Two days remained until the Seven Kingdoms' Banquet.
As Tsarina, Katherine bore the impossible weight of orchestrating the event. The venue was, of course, the Emperor's Palace—its cold stone halls already humming with the promise of nobles arriving from distant lands.
She would need to plan every detail: the seating arrangements, the decorations, the music, and the menu. Every spoon, every candle, every tiny indulgence had to be perfect—or risk offending someone powerful enough to ruin the delicate balance of politics in Velkarov.
"I'm so exhausted from all this running around," Katherine muttered, slouching into the chair beside her. The velvet cushions offered little comfort.
She had not seen Pietro since that morning at breakfast—and truthfully, she had no desire to. His presence reminded her of the man who had killed in front of her, calm and unflinching.
That alone was reason enough to keep her distance.
"Your Majesty, is all well?" Olga asked, stepping forward with a cup of beer carefully balanced in her hands.
Katherine's eyes flicked to it. Beer—at this hour?
She shook her head. "Who in their right mind would drink beer this early in the morning?" she wondered aloud, letting a faint edge of frustration color her voice.
Olga gave a quiet sigh and retreated, leaving Katherine alone with her exhaustion. She rose, moving toward the small chamber she used as a retreat, hoping for a brief moment to rest her head.
But the palace was rarely accommodating.
As she turned a corner, her steps too hurried for the slippery stone, she collided with someone—and began to stumble.
Before she could hit the ground, strong hands caught her by the waist, steadying her.
"Oh! My lady, forgive me," the man said, his voice deep and clear, tinged with a Northern accent that immediately marked him as foreign.
Katherine looked up.
And froze.
He was striking. Short black hair, eyes like icy blue steel, broad shoulders that seemed to fill the hallway, and arms strong enough to snap a branch in half.
A short, neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp jaw. Even in the faint candlelight, he seemed sculpted from northern stone itself—a warrior as much as a king.
Recovering herself, Katherine bowed her head slightly, regaining her composure. "No—it is my fault. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tsarina Katherine of Velkarov."
Her voice was steady, but her heart betrayed a faint thrill.
"Not for him," she reminded herself firmly. "For the moment. For the spectacle."
The man inclined his head with a quiet dignity.
"And I am King Ivan of Nordhavn," he said, his accent rolling over the words like distant thunder. "Son of the late King Knut, a descendant of the Great Bjorn Ironside and Ragnar Lothbrok."
Katherine blinked.
Not just a foreign noble—but a king, and one with a lineage that carried legends in its blood. She felt the faint stirrings of curiosity—and something far more dangerous.
In Velkarov, power was measured in influence, cruelty, and cunning. Yet here was a man whose very ancestry demanded respect, whose presence could shift alliances and unsettle the most hardened courtiers.
She straightened, smoothing the folds of her crimson gown, letting her gaze meet his without flinching.
"It is… an honour to meet you, Your Majesty," she said carefully.
Each word was measured. Every gesture deliberate.
For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle, not with warmth, but with the potential of fire. Two rulers, both aware that the game had only just begun.
And somewhere deep inside, Katherine realized this banquet would be more than a test of her organizational skill.
It would be a test of her strength, her wits—and her ability to navigate a room filled with lions, wolves, and snakes disguised as men.
She did not yet know if King Ivan would be friend or foe. But she did know one thing.
The Seven Kingdoms' Banquet would change everything.
"Such a beautiful woman rules alongside my old friend Pietro," Ivan said, bowing slightly as he took Katherine's hand.
Then, in a playful, almost theatrical gesture, he pressed a kiss to her gloved fingertip. "He's a lucky bastard."
Katherine froze. Her cheeks tinged faintly pink—not from modesty, but from shock.
"He knows Pietro?" she thought, stepping back instinctively. "And he calls him… friend?"
Before she could even find words, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the corridor.
"Oh my," Pietro said, his tone calm, almost amused, as he emerged from the shadows. "It seems you've met my dear wife."
Katherine's heart tightened slightly. The air shifted, heavier somehow. Pietro's gaze swept over Ivan briefly before landing back on her, unreadable as ever.
Ivan grinned, entirely unbothered by Pietro's presence.
"She's such a doll," he said smoothly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm shocked you haven't had an heir yet. Are you sure you aren't… impotent?"
The words hung in the air like sparks over kindling.
Pietro's eyes narrowed—just slightly—but there was no anger. No movement toward violence. He didn't raise a hand, didn't even twitch.
And that was all Katherine needed to understand.
This was proof. They were not ordinary friends. The kind of man who ruled with fire and blood would have crushed anyone else who dared speak like that.
Anyone else.
But Ivan? He was different. Dangerous in his own way, yes—but trusted. Tested. Known.
Both men laughed lightly, their camaraderie effortless and natural, like a hidden current that Katherine had no right to fully understand.
Katherine, caught between astonishment and irritation, folded her arms, her gaze flicking from Ivan to Pietro.
"My husband has never once laughed like this," Katherine said lightly, her voice carrying a hint of humour—but Pietro's sharp gaze immediately caught the edge beneath it.
He stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips.
"Well, you haven't been able to satisfy me in bed at all," he said quietly, deliberately, letting the words land between them like ice on stone.
Katherine's cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with the familiar spark of indignation. Her hands clenched slightly at her sides, her composure perfectly controlled.
"Oh my," Ivan interjected quickly, hands raised slightly in mock surrender. His voice was light, almost teasing, but with purpose. "The two of you shouldn't discuss marital problems in my presence. I didn't come here to play doctor."
He stepped forward, placing a firm but respectful hand on Pietro's shoulder, guiding him gently aside.
"Not today," he said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Not in front of the nobles."
Pietro's smirk lingered, but he allowed himself to be led away, his dark cloak sweeping the marble floor. He cast a last glance at Katherine—one that was unreadable, yet heavy with meaning.
Katherine exhaled softly, her heart still racing from the encounter.
Ivan's presence had kept the fragile peace, but she could feel the unspoken currents running through the room—the delicate, invisible threads of power, desire, and danger that seemed to cling to Pietro like a shadow.
She straightened her posture, smoothing the folds of her crimson gown, and allowed a small, victorious smile. "Not defeated. Not yet," she thought.
Even in a room filled with nobles, even under the watchful eyes of kings and tsars, Katherine knew one truth: she would not be invisible.
And Pietro—ruthless, unreadable Pietro—would have to acknowledge that.
***
Katherine pushed open the doors to her chambers and dismissed the attendants with a faint gesture. The moment the doors shut behind her, the mask slipped.
She crossed the room in silence, then let herself fall onto the bed, the crimson skirts of her gown spreading around her like spilled wine.
The ceiling above her blurred as she exhaled slowly, exhaustion settling into her bones.
Her thoughts drifted immediately to him.
Ivan.
She turned her head, staring into the softness of her pillow as if it might answer her.
"What kind of ruler are you?" she wondered.
Was he like Pietro?
A ruthless tyrant wrapped in charm? A man who laughed easily yet ruled with iron and blood?
Or was that warmth genuine… the laughter real… the ease not just a mask?
"Is he like Pietro?" she murmured quietly to herself. "A ruler who leaves his subjects drowning in ignorance… or something different?"
She rolled onto her side, fingers idly tracing the embroidered edge of the pillow. The memory of his blue eyes lingered in her mind—sharp, observant, but not cold.
Not like Pietro's. Pietro's gaze always felt like being weighed, measured, judged.
Ivan's had felt… curious.
That alone made him dangerous.
Katherine sighed, closing her eyes briefly.
The Seven Kingdoms' Banquet loomed ever closer, and with it, the arrival of more rulers, more nobles, more eyes watching her every move. Her duties as Tsarina would only multiply from here.
Tomorrow, she and Pietro were to welcome the arriving guests in a formal ceremony. Tradition demanded it. Appearances required it. Politics depended on it.
Fortunately, that responsibility did not fall on her shoulders. The welcoming ceremony belonged to the Tsar.
Which meant Pietro.
Katherine opened her eyes again, a faint crease forming between her brows.
She just hoped—truly hoped—that he possessed enough restraint not to turn the occasion into a display of intimidation.
Pietro had a habit of making statements. And his statements often involved fear, humiliation… or worse.
"If he threatens them," she whispered, "this banquet will turn into a battlefield before it even begins."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the pillow.
Seven kingdoms. Seven rulers. Seven different ambitions gathered under one roof. One misstep could fracture alliances… or ignite something far more dangerous.
And yet, part of her couldn't deny the thrill.
This was her stage now.
Her chance.
If she played her role well, she could gain allies. Influence minds. Plant seeds of change where force had failed.
But first…
She needed to understand the players.
Pietro.
Ivan.
And the others yet to arrive.
Katherine closed her eyes once more, the faintest smile touching her lips.
The game was finally beginning.
...
..
.
The forest lay silent beneath a pale winter sky. Frost clung to the branches, and the snow underfoot muffled every step, turning the world into a quiet hunting ground.
Pietro and Ivan moved side by side through the trees, rifles resting comfortably in their hands.
Neither spoke for a while. Their boots crunched softly against the frozen earth, breath forming faint clouds in the cold air.
"Your wife, Katherine, is truly beautiful," Ivan said at last, breaking the silence. "I just don't understand why you need that other woman."
Pietro did not look at him. He simply raised his rifle, sighting a deer grazing between the trees ahead. His posture remained calm, controlled.
"That other woman has a name, doesn't she?" he replied coolly.
Ivan smirked, lifting his own rifle and aligning it toward the same deer. "Oh my… is my friend angry at me because of a woman? I thought we agreed no woman could get in the way of our friendship."
Pietro's finger rested lightly on the trigger. "You talk too much."
"And you brood too much," Ivan shot back, grin widening.
The deer lifted its head, ears twitching, unaware of the two predators watching it from the shadows.
Both men steadied their aim.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Three…
Two…
Just as their fingers tightened—
A sharp crack echoed.
The deer dropped instantly, collapsing into the snow before either man fired. Blood seeped slowly from its head, staining the white ground a deep, vivid red.
Ivan lowered his rifle first, eyebrows lifting. "Well… that wasn't me."
Pietro said nothing. He walked forward, boots crunching deliberately as he approached the fallen animal.
Kneeling, he examined the wound.
A clean shot.
Straight through the head.
Precise.
Deliberate.
He straightened slowly.
"You can come out now," Pietro said, his voice flat.
A soft chuckle answered him.
From behind the trees, a man stepped into view. He wore a heavy coat lined with fur, but it did little to hide his confident posture.
Long auburn hair fell past his shoulders, and a mischievous smile rested easily on his face, as though he had just played a harmless prank.
His rifle rested casually against his shoulder.
"Don't blame this old man for interfering," he said warmly. "After all… I was just so excited to see my in-law."
Ivan let out a low whistle. "Well, well… he shoots first and introduces himself later."
Pietro's eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger—more in recognition.
"You're early," he said.
The auburn-haired man smiled wider, his gaze flicking between them before settling with clear interest.
"I would never be late to see my daughter," he replied.