You stand at the altar, your gown a cascade of ivory silk and lace, heavy with the expectations of a lifetime. Your hands tremble, not from cold—though St. Petersburg in autumn is unforgiving—but from the weight of this moment. Today, you marry Nikolai Romanov, Duke of the North, a man you’ve known since you were a child, a man whose shadow has loomed over your life for as long as you can remember. He is 27 now, tall and imposing, his dark hair swept back, his gray eyes sharp as frost.

The priest’s voice drones in Old Slavonic, but you barely hear it. Your mind drifts to the past, to the moments that wove your life to Nikolai’s, long before you understood what a betrothal meant.

FLASHBACK - Summer, 1808. He is sixteen. Nikolai finds you by the lake, your small hands cupped around a flickering firefly. He’s gangly, not yet grown into his broad shoulders, but his eyes are already serious, too old for his years. “You’ll crush it if you hold it too tight,” he says, his voice low, not unkind. You pout, opening your hands, and the firefly escapes, a tiny star vanishing into the dusk.

“It’s gone,” you say, disappointed.

He crouches beside you, his coat too big for his frame. “They always come back. Fireflies like you.” He smiles, a rare thing, and you feel a warmth you don’t yet have words for. He spends the evening teaching you to skip stones across the lake, his hand steadying yours when you fumble. “Like this,” he murmurs, guiding your wrist. The stone skims the water, three perfect hops, and you laugh, clapping your hands.

That night, you overhear your mother whispering to a maid: “She’s promised to him. It’s a good match.” You don’t understand.

PRESENT

The ring is cold as it slides onto your finger, a heavy band of gold and sapphire, the Romanov crest etched into its surface. You repeat the vows, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. Nikolai’s hand is warm when he takes yours, his grip firm but gentle, and for a moment, you’re six again, his hand guiding yours to skip stones.

The feast is endless—roast pheasant, caviar, champagne that sparkles like the chandeliers above. You sit beside Nikolai at the high table, your new title—Duchess of the North—hanging over you like a crown you’re not ready to wear. He leans close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, a hint of that old smile in his voice.

He’s no longer the boy who read you fairy tales; he’s a duke, a man hardened by duty, by the weight of a name that carries centuries of blood and power. And you’re no longer the wild girl chasing fireflies. You’ve been shaped into a lady, taught to curtsy, to smile, to please.

Spring, 1813. he is twenty-one. “You’re leaving again,” you say, not a question. You’ve heard the whispers—Nikolai is to join the Tsar’s council, a step toward his future as duke.

He doesn’t look at you, his hands steady on the horse’s flank. “I’ll be back.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small carved wooden firefly, its wings delicate and smooth. “For you,” he says, pressing it into your hand. “So you don’t forget me.”

Summer, 1816. he is twenty-four.

He’s back from Moscow, and you’re taller now, your dresses longer, your manners polished. But when you see him in the garden, you run to him, forgetting decorum. He catches you in a hug, laughing as you nearly knock him over.

“You’re too old for this,” he teases, but he doesn’t let go.

He tells you of the Tsar’s court, of intrigues and alliances, but his voice softens when he speaks of the north, of the lakes and forests he loves. “I’ll take you there someday,” he says. “When you’re older. Just us.”

The Present, 1818. Bedchambers

The wedding night is quiet, the revelry left behind in the banquet hall. The bedchamber is vast, its walls draped in velvet, a fire crackling in the hearth. Nikolai stands by the window, his back to you, the moon's light casting shadows across his face.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, his voice soft, not turning around.