CHAPTER 90: THE PATH TO VENGEANCE

It was early evening. The snow had not stopped falling, and the cold was biting, but Ivan didn’t slow down. He had been riding since dawn, his cloak heavy with frost, his fingers stiff around the reins. The trees around him had turned to white statues, and the sky above was grey and silent.

The wind howled low, brushing past him like a warning. His horse’s breath came out in quick clouds. Every part of Ivan’s body ached from the cold, but his mind was sharper than ever. There was no room for tiredness. Not today. Not with what was coming.

He hadn’t eaten since the night before. His stomach felt hollow, but the hunger didn’t bother him anymore. His thoughts were heavier than his body. They pushed him forward, kept him upright. Kept him angry.

Then he saw it.

A small wooden sign. Old, worn by time, but still standing by the edge of the road.

Novostav.

Ivan exhaled slowly, his breath clouding in front of him. He had made it to the outskirts.

The village sat nestled in the mountains by the sea. It was small, surrounded by steep icy paths, with narrow roads and dark rooftops covered in snow. The wind here was colder, sharper. Dangerous.

It reminded him of Velinsk, but lonelier. The kind of place that swallowed secrets. The kind of place where things disappeared.

A dog barked in the distance—brief, sharp, then silence. Smoke rose from two chimneys. Not many. The village seemed half-asleep, or maybe just used to being forgotten.

The road curved into a steep slope as he approached the village, his horse moving carefully over the icy path. It took him another hour to reach the main square. By then, the sky was darkening. Evening had fallen fast.

His legs ached as he dismounted. His hands were numb. Still, he stood tall.

Just as Ivan arrived, he saw him.

Nikolai.

He was standing with two soldiers by a wooden post, their breath visible in the freezing air. He had arrived less than an hour before.

Ivan dismounted, his boots crunching on the snow. Nikolai turned and walked toward him.

"Did you find her?" Ivan asked.

Nikolai nodded. "Yes. She lives just after the old well. In that cottage near the cliff. She stays with a healer. She’s old, sick, can barely walk. And she doesn’t know anything. She thinks her son died years ago. Serving the empire with honor at Velinsk."

Ivan frowned. "So she doesn’t know he’s a traitor? That he joined Venograd?"

"No. She believes he’s a hero. Still proud of him," Nikolai said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s been sending her supplies for years. Anonymous. Just leaves them with traders. She never knew."

Ivan looked down. The thought weighed on him. It clung to his chest like ice, sinking into the bone. He didn’t know why it troubled him—maybe because she reminded him of someone. A mother, waiting. Loving blindly.

He pictured Lydia’s mother, long gone. And Lydia, too, holding onto hopes she couldn’t explain. Women were always the ones left behind in grief, never knowing the truth.

He felt it deep—like something twisting in his gut. This wasn’t justice. It was something colder.

"So we use her as bait?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Nikolai said. "By now, Ruslan must know you’re heading here. He’ll come. Before noon tomorrow, maybe earlier. This is our best chance."

Ivan’s jaw clenched. His eyes rose to the mountains.

"Must we do it like this?" he asked. "She’s just an old woman. She doesn’t even know what her son became."

Nikolai sighed. "We don’t have a choice, Your Highness. If we don’t stop him now, there’s no telling how much worse this could get."

Ivan didn’t respond. He just stared at the sky.

The last rays of light were vanishing behind the mountain peaks. The clouds had thickened. The wind had grown cruel. It was almost night.

Then suddenly, Ivan turned.

"General Petrov," he said, eyes locked on the icy path. "We don’t need to use her."

Nikolai blinked. "What?"

Ivan pointed to the narrow mountain path. "We intercept him there. He’ll have to pass through it to get here. We set an ambush and end this before he gets close."

Nikolai hesitated. "Your Highness, that path is dangerous. One wrong step and..."

"I know," Ivan said. "But I’d rather die fighting him myself than use an innocent woman."

Nikolai stared at him. Then finally, he nodded. "Very well."

---

Back in Svetlana, night had fallen.

Lydia was still lying on her bed. She hadn’t moved in hours. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her chest ached with the weight of silence.

The lamps had long gone dim. The room smelled faintly of beeswax and cold iron. Somewhere in the palace, a bell rang the hour, but Lydia barely heard it. Her thoughts were far, far away—galloping beside Ivan in the snow, searching for a face she feared she’d never see again.

The door creaked open slowly.

Katherine stepped in, holding a tray of food and a lamp. The soft glow lit her face, and her footsteps were quiet.

"Your dinner is ready, Your Highness," she said gently.

Lydia didn’t answer. She only wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

"I’ll leave it on the table," Katherine added.

She placed the tray down, then lit two candles. Just enough light to see, but not enough to draw attention from outside. Then she turned to leave.

But Lydia’s voice stopped her.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Katherine turned back, confused. "Tell you what, Your Highness?"

Lydia sat up slowly. Her voice trembled. "When I was sick... Ivan was with me. Why didn’t you say so? And the box... you said my cousins sent it. But Elena said they gave it to Ivan. Why did you lie?"

Katherine looked down. "I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you the full truth."

Lydia scoffed bitterly. "That’s the same thing. You saw how hurt I was. How broken. And still, you hid it from me. Why?"

Katherine opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her eyes flickered.

"Because... you two don’t belong together," she whispered.

Lydia froze. "What did you say?"

Katherine straightened quickly. "Nothing, Your Highness. Forgive me."

But Lydia had heard it. Clear as day.

She said nothing. Just turned her face away.

Katherine left.

Alone, Lydia lay back on the bed, tears slipping down her cheeks once again. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. She didn’t know what was true. But one thing she knew for sure...

Her heart belonged to someone who might never return.

---

Outside the palace walls, not far from the gates, a man stumbled through the snow.

Anatoly.

He wore a thick coat, a scarf, and his eyes squinted like he was blind. He held a stick and walked slowly. A palace guard noticed him.

"Are you lost, old man?"

Anatoly lowered his head and mumbled something about needing directions to the slums. The guard stepped forward, waving for him to wait. "Come, I’ll show you."

As the two walked away from the gate, Anatoly suddenly moved. In one swift motion, he drew a hidden dagger and stabbed the guard in the neck. The man gasped, but no sound escaped.

Anatoly dragged the body into the trees, then stripped off the guard’s armor and helmet. He put them on quickly, covering his face.

Moments later, he walked back to the gate. Another guard stood there.

"Stand guard," the man said, stretching his back. "I need to relieve myself."

Anatoly nodded silently.

The guard walked off.

As soon as he was gone, Anatoly slipped inside the palace. His eyes scanned the halls. He moved with purpose, blending in.

He was looking for the Grand Duchess’s chamber.

And he was getting closer.

Every hallway brought him nearer. His heart didn’t race—it beat slow and steady. He had no fear. Only purpose.

He moved through the grand staircase quietly, his boots brushing lightly against the red carpet. The palace was dimly lit, and the lamps along the walls gave off a dull golden glow. Everything was so still, yet he could feel the pulse of danger in the silence. The walls were tall, lined with paintings and thick curtains, but he barely noticed them. His eyes were focused, sharp, and alert.

He had made it inside, dressed in a stolen palace guard uniform. But now he faced a problem—he didn’t know exactly where the Grand Duchess’s chambers were. The palace was large, and most doors looked the same. He walked further down a long corridor, his heart thudding steadily in his chest.

He had to find her.

He passed a closed window and looked out briefly—just snow and shadows. The cold wind whispered against the glass. He kept walking.

Then he saw her.

Katherine.

She walked by, holding a small lamp. Her steps were quiet but hurried, her face looked worn, and her expression was uneasy. But Anatoly saw something else—something useful.

She looked like someone who had been there for a long time.

The way she moved. The calmness in her posture. The familiarity in her steps.

She was a senior maid. Possibly even one that served the Grand Duchess directly.

He smirked.

He waited till she passed, then turned in the direction she had come from. There was only one hallway left behind her. He moved quickly, quietly, and sure enough, at the end of the corridor, he saw two guards standing stiff in front of a wide, elegant door.

This had to be it.

He paused for just a second, collecting himself. The snow still clung to the edges of his boots, melting into puddles against the warm palace floor. He adjusted his helmet slightly, then stepped forward, calm and steady.

"Hey," he said to the first guard. "The head guard sent me. He’s looking for you. Said to come immediately."

The guard looked at him with mild surprise, but didn’t question it. "Alright. I’ll go."

He turned and walked off down the corridor, footsteps fading quickly.

Anatoly moved closer to the remaining guard, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him.

"What’s your name?" the guard asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Where are you stationed? I don’t think I’ve seen you befo—"

He never finished the sentence.

Anatoly’s hand moved in a blur, pulling a dagger from inside his sleeve. He stabbed the man in the gut—quick, deep, silent. The guard’s eyes widened, a strangled sound escaped his lips, and then he collapsed, blood already pooling beneath him.

Anatoly grabbed him as he fell, easing the body gently to the ground to avoid a thud. His breathing was calm. His eyes cold.

He straightened, wiped the dagger on the inside of his sleeve, and stepped forward.

He was now alone with the door.

He placed his hand on the brass doorknob. It was warm under his fingers. His grip tightened slowly.

This was it.

The Grand Duchess was inside.

He didn’t know if she was asleep or awake, crying or calm—but she was there.

And he was just one step away from finishing what Ruslan had started.

The corridor behind him was quiet again. But this time, the silence wasn’t peaceful.

It was deadly.

TO BE CONTINUED...