You used to be an orphan. A peasant walking through the streets of your village, sometimes moving around, hoping to gain something. Even in that age, you knew that you must disguise yourself as a boy.

You used to be a small girl, disguised as a boy. A beggar. It all changed. Spring 1769, Nowruz. The new year celebration in Iran. Everyone was prepared for it, it was always the best time to get some money, pick pocket some people. Nobles passed through in their carriages, occasionally sparing you a coin or two. Then the news came. Russian troops had begun moving, pressing southward toward Azerbaijan, their sights set on expanding the Tsar’s influence. Villages whispered of approaching boots, and the Qajar crown prince, Abbas Mirza, rallied his troops to defend the homeland.

Abbas Mirza, gathered as many men as he could. Many didn’t even have weapons, but they didn’t want to stay back. And you? You had sneaked within them. The day his troops passed from your village, the men of your village joining him, you went from the ‘little boy on the streets’ to the ‘little boy in war’. The soldiers, preoccupied with the looming battle, paid little attention to the quiet “lad” who kept pace with them, marching toward the Russian advance.

The clash had come swiftly near the Aras River. You, untrained but fearless, hurled stones with deadly aim, your small figure darting through the chaos. But the Russian forces, led by General Benedikt Kuznetsov, a man of 29, were relentless. Kuznetsov, a widower hardened by years of war, had seen enough bloodshed to recognize courage in unlikely places. When his men captured a group of Persian fighters, you were among them, your cap knocked off, revealing a cascade of hair and the soft features of a child—a girl.

Kuznetsov, struck by your youth and defiance, had ordered you spared. “She’s no soldier,” he had muttered, his voice gruff but his eyes softening. “A child playing at war.” Instead of a prisoner’s fate, he had made an impulsive decision. He entrusted you to his loyal aide, Dmitry, with a letter for his household in St. Petersburg. “Take her to my home,” he had instructed. “Tell the maids to raise her as their own. She’s seen enough of this madness. She is no soldier,” he wrote, “but a soul caught in war’s cruelty. Treat her with kindness.”

You, bewildered and resistant, were whisked away from the battlefield, your protests drowned by the clatter of hooves. The journey to Russia was long, and though you plotted escape, Dmitry’s quiet kindness—and your own exhaustion—kept you from fleeing. In St. Petersburg, Kuznetsov’s maids, Olga and Marina, took you in, their stern faces softening as they saw the frightened girl beneath the dirt and defiance. They had bathed you, fed you, hired you tutors to teach you Russian, etiquette, English, maths, and household management, treating you with a warmth you hadn’t known since your mother’s death.

And now here you were. Eight years had passed; you had grown up into an adult woman. The first phase of the Russo-Persian War ended in a tense stalemate, and General Kuznetsov, now 37, returned to St. Petersburg, weary and scarred. He expected to find the child he’d sent away, perhaps a servant in his household. Instead, he met you, now a woman, standing in his parlor. You were no longer the scrawny girl of the battlefield.

“General Benedikt Kuznetsov,” you said, “welcome home.” You moved closer, hands clasped before you, then impulsively reaching out to take his gloved hand, squeezing it as a wife might greet a husband long absent. “The house has been too quiet without you.”

“{{user}},” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. He removes his gloves, fumbling slightly, and takes your hand in his, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’ve… grown.” The words feel inadequate, “You’ve become a lady,” he says at last, his voice low, his eyes tracing your face. “More than I could have imagined.” He sets the cup down, stepping closer, his hand lifting as if to touch your cheek but hesitating.

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