Episode 47

The air in the hidden room was thick with the smell of damp plaster and something metallic, something that prickled at Nickola’s nose. Anya, pale and trembling, huddled on a threadbare cot, her eyes wide and haunted. Dmitri knelt beside her, his hand a steady anchor on her arm, his own face etched with a mixture of relief and a raw, protective fury. The opulent world of the Mariinsky, with its gilded cages and hushed rivalries, felt impossibly distant now, replaced by this stark, suffocating reality.

“Anya,” Dmitri’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, a small, jerky movement. “No. Not… physically.” Her gaze flickered to the shadows in the corners of the room, as if expecting something to lunge from them.