrevocable had come.
"I didn't put my name forward," she said, quiet but clear. "I never asked for this."
Her mother stepped closer, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles blanched. "It is not a matter of asking, my darling. It is the Emperor's will." Elena's voice trembled—not with fear, but with barely contained triumph. "Do you understand? Our daughter—an Empress. House Volkov raised to the highest circles!"
Anya met her mother's gaze steadily. "I understand I am to be paraded like a prize mare before a man who freezes the blood in men's veins with a glance."
Elena recoiled as though slapped. "Anastasia!"
Her father ignored the outburst, eyes fixed on the courier. "We are minor nobility. Northern, yes, but far from the great houses. How was her name chosen?"
The officer's expression did not flicker. "The candidates were selected by the Emperor's council from all eligible daughters of noble blood. Lady Anastasia's name was drawn by His Majesty's own hand."
A lie, Anya thought. Or at best a careful half-truth. She had heard the stories of bride-shows past: girls chosen for dowries, for alliances, for beauty that could soothe a restless court. But Nikolai Romanov—crowned at sixteen, silent as winter, rumored to walk the palace corridors alone at night—drawing her name himself?
Silver-blue eyes in a child's face. A white tiger of ice and fury.
She crushed the memory down.
"I refuse," she said.
The room went deathly still.
Her father's face drained of color. "Anya… refusal is treason."
"Then let them come for me." She thrust the scroll toward the courier. "Tell your master to choose another. I have no desire to be Empress."
The officer did not take it. "The imperial carriage awaits outside, my lady. You depart at first light. Refusal is not an option."
Her mother clutched at her sleeve, voice rising. "Think of your family! The honor—"
"Honor?" Anya pulled free, laughter sharp and bitter. "To be caged in a palace of ice? To warm the bed of a man who has forgotten how to be human? I would sooner face the wolves again."
She turned and strode for the doors, boots ringing against the wooden floor.
"Anastasia!" her father called, voice cracking.
She did not look back.
Outside, the night was savage. Snow slashed sideways across the courtyard, the wind a living beast that tore at her cloak. The imperial carriage loomed like a black predator—lacquered ebony gleaming under torches, six white horses stamping plumes of steam. Guards stood motionless as statues.
Anya veered toward the stables. Starik would be saddled in minutes. Ride north, into the deep taiga, vanish among the Cossacks or the old tribes who still answered only to the wind and the winter spirits—
A hand closed around her wrist.
She spun, fist already rising, and found herself staring into storm-gray eyes set in a lean, sharp-featured face. The man was tall, dressed in plain gray beneath a heavy cloak, dark hair dusted with snow. Young—barely twenty—but something ancient and unreadable moved beneath his calm.
"Running will not save you," he said quietly. His voice was low, precise, carrying easily over the howl of the storm.
Anya jerked her arm free. "Who in the frozen hells are you?"
"Dmitri Volkov." The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. "No relation. I serve His Majesty personally."
The name meant nothing, but the way he carried himself—still as deep water, dangerous as thin ice—set every instinct screaming.
"Then deliver a message for me," she said. "Tell your Emperor I decline his invitation."
"I'm afraid that's impossible." He stepped closer, snow settling on his shoulders without melting. "The candidates have been announced to the court. Your absence would be seen as insult. Your family would pay the price."
Anya's stomach twisted. "He would punish them for my choice?"
"He wouldn't need to. There are others who would gladly do it for him." Dmitri's gaze held hers. "Minister Dragunov has long sought to break the northern houses that remain loyal to the crown."
She hated that he was right. Hated the way he saw straight through her defiance to the fear beneath.
"Why me?" she demanded. "There are a hundred daughters more beautiful, richer, more… pliable."
Dmitri studied her for a long moment, as if weighing how much truth she could bear.
"Perhaps," he said at last, "the Emperor remembers a debt."
The world narrowed to a single point.
Silver eyes in the snow. A boy collapsing after summoning a storm of ice. The weight of his unconscious body across her saddle as she rode for home.
*No.*
It couldn't be.
Before she could speak, Dmitri turned toward the manor. "Pack for cold, Lady Anastasia. The road south is long—and the Ice Palace is colder than any winter you've known."
He melted into the storm without another word.
Anya stood alone in the courtyard, snow settling on her lashes like frozen tears.
Far to the south, in the glittering heart of St. Petrovsk, Emperor Nikolai sat alone on his throne of eternal ice. A single slip of parchment lay on the armrest, her name inked in his own hand.
Anastasia Volkova.
His fingers tightened until frost cracked the crystal.
In the shadows behind the throne, Dmitri materialized as silently as smoke.
"She fights it," he reported softly.
Nikolai did not turn. "She always has."
A pause.
"Will you tell her the truth?" Dmitri asked.
"Not yet." Nikolai's voice was low, beautiful, merciless. "Let her hate me first. Hate is safer than hope."
Outside the towering windows, the storm raged harder—as if the winter itself sensed the chains tightening around its wildest daughter.