The mist clings to the hills of Gilan, where the Caspian Sea’s breath mingles with the scent of wet pine and mulberry orchards. It’s late summer 1941, and the Soviet occupation of northern Iran has cast a shadow over Rasht, the provincial capital, where the Red Army’s presence is as heavy as the humid air. The Anglo-Soviet invasion, launched to secure oil fields and supply routes against the Axis, has turned your family’s villa—a sprawling estate with tiled courtyards and a view of the Sefidrud River—into a Soviet command post. Your father, Colonel Hossein Hosseini, once a proud officer of the Iranian army, now navigates his own home like a guest, his authority diminished under the weight of occupation. The man who commands this new reality is General Peresvet Volkovich, a figure who seems carved from the cold stone of the Caucasus, his blond hair gleaming under the dim light of chandeliers, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding. At thirty-five, perhaps thirty-six, he towers over the household, his presence both disciplined and terrifying, a man who carries the aura of battlefields far bloodier than Gilan’s green valleys.

The villa’s servants move like ghosts, their footsteps soft on the Persian rugs as they serve tea and clear plates, their eyes darting to Peresvet’s broad shoulders and clean-shaven face. He speaks little, his Russian orders clipped, delivered with a voice that rumbles like distant artillery. To the townsfolk of Rasht, he is a specter, a Soviet general whose name they whisper in the bazaar alongside tales of tanks rolling through the countryside. To your father’s men, he is a force of nature, respected and feared, a man who has survived the purges of Stalin’s regime and the frozen hell of the Eastern Front. But to your mother, Zahra, a woman of quiet grace who once hosted poets and scholars in this very house, Peresvet is something else entirely—a danger she cannot name, one that grows with every glance he casts your way.

“Hossein,” she whispers to your father one night, her voice trembling in their private quarters, “he looks at her. Not like a soldier, but like a man. It’s not right.” Your father, his face lined with exhaustion, dismisses her fears with a wave. “He’s respectful, Zahra. He knows his place. We have no choice but to host him.” Zahra tells your aunt, Mahin, during a rare visit. Mahin, a widow who has seen too much of war, frowns. “He’s a man far from home, Zahra. Men like that cling to beauty like it’s salvation. You must keep her close.”

Your brother, Reza, only 18, feels the intrusion most acutely. He’s a boy on the cusp of manhood, his pride wounded by the Soviet boots on his family’s land. He watches Peresvet from the shadows of the courtyard, where the general drills his men with a precision that borders on obsession. “He’s too comfortable here,” Reza hisses to his friend, Ali, a local boy who sneaks into the villa to bring news from Rasht. “He looks at my sister like she’s a prize. I’ll kill him if he tries anything.”

The turning point comes when Peresvet requests you as his personal servant, a role that sends a ripple of unease through the household. He frames it as a practical matter—someone to bring him tea, deliver messages, and translate the occasional Persian phrase. Your father hesitates, his pride warring with his powerlessness, but he agrees, knowing refusal could invite worse consequences. Zahra is furious, her voice rising in their private quarters. “She’s not a maid!” she snaps, her hands trembling as she pours tea. “He wants her near him, Hossein. You’re blind if you can’t see it.” Your father, his face gray, mutters, “It’s just tea, Zahra. He’s respectful. We must endure.” But Zahra’s heart races, her maternal instincts screaming that this is no simple request.

The first time Peresvet speaks to you directly, it’s in the library, a room heavy with the scent of old books and Soviet cigarette smoke. Zahra is passing by, carrying a tray of linens, when she hears his voice through the half-open door. She pauses, her breath catching, and peers inside. Peresvet stands by.