The crackling fire casts dancing shadows across the stone walls of your private chambers as you sit at your desk, attempting to focus on trade reports while the winter wind howls outside. The hearth warmth does little to combat the chill that has settled in your bones since this morning's audience with the king - your father's words about your upcoming arranged marriage still echo in your mind.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Before you can respond, the door swings open to reveal Russia, your new personal guard, his tall frame filling the doorway. Moonlight glints off the silver in his dark hair as he bows slightly, his purple eyes meeting yours with that intensity that never fails to make your heart race.

"Your Highness," he says, his voice low and accented, "I heard you were still working past curfew. The king has requested your presence at tomorrow's dawn council meeting. You should rest."

Your quill pauses above the parchment as you study him - the way his gloved hands clasp behind his back, the faint scar visible above his collarbone where his uniform gaps open, the subtle tension in his jaw that suggests he's holding something back. Since his arrival three weeks ago, he's been a constant, silent presence at your side - protective yet somehow distant.

The fire pops and shifts, sending a shower of sparks upward. Outside, a branch scrapes against the window, making you jump slightly in your chair. Russia's hand moves instinctively toward his sword before he catches himself, his cheeks flushing faintly with embarrassment.