Chapter 226: The Weapon
Lydia sat in the carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap, but her mind was far from calm. Leonid’s words would not leave her alone. They circled around her like restless shadows, refusing to disappear.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. No, she could not believe it. She could not allow herself to believe it. Believing meant reopening wounds she had tried so hard to keep closed. Believing meant questioning all the pain she had been through.
Her chest tightened. She thought of her suffering, her loneliness, and the cruel ache of abandonment. She remembered the way her heart had shattered when Ivan walked away from her. She remembered the night their son died, the emptiness of her arms, the silence that followed her wherever she went. These were not small things. They were scars carved deep into her soul.
"No," she whispered under her breath. "I must not believe."
But even as she tried to remind herself of her pain, her eyes kept drifting to Ivan. She tried to stop herself, but she could not. It was like a pull she could not resist. She glanced at him once, then again, then once more.
His eyes. Why did they look so sad? Why did they carry the same heaviness that weighed down her own heart? Why did it look like he was suffering just as much as she was?
It did not make sense. Nothing made sense.
Ivan sat across from her in silence, his broad shoulders slightly slumped, his gaze steady but unreadable. He looked at her the way a starving man looks at food he cannot touch. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out. He only stared at her, his eyes soft, wounded, searching.
He wondered if she was all right. He wondered if she would ever forgive him. The silence between them was suffocating, pressing down on both of them until it felt hard to breathe.
The carriage rolled on, the wheels creaking over the road, but inside there was only silence.
Hours passed. The sun dipped low, and soon the sky turned dark. A pale moon rose, casting faint light through the window. Night wrapped itself around them, yet the silence still remained unbroken.
At last, the carriage came to a halt.
Katherine knocked lightly on the window and called out, "Your Highness, we’ve reached an inn. Rooms are ready."
The door opened, and cool spring air drifted in. Both Ivan and Lydia stepped down from the carriage. Neither spoke. The silence followed them like an invisible companion.
The inn was warm and smelled faintly of baked bread and woodsmoke. The innkeeper, a plump man with kind eyes, hurried forward and bowed deeply before leading them through the hall. Their footsteps echoed against the wooden floor.
When they reached the rooms, Lydia did not say a word. She slipped inside hers quietly, closing the door behind her.
Ivan stood for a moment at her door. His hand lifted, hovering as if he wanted to knock. He could almost imagine her voice telling him to come in. He could almost see her turning to face him. But he hesitated. He lingered there in the hallway, fighting against his own heart. Then, slowly, he turned away and walked to his own room.
The others had been watching.
Xenia frowned, her brow creasing with worry. She looked at the door Lydia had gone into, then at Ivan’s back as he walked away. Without hesitation, she went after Lydia, quietly pushing the door open to see if she needed help.
Anna leaned close to Boris and whispered, "I hope His Highness and Her Highness reconcile. I cannot bear to see them like this."
Boris gave a small nod, his expression serious. "Me too."
Katherine stood a little apart, saying nothing. Her eyes followed Ivan for a long time, thoughtful and silent. She did not speak, but she saw more than she let on.
The inn grew quiet as everyone settled into their rooms, but unease still hung in the air.
Far away, back in Svetlana, the night carried a different kind of weight.
The palace grounds were still, the tall towers dark against the starry sky. But in a shadowed corner, a figure cloaked in dark fabric slipped out quietly. Tatiana moved quickly, her cloak drawn tightly around her. Beside her was Yelena, her maid, who looked pale and uneasy.
"My lady," Yelena whispered in a trembling voice, "where are we going? It is late. It is dangerous out here."
Tatiana did not slow her steps. Her eyes gleamed with a strange excitement, her lips curved into a secretive smile. "Do not worry, Yelena. Nothing will happen. We will be fine."
Yelena bit her lip, her heart thudding with fear. "But, my lady, why are we here? What are you looking for?"
Tatiana glanced at her, her smile turning sharper. "You will see soon enough. When we arrive, you will know."
They walked through narrow streets, where the warm spring air carried smells of smoke, ale, and unwashed bodies. The slums of Svetlana were alive even at night. People lurked in corners, some laughing, some shouting, others whispering in the shadows. Yelena clung to her cloak, her eyes darting around nervously.
Tatiana, however, walked with confidence, as if the filth and darkness of the place did not touch her at all. She seemed almost at home in it.
At last, they reached a small, crooked cottage at the edge of the slums. The windows were shuttered, the wood old and weathered. Tatiana stopped before it, her smile growing.
"Here it is," she said softly, her voice full of satisfaction.
Yelena looked at her in confusion. "Here? But... what is this place?"
Tatiana’s smile darkened, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. She reached out and touched the old wooden door, almost tenderly, as if it was precious to her.
"This," she whispered, "is my weapon. My means to get everything. To get him."
The night air stirred, carrying her words like a promise of trouble to come.