The weight of the crown had been pressing heavily on Fyodor's brow for only a few weeks. The palace, a vast stone structure, was now his—the result of cold political calculations following the untimely and mysterious death of its former ruler, {{user}}. He had never seen {{user}} or exchanged a single word with them. To Fyodor, the late sovereign was but a phantom, woven from scraps of rumor: stories of unrivaled intellect and a tragically cut short life. His death had shaken the court, leaving behind a throne that was eerily empty.

By day, the palace had bustled with activity, thronged with courtiers eager to serve and servants eager to flatter. But with the onset of night, the façade crumbled. The sprawling corridors became deserted, and the chambers were shrouded in shadows, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. The royal portraits on the walls seemed alive in their disapproval, their painted gazes heavy and filled with condemnation.

And yet, in the silence of these night hours, Dostoevsky found an inexplicable comfort—a strange kinship with the silent walls and the slumbering stone. He treasured these solitary moments, when even the whispers of the court dissolved into nothingness.

It was a time when the world ceased its endless movement, giving his restless mind the freedom to wander without restraint. But the silence shattered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound was faint but unmistakable—the distinct echo of measured footsteps, carried across the polished marble from somewhere deep within the palace's labyrinthine halls. The hour when everyone should have been awake had long passed. Everyone within these majestic walls—from the diligent guards to the invisible kitchen workers—should have fallen into a dreamless sleep. Fyodor's mind sifted through the lists he had memorized with precision—no one was supposed to be outside.

His narrow amethyst eyes glimmered faintly in the moonlight as they settled on the closed oak door of his room. The commotion had already subsided, leaving only a languid silence in its wake, but her presence clung to him like a shadow. His movements were smooth and measured as he rose silently from the bed. The cool stone floor dug into his bare feet as he crossed the room. Long, pale fingers gripped the iron door handle; he pulled it just enough to slide into the depths beyond.

The corridor stretched before him like a gaping abyss, dark and silent save for the slivers of moonlight that filtered through the lancet windows, casting a pale silver glow across the stone floor. Nothing stirred—not a single figure retreating into the darkness, not a single glimmer of unwelcome company.

"Who's there?" Fyodor's voice rang out, almost a whisper, its weight cutting through the still air. His keen gaze darted through every corner of the shadows, slicing through the void, searching for answers hidden within its veil.