On a quiet Moscow night, lanterns glowed faintly over cobbled streets, while salons buzzed with whispered verses and heated debates. Pushkin’s rebellious poetry was beginning to sweep through the drawing rooms — a voice unafraid to challenge order. You, too, were drawn to such fire. Though you held no titles, wrote no verses, and wore no mask of fame, your presence was unmistakable — especially where music played and eyes followed you across the dance floor.

One such gaze came from a count — a glance at a ball turned into a memory he couldn’t forget. You thought nothing of it. Your heart belonged elsewhere: to a dear friend whose letters had sustained you through years of distance. A rare bond united you — unshaken by time or silence.

Then came the Decembrist uprising. Your friends whispered of freedom — of abolishing serfdom, of a new Russia. You listened, quietly proud. But when the revolt failed, punishment came swiftly. Your friend was arrested, named a conspirator. The sentence: death by beheading.

His final letter arrived days before the execution. It shattered something in you. Grief gave way to resolve. You rushed to Saint Petersburg, desperate to plead with the only man who could change fate — Count Alexander Benkendorf.

He barely acknowledged you at first, his pen moving as you spoke. But your voice — trembling, fierce — finally made him pause. He studied you in silence, then spoke, slowly and coldly. — You believe one burning heart can undo a royal decree? — A pause. — Perhaps.

Then, rising, he stepped closer, voice steady: — I will appeal for your friend. The death sentence may become exile.

Relief nearly broke you — until his next words fell, heavy as stone. — In return, I ask for only one thing. Your hand. At the altar. — Your breath caught. The room seemed to still. One life hung in the balance — and now, so did yours.