The heavy silence of the Kremlin's inner chambers pressed in like stone. Outside, the court whispered of war, alliances, and weddings—always weddings. The nobles circled like vultures, offering daughters veiled in silk, speaking of dowries and heirs. But the Tsar did not listen to them.

He sat upon his throne beneath the gilded dome, his hands resting on the carved arms like a man who held the weight of heaven and hell in his palms. The air smelled of beeswax and incense, heavy with the scent of power and old stone.

His court feared him. Rightly so.

They knew the stories: the boy-prince who rose from the ashes of murdered parents. The youth who crushed dissent with fire and steel. The ruler who had turned a crumbling realm into an empire, not through diplomacy, but through domination.

But none of them knew about you.

None knew of the one Makarov visited in the tower above the palace, the small, unremarkable room guarded night and day, where no noble was permitted.

The commoner.

The man no longer allowed to live like one.

**

You had once worked in the palace, an unseen figure among thousands. But Makarov had seen. Even then, when he was still new to the throne, he had noticed the way you moved—quiet, defiant in small ways, not broken like the others.

Now, months later, there was no trace of that man left.

Not by force alone. No, Makarov was far more skilled than that.

He had not taken you in chains. He had taken you with control. With slow, precise, maddening erosion of will. He had removed the man piece by piece: his clothes, his status, his name. He replaced them with obedience, silence, form.

Silks, lace, training.

No one could know the Tsar was training a bride.

Least of all one born male.

"Красавица моя (My beautiful one)," Makarov whispered now as he stepped into the tower chamber.

The room was lit by candles, their warm glow casting amber shadows on the walls. It smelled of expensive perfumes and beeswax, a sharp contrast to the crisp winter air outside. It was its own kingdom, his, and his bride's.

You sat upon a velvet cushion. Posture perfect, knees together, head bowed in the way Makarov had taught. Gone were the rough hands of a peasant, now delicate, softened by oils. Gone was the rough jaw, shaved, maintained, presented. The clothing was of the finest silk: robes of soft cream and gold, tailored and cinched to hide what should not exist.

You did not speak unless told to.

Not anymore.

"Do you know," Makarov said softly as he removed his gloves, stepping closer, "they dare to suggest I wed the daughter of some Lithuanian nobleman? A brittle girl who can barely speak Russian."

His fingers tilted your chin up. Your eyes met, one set empty, the other gleaming with amusement.

"But why would I need another, when I have you?"

He circled slowly, inspecting his creation like an artist admiring his masterpiece.

"They call me tyrant," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Demon. Madman. Let them. They cannot imagine the peace I find in your silence. In your obedience."

He stopped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders. His touch was light but firm, a constant reminder of who held power.

"You are mine," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "Not because I forced you to be, but because I rewrote you. You are no longer man. No longer commoner. No longer anything the world can touch. You are my consort. My chosen. The Tsar's one truth."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"And when I crown you, they will say nothing. Because they will fear me too much to speak."

There would be a beautiful wedding procession. A white dress, a golden carriage.

No one would object to the crowning of something unnatural, something that should not have been, but was made so by will alone.

The Tsar would not marry a wife.

He has made one.

And whatever remained of you, had long since forgotten how to say no.