CHAPTER 93: UNDER THE SAME SKY

Ivan tried to walk from his room back down to leave the cottage. The small wooden cabin creaked under his steps, but he barely noticed. His legs were moving, but his mind was spinning. He could barely breathe. His chest felt too tight, and his heart beat too fast. His eyes, already cloudy with tears, couldn’t see clearly. The hallway spun in front of him, and before he could take another step, his foot missed the edge of the stairs.

He slipped.

His body hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of him. A sharp pain ran through his side, but it felt distant—like it belonged to someone else. The wooden ceiling above him blurred. He heard his heartbeat in his ears, loud and chaotic, like drums of war. His fingers curled against the floorboards as if he was bracing himself from falling deeper, into a hole he couldn’t crawl out of.

His body shivered, not from the cold, but from the weight of everything crushing him. Lydia’s face kept flashing in his mind—her laugh, her eyes, her small hands clinging to his hands the night before he left.

He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out.

Downstairs, Nikolai was talking with two of his men. They were dragging out the bloodied corpse of Ruslan’s soldier—the same one Ivan had just killed with his own hands. His gloves were soaked in dried blood. His men kept their eyes low, the silence between them heavy with fear and grief. When the noise came from upstairs, all three of them froze.

Nikolai heard the sound and rushed toward the stairs.

He found Ivan on the floor, struggling to stand. His breathing was ragged. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat. He looked like a man who had just crawled out of a nightmare.

"Your Highness!" Nikolai tried to help him up, but Ivan shoved his hand away.

"I’m fine," Ivan muttered, even though his legs barely supported him. He grabbed the railing for balance and kept walking, his boots heavy, his breath shallow. Every step seemed to cost him something. His shoulders were slouched, like the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

His coat was half-buttoned, his face pale as ash. There was dried blood on the hem—his or someone else’s, he didn’t know.

Nikolai followed him. "Ivan, please. Let’s think this through. You said you sent a message to Boris. I’m sure she’s fine—"

Ivan spun around, eyes burning. "How do I know that, Nikolai? How do I know she’s okay? How do you know she’s still alive? I left her alone!"

His voice cracked.

Nikolai had never seen Ivan like this. Not even during war. This wasn’t the Ivan who stood tall and proud before enemies. This was a man shattered. Ivan’s hands trembled. His eyes, usually so sharp, now looked lost.

"It’s all my fault," Ivan whispered. "I shouldn’t have left her."

Then he turned away and pushed through the cottage doors. Snow slapped against his face, but he didn’t care. The cold burned his skin, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He went straight to the stable, mounted his horse, and took off.

Nikolai didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his coat and followed him.

The wind was cruel. The snow, thick and fast, almost blinded them. The trees blurred past as if trying to pull them back. But Ivan didn’t stop. He rode like a madman through the forest, his cloak flapping behind him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes forward, desperate. Nikolai called after him, but his voice was swallowed by the wind.

All Ivan could think of was Lydia.

Please, please let her be alive.

---

Svetlana – The Grand Duke’s Palace

In the deepest part of the palace, the dungeons were dark and damp. The stone walls were wet, and the air was cold enough to freeze breath. The only light came from a single torch on the wall, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. The smell of metal and blood filled the air.

Anatoly sat chained in one of the cells. His face was bruised. His hands were raw. He had clearly been tortured for days. His breath came out in short, painful huffs.

The heavy iron door groaned open.

Two figures stepped in.

Boris... and Lydia.

She wore a thick cloak. Her face was pale but calm. Her eyes, however, burned with fury. There was no softness in her now, only fire.

Boris spoke first. "Are you ready to talk?"

Anatoly didn’t answer.

Boris didn’t wait. He picked up a hot iron rod from the fire and pressed it into Anatoly’s side.

The man grunted in pain, jerking back against the chains. Still, he didn’t speak. His face twitched, but his lips stayed shut.

Lydia turned away, unable to watch. But Boris kept going.

"Stop," she said finally. Her voice was low but firm.

Boris paused.

Lydia turned back to Anatoly. She stepped closer. The fire behind her lit her eyes like molten gold.

"I’ll let you go," she said. "If you tell me where Ruslan was headed."

Anatoly said nothing. His lips were pressed into a tight line.

She tried again. "Tell me. I just need to know if my husband is alive."

Finally, Anatoly looked at her.

His voice was dry. "Give up, Your Highness. You’ll never see him again. He’s probably dead by now. That demon is gone."

Something inside Lydia snapped.

She stepped forward and, without warning, punched him. Hard.

Her fist struck bone. His head slammed back against the wall.

Even Boris was stunned.

Anatoly slid down, unconscious.

Lydia stood over him, shaking. Her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling fast.

"Ivan is not dead," she whispered. "He can’t be. He wouldn’t leave me like this."

Tears spilled from her eyes. She turned and stormed out of the dungeon.

Boris snapped out of his shock and followed her. She was already halfway to her chambers. Her expression said it all. She was going to leave the palace to find Ivan.

He caught up. "Your Highness—please, you can’t leave. His Highness ordered you to stay inside. It’s dangerous."

Lydia yanked her arm free. "I don’t need your help!"

"Please," Boris begged. "I know you’re scared. But you have to stay."

She turned on him, crying. "So I should wait here forever? It’s been six days! We’ve heard nothing. We can’t even send a message because we don’t know where he is! What if..."

Her voice broke. She dropped to her knees.

"I can’t lose him," she whispered. "I can’t."

Katherine and Tatiana ran in, hearing her cries. They rushed to her, lifting her gently.

Tatiana wrapped her arms around Lydia, holding her close.

Katherine left the room, shaken. She found Boris outside.

He looked up at her. "What do we do?"

Katherine didn’t answer.

Boris added, "There’s still no sign of them. And the carriage decoys—they were all found. Every servant and guard in them... dead. I don’t know what to do anymore."

---

Hours Later

Lydia sat alone in her chambers.

She had cried herself to sleep and woken with her cheeks still damp. She hadn’t eaten all day. She didn’t care.

Her room was silent. Too silent. The fireplace crackled low, but even its warmth didn’t reach her bones.

She walked to her window and opened the curtains slightly. Snow fell outside, soft and quiet.

She stared at the sky, hoping. Praying.

Please come back.

Please.

The moon hung low behind a thick layer of clouds. Stars were hidden. The world outside looked frozen, untouched, like time had stopped. Her breath fogged the window glass as she leaned closer. She hoped that, somewhere, out there, he was breathing the same cold air. Maybe not far. Maybe terribly far. But under the same sky.

Her fingers brushed the windowsill, trembling slightly. She whispered his name, barely audible, like a secret between her and the wind.

"Ivan..."

The snowflakes danced slowly, falling like feathers. As if even the heavens were grieving.

She stood there for a long time. The minutes passed quietly. The fire dimmed behind her. Her reflection in the glass looked hollow. Her hands slowly folded over her chest, as if to keep her heart from falling apart.

She pressed her forehead gently against the cold windowpane.

"I’m still here," she whispered again. "I’m still waiting."

---

Far Away – A Small Inn

Ivan sat at a window, watching the same sky.

Nikolai had begged him to stop. His horse was too tired to go any further.

Now, Ivan just sat there. Motionless. Empty.

Snow tapped gently against the windowpane.

He hadn’t spoken in hours. His knuckles rested against his lips, and his eyes stared at the sky as if he could somehow reach her through it. Every flake that drifted past reminded him of her breath in the cold, her voice calling for him in the dark.

The sky stretched endlessly above them, silent and wide. The same snow that touched her window now kissed his.

And even though they were far apart...

They were under the same sky.

Still breathing.

Still waiting.

Still in love.