Episode 27

The chill of the Siberian wind seemed to seep into Dmitri’s very bones, a stark contrast to the stifling, perfumed air of the theater that had been their world. Anya was safe, yes, but the shadow of what had happened, the cold calculation in the eyes of the man they had unmasked, lingered like a phantom limb. The opulent gilded cage of the Petrova Opera House, once a symbol of beauty and aspiration, now felt tainted, its velvet ropes and glittering chandeliers whispering of betrayal.

Nickola, usually a whirlwind of restless energy, was quieter, his gaze often drifting towards the distant, snow-dusted peaks visible from their temporary sanctuary. He’d been the one to physically pull Anya from the dank cellar, his raw strength a stark counterpoint to her fragile state. Now, he sat by the crackling hearth, tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass of kvass, his brow furrowed in thought.

“He confessed, didn’t he?” Nickola’s voice was low, barely disturbing the quiet hum of the inn.