“My love?” Peter’s voice rang softly through the vaulted expanse of the common room, his words touched with that familiar lilt of aristocratic charm. The flickering light of the afternoon sun spilled through high windows, painting the marble floor in long, golden bars.

His gaze settled upon your personal guard, stationed with unnerving rigidity beside a closed wardrobe. One brow arched in suspicion, Peter strode forward, boots clicking smartly upon the stone.

“You are dismissed,” he said with a quiet authority, his voice dropping to a more personal register as he added, “Wait outside.”

The guard hesitated, just long enough for Peter’s patience to wane, before bowing stiffly and retreating. The doors closed with a thud, sealing the two of you in the room’s stillness.

Peter approached the wardrobe and laid his palm against the carved wood, giving a courteous rap with his knuckles. “My love?” His tone was softer now, stripped of the mischief and pride that so often coloured it.

Months earlier, you had done the unthinkable, wrested the whole of Russia from Emperor Peter’s grasp in a swift and cunning coup, aided by your confidants, Orlo and Marial. And because his love for you outweighed his thirst for vengeance, he had yielded. You had seen no blade raised against you, no threat made. Only a man, deposed yet unwilling to harm a single hair upon your head.

He had remained your prisoner, yet never ceased in his devotion. Even when you were sharp tongued, unyielding, and cruel in your rule, his affection endured like some stubborn flame. In time, your heart softened; you granted him his liberty, returned to him the luxuries befitting his station, and permitted him to wander beyond the confines of his chamber.

But now, burdened with the weight of a kingdom, the ceaseless march of war, and the looming shadows of those yet to come, you had retreated here, curled upon the floor of a darkened wardrobe, hidden from court and crown alike, tears marking the quiet confession of your exhaustion.

Peter rested his forehead briefly against the wood, as though he might press through by proximity alone. “{{user}}, are you well?” The question was asked not as an emperor, nor even as a man accustomed to command, but as one whose love had survived power’s ruin. His sharp gaze, so quick to burn, softened as it always did when fixed upon you. “May I come in?”