Heirs to the throne

***

Five months. That’s enough time for the snow to melt and dry on the stone slabs of the courtyard — but not enough for the heart to learn to beat differently. People stopped whispering in the palace. Not immediately, but gradually. First, someone allowed themselves to laugh in the gallery. Then, in the kitchen, they began to argue about seasonings again. Then, in the Council Hall, a folder of papers slammed loudly one day — and no one flinched. The mourning did not disappear. It simply seeped into the walls, into the air of the castle, into the interior. Holland’s black mourning suits were gradually replaced by dark blue and deep emerald ones. The fabrics became denser, the lines stricter. The doublets emphasised his shoulders, and it seemed that over the months they had actually become broader — or perhaps he had simply begun to hold them differently. He still kept his father’s belongings. In one of the drawers of his desk lay a ring — which he sometimes put on late at night when he was alone. Pain had burned away his boyish lightness, and in its place grew dignity. He led the country forward — confidently, without hesitation. He signed decrees. He received ambassadors. He listened to complaints. His decisions were colder than before, but fairer. Voices fell silent even before he entered the room. He did not raise his voice — but he did not soften it either. If earlier his words had revealed flashes of irritation, irony, or confusion, now his speech was as smooth as the blade of a sword. Restrained. He listened until the end. He looked straight ahead. He paused — and this pause was enough to make his interlocutor begin to get confused. Sometimes, when meetings dragged on late into the evening, he would unbutton the top button of his jacket and run his hand over the back of his head — a brief, barely noticeable gesture of fatigue. But even in this, there was something mature, firm. The country was getting used to him. And he was getting used to it. The pain did not go away. It settled somewhere deep inside, becoming part of his posture, part of his gaze. It gave him endurance. Rozanov left for the north — and seemed to disappear into the wind. At first, it seemed temporary — a few weeks, formalities, garrison inspections. But weeks turned into months. His name was heard less often than it should have been. The north does not forgive distraction or weakness. There, the air cuts into your lungs. Horses walk on snow that cracks under their hooves. People look you straight in the eye and do not bow their heads out of politeness. Ilya quickly settled into this rhythm. He got up before dawn, rode around the outposts, talked to the commanders without unnecessary ceremony. He took off his cloak and sat down by the fire next to the soldiers — not as a prince, but as one of them. He had changed too. His face was weather-beaten and tanned. His features became more severe. He smiled less often. His voice took on a hollow depth — like that of a man who had been silent too long in the wind. Sometimes he would stand for a long time on the fortress wall, looking out over the plain, where snow still lay. He wrote short, precise letters to the capital. No unnecessary lines. But he opened every reply from the capital with trembling fingers, inhaling the smell of parchment — hoping to catch at least a molecule of that very warmth. He did not return. Spring comes later in the north. The snow lies longer there, and the cold lasts longer. Perhaps that is why he stayed — where the air is crisper, and thoughts are simpler. And yet, on those rare evenings when the northern sky cleared and became transparent, almost glassy, he caught himself thinking about the lights of the capital. Not the halls. Not the councils. One specific figure at a long table. A clear profile in the candlelight. A ringing, sincere laugh. Ilya did not allow himself to dwell on these memories. He became more cautious even in his own thoughts. Shane did not ask about him more often than protocol required. Ilya did not write more often than duty required. And between them lay five months — not like an abyss, no. Like a distance that both had chosen to walk alone.

***

Her arrival coincided with the warmest day of spring. The courtyard smelled of damp earth and young leaves. The stone walls, which had been dull until recently, now seemed lighter — the sun fell on them in soft stripes. The flags moved lazily, the wind unfurling them gently, without the harshness of winter. The carriage stopped smoothly, almost silently. The door opened, and first a slender hand in a light-coloured glove appeared — then the edge of a pale rose-coloured dress embroidered with barely noticeable silver. And only then did she herself appear. Rose stepped onto the stone as if she were not touching it at all. A slight movement of her head, and the light slid over her hair. It was light, almost golden, gathered into a neat hairstyle, from which a few soft strands escaped. There was no ostentatious luxury in her appearance — only grace. Her neck was slender, her shoulders delicate, but her posture was impeccable. She smiled — a warm, slightly playful smile, as if the whole world had already proven its kindness to her many times over. Holland descended the steps to meet her. He did not have the fussiness or impatience of a groom — only the calmness of a man who had long since learned to control himself. He bowed. — Lady Rosaline. She tilted her head slightly. Her light curls barely touched her cheek, and her bright, clear eyes lingered on his face a little longer than etiquette required. — Please… Rose, — she said softly and a little shyly. Her voice was soft but lively. It lacked the forced politeness of the courtiers, the cold, learned intonation. The words seemed to be born right now — not from calculation, but from feeling. They sounded light, almost transparently sincere. Shane paused for a moment. He noticed her directness. Her naive courage. And how simply she had said her name. — Rose, — he repeated. For a moment, her eyelashes fluttered. It sounded more cautious than it should have.

***

They went out into the park while the courtiers were busy accommodating the retinue. Spring had been late this year, but swift. Young grass already covered the lawns like a thin emerald carpet. The branches of the trees were just beginning to dress in foliage — light green, transparent in the sun. Somewhere deep in the alleys, birds were singing, their trills sounding especially clear after the winter silence. Rose walked beside him, lightly touching the folds of her dress with her fingers so that it would not touch the wet grass. She smelled faintly of jasmine — fresh and quiet, as if the scent existed only a step away. Sometimes she looked at the flowers by the path, sometimes at him. But the alley was empty. Spring was blooming around them. And he stood next to a woman who looked at him as if her entire future, her entire life, was concentrated in him— while he thought about the one who had gone north and taken part of his spring with her. *** The room was too warm. The fire burned steadily, without crackling, but to Rozanov it seemed as if the air was standing still. He threw open the window — a cold wind rushed in, shifting the papers on the table and stirring the heavy curtains. He did not close it. The northern city, where he had spent the last few weeks, was slowly waking up. The narrow streets glistened after the night rain. Pale steam rose above the rooftops. Somewhere bells were ringing — a foreign rhythm, a foreign country. Today he was leaving. His fingers clenched the edge of the windowsill — his knuckles turned white. He had long since ceased to be someone who couldn't wait. Over the months, waiting had become a habit. He had learned to remain silent when he wanted to argue. He had learned not to smile when he would have smiled before. He had learned to swallow his words. But not today. He knew the date and was desperately afraid of its arrival. Today she was coming. Rumours had spread faster than official letters. Fair-haired. Beautiful. Well-mannered. Suitable. Suitable. Ilya smiled — briefly, silently. He saw himself in the reflection of the window pane and paused for a moment. His face hardened. His cheeks had sunken slightly, his jawline had become more pronounced. His tan was uneven, the wind and sun leaving indelible marks. His hair had grown longer, more unruly. His gaze was darker. Before, there had been too much fire in it. Now that fire had gone deeper. It did not flare up, it smouldered loudly. His doublet fit differently: tighter, more severe, emphasising the width of his shoulders. The fabric stretched with every movement, as if reminding him of the burden placed upon him. He stood straight, and in this straightness there was no longer any youthful ardour, only learned restraint. His movements became economical, precise, almost dry. No unnecessary cruelty, no haste. He had acquired that quiet, heavy presence that made soldiers stand up straight without being ordered to, simply because he was standing nearby. But now, in an empty room with the window wide open, where the cold air slowly swayed the curtains, he did not look like a commander. Not like an heir. But like a man who was losing something — and was all too aware of it. The wind stirred the papers on the table. The edge of the map lifted, as if trying to remind him of the war, of borders, of duty. Ilya did not turn his head. He stood motionless for several long seconds, then abruptly moved away from the window. He ran his hand through his hair — harshly, nervously, almost painfully, as if trying to erase obsessive thoughts from his mind. Reports, maps, and letters were spread out on the table. The seals were broken. The ink was still fresh. He looked at them and saw nothing. The words blurred and lost their meaning. Because everything that really mattered was not on those sheets of paper. And that was what he could not hold on to. The sunny courtyard. Light hair in the rays of sunlight. A stranger's smile. And Shane standing nearby, laughing innocently. Leaning a little closer than necessary. No. Shane belonged only to him. The thought flashed through his mind — crude, almost childish — and he clenched his teeth. Didn't belong. He had never belonged to him. Not formally, not by right. Shane had a crown, obligations, a council, a future — and none of them included him. And yet... Somewhere deeper, where laws and titles did not reach, where there were no seals and witnesses — Shane belonged to him. Ilya remembered his voice in the darkness. He remembered the warmth of his shoulder by the fire. He remembered that last short kiss — careless, almost playful, but too vivid to forget. Five months without a glance. Five months without a touch. Now he was coming back. And with that return came fear. Not for power. Not for a place at court. For him. If Shane smiled at her like he used to — quietly, only with his eyes, so that the world around them seemed to recede... What would remain? Memories? Fragments of glances? Unspoken words that no longer meant anything? Ilya breathed in slowly, as if trying to hold something fragile inside. He could endure the cold. He could endure the distance. He could endure hatred. But not this. Not someone else's smile, which had once been his world. Ilya slammed the window shut. The wind stopped. He straightened up. His face became calm again. Almost cold. — The horses are ready, Your Highness, — came a voice from behind the door. — Yes. — His voice sounded even. He put on his gloves — slowly, carefully, as if this movement was helping him pull himself together again. His gaze became firm. Let the princess come. Let there be a ball. Let the whole court see them together. He would return today. And he would look Shane in the eye.

***

The ballroom was flooded with light. Hundreds of candles under crystal chandeliers burned evenly, reflecting in mirrors, polished parquet floors, and the jewels around the ladies’ necks. The music flowed softly and continuously — violins led the theme, flutes responded with light sighs. The air was saturated with scents — wax, perfume, fresh flowers brought in huge vases. High society was shining. The smiles were flawless, the bows were measured, the laughter sounded a little louder than sincerity required. Silk rustled, fans opened and closed with mathematical precision. Conversations flowed like well-rehearsed plays. Gloss. Harmony. Perfection. And somewhere beneath it all, a subtle, barely perceptible tension, like beneath the surface of water. The music changed. The herald announced the arrival of the heir and his bride. Holland entered the hall with Rose. They looked like a legend come to life — the beautiful king and his fair bride. They walked arm in arm — and it looked natural, almost beautiful. She wore a light champagne-coloured dress, the fabric flowing, catching the light with every step. Her light hair was styled in soft waves, her shoulders bare, a thin chain barely visible around her neck. She smiled. So did Shane. He wore a blue camisole of strict cut, its deep shade emphasising the colour of his eyes. He stood straight and confident. He had matured. It was obvious to everyone — in the line of his shoulders, in his restrained smile, in the way people instinctively stepped aside to let him pass. But as he entered, he paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the heads of the guests. He was searching. And he couldn’t find her. First, he saw backs, shoulders, the gleam of epaulettes, unfamiliar profiles, unfamiliar expressions. Yet his gaze did not stop. It moved on, stubbornly, persistently, as if his life depended on it. There she was! The familiar line of her neck. Light brown curls. The turn of her head. And his heart gave a short, almost painful thump. It was him. Rozanov stood slightly to one side, a glass of champagne in his hand. The black doublet fit him differently than before — more strictly, more tightly around the shoulders, emphasising the line of his back. The dark fabric made him look paler, sharper, as if carved from cold stone. The smile disappeared from his face. When their eyes met across the room, the music fell silent for both of them. Shane felt his mouth go dry. No gestures. No words. Only the distance of the room — and the tension, almost physical. The grand piano began to play. At first quietly, as if someone had gently touched the strings, testing the silence. Then the sound spread throughout the hall, filling the space between the columns, gliding across the marble floor. Shane offered Rose his hand. — May I? — he asked. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. There was a soft, bright warmth in her gaze, without a shadow of doubt. Trust. And a quiet, almost girlish joy, as if she had been saving this moment in advance. Her light, warm fingers fell into his outstretched palm. Once again, she smelled faintly of jasmine. For a split second, their hands remained like that, touching, before they took a step. Then they moved to the centre of the room, and the space in front of them suddenly opened up — the guests’ gazes, the candlelight, the music that had grown louder. The dance began smoothly — a step, a turn, a gentle glide across the parquet floor. Rose moved easily, almost weightlessly. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his palm on her waist, impeccably correct. But Shane’s gaze found Ilya again. He didn’t move. He just stared, without looking away. There was no greeting or bow in that gaze. Only a force that drew him in, clouding his mind. Holland made a turn — and lost sight of him for a moment. His heart skipped a beat. When the music brought them back, Ilya was no longer standing alone. Next to him was a woman. Tall, with bare shoulders, in a dark dress that emphasised the line of her neck. The fabric softly hugged her figure, her hair falling in thick waves down her back. Ilya leaned towards her — closer than social etiquette allowed. Almost intimately. They joined the circle of dancers. Rozanov led confidently. Without haste. Without unnecessary ostentation — but with a calm determination that in itself expressed danger. His hand rested on the girl’s back lower than was customary. His fingers slid — slowly, deliberately, without fuss. So provocatively, so emphatically freely that it bordered on indecency. The woman laughed and threw her head back, exposing the upper line of her décolletage. Ilya did not look at her. Not at her dazzling smile. Not at her bare shoulders. The music picked up speed. Rose felt the tension but didn’t understand its nature. She squeezed her fingers a little tighter on Shane’s shoulder, as if wanting to regain his attention. He responded with a movement, gently leading her into the turn. His hand on her waist tightened. He leaned closer and whispered something. — Did you see that? — Rose smiled, and it was almost a happy smile. But when he looked up again, there was cold determination in his eyes. If Ilya wanted to see, he would see. It was a duel. Shane spun Rose faster than the rhythm demanded. Light danced through her hair, the fabric of her dress rising in a soft wave. They had both changed — and they both saw it. Words were no longer necessary. Their very silence screamed that the old world had collapsed, leaving them standing on the ashes of who they used to be. And that was why the silence was louder than the music. A turn. Another. Ilya pulled his partner closer — too close. Shane felt something ache inside him. He responded in kind — not with gestures, but with precision. His hand on Rose’s waist became more confident, his movements smoother, closer. He leaned towards her, allowing himself a soft, rare smile. Rose looked up at him — and for a moment, the whole world disappeared for her. But not for him. He saw only careless curls, a direct gaze, a tense line of lips. The music reached its climax. They spun in the same space, almost close, without touching — like two orbits that had no right to intersect. When the music faded, the couples stopped. Bows. Smiles. Applause. Shane let go of Rose’s hand. Ilya let go of his partner. And for a moment, before the crowd separated them, they stood facing each other across the hall — as if everything else was just a backdrop for this meeting.

***

The hall they had slipped into was dark and empty. The silence after the orchestra was deafening. Only the faint light of candles barely illuminated the corners, reflecting off the polished columns, leaving a thick, almost palpable silence between them and the surrounding world. No laughter, no conversation — only heavy, steady breathing and hearts ready to burst out. Shane looked at Ilya like never before. His eyes, full of pain and tension, squeezed every particle, every feature. Holland had barely closed the door when Ilya pinned him against the wall. The smells mingled: the frosty wind, horse leather and bitter tobacco from Ilya, and sterile cleanliness, wax and heavy perfume from Shane. — Didn’t you miss me? — Ilya whispered softly into his lips. There was so much venom and anguish in that whisper that Shane shuddered. It echoed all the bitter separation, every day of loneliness, every moment spent without him. Shane clenched his jaw and froze. Anger and confusion mixed inside him into a lump that was ready to explode: — You’re impossible! — Shane grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, crumpling the expensive fabric. His voice broke out, almost breaking, because all the pain that had been building up for months couldn’t fit inside. — Five months… not a word… and you show up here and make this scene! Their silence became heavy, almost suffocating. They stood side by side, but between them was a chasm as long as their separation, full of loss, emptiness, and longing. — I… missed you so much… — Ilya finally said, stepping closer. He grabbed Shane’s wrists, pressing them against the stone. — I was dying there without you, while you were here playing happy family with that pink doll. His fingers trembled, but his grip was firm. He pulled Shane towards him, their lips finding each other in a kiss that was both greedy and painful. It was like a fight. There was no tenderness in it — only hunger, accumulated over endless days of loneliness. Their teeth clashed, the taste of blood on their lips mingling with the taste of champagne. They literally bit into each other, trying to make up for everything the crown had taken from them. It was a kiss that contained everything: jealousy, desire, an insatiable thirst for possession, burning pain and relief at the same time. Their hands searched passionately for each other, but cautiously, as if afraid of breaking the thin line between reality and dream. — I want you so much… — Ilya gasped, catching his breath. — Right here, to hell with dinner, to hell with the ambassadors… — Go to hell… — Shane moaned, unable to tear himself away from his neck. His fingers dug into Rozanov’s grown-out curls, holding him back, not letting him move an inch. And again, a kiss. Deeper, more eager than before. It was as if time was lining up around their desires, compressing into a single point — and they both fell into it without reserve. The world outside demanded responsibility. It demanded oaths and dynastic alliances. — We have to go… — Ilya was the first to find the strength to pull away. He adjusted Shane’s doublet, his fingers lingering for a moment on the royal chain on his chest. — They’re waiting for us. Your princess is waiting. — Stupid dinner, — Shane muttered, restoring his mask of cold composure. He adjusted the buttons on his collar, but his eyes still shone feverishly. They entered the hall, where the table was laden with exquisite delicacies: plates of fruit, dishes with fragrant herbs, desserts with delicate icing. The tablecloths were white, the glasses clinked, and music once again enveloped the guests. But for Shane and Ilya, all this was just background noise. They walked side by side, their hands barely touching, smiling and nodding to people. Shane sat at the head of the table. Rose gently touched his elbow, smiling sweetly and sharing her warmth. Ilya sat opposite the princess, next to the generals. Hollanders made small talk with the ambassador, discussing grain taxes and duties. Under the heavy oak tabletop, hidden by a long brocade tablecloth that reached the floor, he felt movement. Ilya did not reach for his hand. Instead, he slowly, almost lazily, ran the toe of his boot along Shane’s shin, moving higher, towards his knee. It was done with such playful confidence that Shane caught his breath for a moment, right in the middle of a sentence. Through the fabric of his trousers, he felt the warmth of another man’s body, a sensual, insistent pressure that did not fit in with the formal atmosphere of the room. Shane forced himself not to flinch. He continued the conversation, but his voice dropped an octave, taking on a dangerous, hoarse rasp. Ilya nodded intently to the treasurer, maintaining a mask of polite attention on his face, but his leg continued its slow, teasing journey, caressing the inside of Shane’s thigh like a master. It was unbearable — warm, passionate, and so explicit that a wave of heat ran through Shane’s skin. Under the table, in the darkness hidden from everyone, their closeness was the only truth, while above the table they continued to play their roles in a room full of lies.