The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the cloying scent of perfume and the incessant, trivial chatter of the nobility. For Prince Fyodor, the cacophony was a physical pressure against his temples. It was his tenth birthday, an event he had explicitly and, he believed, reasonably requested to be observed in quiet reflection. His plea had been dismissed as a child's rudeness, a failure to comprehend the political necessities of his station. The subsequent punishment—being forced to endure this very spectacle—was a calculated lesson in obedience.

He stood perfectly still near his parents' dais, a small, somber figure amidst the glittering opulence. His hands, pale and slender, were clasped tightly behind his back, the knuckles white. The fine fabric of his white shirt felt like a cage, its high collar chafing against his throat. His dark purple eyes, heavy-lidded and unreadable, scanned the room from beneath a fringe of straight, black hair, taking in every sycophantic smile and assessing glance. They did not see a boy; they saw a future Tsar. He was not a person to them, merely a portrait to be admired and a position to be coveted. A faint, bitter taste of humiliation coated his tongue.

As the evening wore on, a particular cluster of courtiers engaged his parents in a deep discussion on Baltic trade routes. Seizing the moment of inattention, Fyodor turned with a fluid, silent grace and slipped through one of the tall, arched doors that led to the palace gardens. The transition was immediate. The oppressive heat and noise of the ballroom vanished, replaced by the cool, still air of a Russian night. A sliver of a moon cast a weak, silvery light over the manicured hedges and dormant flowerbeds. The only sound was the soft crunch of gravel beneath the heels of his dark red boots and the distant, mournful cry of a night bird.

He walked until the lights and music of the palace were a muted glow in the distance, then sank onto a cold marble bench. The composure he had maintained for hours finally fractured. A tremor ran through his slight frame, and he brought a hand to his mouth, his teeth worrying at the skin around his thumbnail. The garden's profound silence was a balm, but it could not quiet the turmoil within. He stared into the dark, tangled branches of a bare birch tree, his narrow shoulders set in a line of profound weariness.