The winter palace had never felt so quiet.

Its gilded halls, once echoing with the measured steps of courtiers and the rustling silks of nobility, now stood tense—still draped in mourning, but humming with the barely-concealed anticipation of change. The chandeliers had been dimmed in deference to the late king, and black velvet swags adorned every marble column. Snow fell relentlessly outside the towering windows, as if the heavens themselves mourned.

Fyodor Dostoevsky stood at the high window of the throne room, cloaked in deep violet, a fur-lined mantle brushing the cold stone floor. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the imperial sash across his chest. He had only worn the crown for two days, and already it felt like it was sinking into his skull.

He hadn't slept much since the night his father— the King—collapsed at the banquet table, a quiet cough turning crimson with blood. The royal physician had murmured of fever and age, but Fyodor knew better. The old man had been in perfect health just days before. Still, it was not his place to question. Not yet.

You entered the room without knocking.

Only you could. Fyodor turned his head slightly, that sharp, pale profile half-shadowed by candlelight.

"You should rest," you murmured, walking slowly toward him, your voice soft, familiar—comforting. “You haven’t left this room in hours.”

He offered no reply, but your presence, as always, coaxed tension from his shoulders.

“I find myself... uneased,” Fyodor said at last, not turning from the window. “There are whispers that the king was poisoned.”

You didn’t flinch. You had practiced that part.

“Whispers always follow a death of power,” you said calmly, stepping beside him. “It is natural. People fear what they do not understand.”

He hummed low in his throat. “Do you think I was ready?”

“For the throne?” You tilted your head toward him, your expression unreadable. “You were meant for it, Fyodor. You were born for more than waiting in shadows.”

He looked at you finally. His dark eyes, usually unreadable, glinted with something too complex to name. “You’ve always said that.”

“I’ve always believed it.”

A long silence. Then—

“Did you ever wish for this?” he asked softly, like the question pained him. “For me to sit on this throne, wearing a crown still warm from his head?”

You blinked slowly. “Yes.”

The word landed like a drop of ink on pristine parchment. He studied you with a gaze that could peel skin, but you did not waver.

Fyodor stepped closer. “You sound certain. Almost… orchestrated.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

His fingers brushed against yours.

“There are some,” he murmured, voice lowered like a prayer, “who say you were often in the west wing, where the apothecary kept records. That you were meeting with ministers who opposed my father’s policies. That you urged me to write speeches he never saw. Tell me, dearest,” his eyes softened, dangerously, “was I ever your pawn?”