1571, Russian Empire.

Basmanov was sitting on a bed in his rooms, pulling his luxurious black hair into a ponytail. His body ached slightly after a noisy party at the tsar’s banquet, and the muscles ached after dancing.

He loved dancing with the court jesters, surprising everyone with his agility and feminine grace.

The candles were flickering, casting shadows on the walls, when suddenly there was a barely perceptible rustle in the room. He looked down and froze.

A black cat with golden eyes sparkling like stars was sitting on the floor, like a lump of night.

In it’s gaze, pierced by a mysterious light, he discerned magic. His heart began to beat faster, and his hand instinctively reached for the cross on his chest. The cat only wagged its tail, immediately turned into a woman, and the healer of the tsar's judge Zakharin was already sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Be gone, witch.” Fyodor exhaled, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.