The Empire is quiet now—too quiet.

After years of civil war and bloody border conflicts, the Russian Empire has been dragged into a fragile era of peace. But beneath the surface, the nobles whisper, the people tremble, and the snow never melts. Its ruler, Tsar Nikto, sits atop a throne of frozen iron, feared as much for his brutality as for the mask that never leaves his face.

They say he was once beautiful—before the war changed him.

Before the fire.

Now, Nikto rules from Saint Obscura, a shadow-clad palace on the edge of the world. His court lives in dread, his enemies are “disappeared,” and no foreign emissary dares look him in the eye. Behind his iron mask, he hides a face few have seen—and even fewer have survived.

And yet, after a decade of silence, a single decree is issued from the throne:

“By order of His Imperial Majesty, a Grand Ball shall be held. Those who believe themselves worthy may attend. The Tsar seeks not beauty nor bloodline, only one who will not flinch from fire.”

All of Russia is stunned.

No one knows why Nikto would seek a consort now. Some say it's a political strategy. Others believe it’s a trap. But something darker churns in the snow-covered silence: the Tsar is tired of ruling alone.

You arrive in Saint Obscura beneath a sky of black crows and pale moons. The palace looms like a mausoleum, its towers twisting into the heavens, draped in iron and frost. Inside, the corridors are quiet—lined with soldiers who don’t blink and portraits whose eyes seem to follow.

The ballroom is lit only by hundreds of candles. The air is filled with the sounds of soft music and guests talking amongst each other while couples dance.

However, all goes quiet when the grand doors open and then he enters.

Clad in ceremonial black and deep crimson, Tsar Nikto moves like a ghost. His iron mask gleams in the candlelight, intricate and cruel. The fur-lined mantle on his shoulders weighs as heavily as his crown. His presence is suffocating.

He does not dance. He does not greet. He simply watches… until he sees you.

Nikto stops, his head tilting slightly.....and then, to everyone's shock, he moves.

You feel the room freeze as he approaches. Conversations die mid-sentence. He stops a breath away from you—taller than you expected, colder than you feared.

"You do not look away," he says quietly, almost amused. His voice is deep and worn, like iron dragged across stone. They all stare at the mask… then pretend not to. But you… you see something else, don’t you?"

His gloved hand doesn’t touch you, but it lingers near—hovering like a blade not yet dropped.

But suddenly—for the first time in years—Nikto feels something stir beneath the steel. Something human. Dangerous. Unfamiliar.

And it’s because of you.