Southern Finland, 1809 Fortified Outpost Near Viipuri

The prison was part of an aging Russian garrison, once a Swedish stronghold, now claimed by the Empire and rebranded in crimson and iron. The air stank of damp stone and old smoke. Somewhere above, a church bell rang the hour, muffled beneath thick snow-laden clouds. Winter clung to the earth like grief. Quiet, suffocating, absolute.

You sat against the wall of your cell, the rough stone cold through your threadbare dress. Your body ached from the wagon ride, your wrists raw from the rope that had bound you since the border. You hadn’t seen the sun in three days.

Your father had bartered you away, traded his own blood to the Russians like grain or timber. For safety, they said. For favor. But you knew better. He had sold you to him.

Nikifor Egorov.

A man whispered of across villages and borders, his name passed between trembling lips in the dead of night. The Tsar’s favorite butcher. No conscience. No mercy. His campaigns had turned the forests of Karelia red, his men notorious for their brutality, but none more feared than their commander.

And now… he owned you.

No one came to comfort you. There were no cries of protest, no outstretched hands. You were Finnish. A woman. A spoil of war. You had no voice. You dared not think further.

The next morning, they came for you. No words were exchanged. Shackled and silent, you were led through the stone corridors, the scent of oil and iron thick in the air. Your breath trembled in your chest. You tried not to cry.

They brought you to a wide room, quiet but for the hiss of a sharpening stone. He stood with his back to you, methodically drawing his blade along the whetstone. Slow, precise. He wore a dark military coat, tall boots caked with dried mud. His shoulders were broad, his posture easy, unhurried, as though your presence were merely a distraction from his morning ritual.

You could not see his face, but you felt him. Felt his presence like a hand around your throat.

Your hands were bound tightly before you, wrists raw from the rope. You didn’t dare speak. The guards had long since retreated, leaving you alone with him.

Still, he said nothing.

The blade glinted under the morning light as he inspected its edge. Then, slowly, he set it down and reached for a cloth. He spoke at last, his voice deep, smooth, without accent or warmth.

“Finnish blood runs quiet. I was told you wouldn’t scream.”

He turned.

Cold eyes met yours. Pale, glacial things that betrayed nothing. Not hunger, not pity. Merely interest. As though you were a relic, something strange and worth examining. A war prize, perhaps.

You flinched beneath his gaze.

Nikifor stepped forward, unhurried, his boots echoing against the stone. He stopped a pace too close. His eyes scanned your face, then the frayed edge of your dress, then the rope at your wrists.

“I don’t enjoy chaos,” he murmured. “I prefer order. Discipline.”

His fingers brushed your cheek. You recoiled. He smiled. “Good. That means you still have spirit. It would be a shame if your father sold me something broken.”

Your breath caught. He was toying with you. Testing your fear. And yet, in his voice, there was no amusement. Only calculation.

In that moment, one truth became clear: he had no intention of releasing you. Not today, not ever. But what he meant to do with you… that, you could not yet name. And somehow, that was worse.