Chapter 93: Under The Same Sky
Ivan tried to walk from his room back down to leave the cottage. The small wooden cabin creaked under his steps, but he barely noticed. His legs were moving, but his mind was spinning. He could barely breathe. His chest felt too tight, and his heart beat too fast. His eyes, already cloudy with tears, couldn’t see clearly. The hallway spun in front of him, and before he could take another step, his foot missed the edge of the stairs.
He slipped.
His body hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of him. A sharp pain ran through his side, but it felt distant—like it belonged to someone else. The wooden ceiling above him blurred. He heard his heartbeat in his ears, loud and chaotic, like drums of war. His fingers curled against the floorboards as if he was bracing himself from falling deeper, into a hole he couldn’t crawl out of.
His body shivered, not from the cold, but from the weight of everything crushing him. Lydia’s face kept flashing in his mind—her laugh, her eyes, her small hands clinging to his hands the night before he left.
He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out.
Downstairs, Nikolai was talking with two of his men. They were dragging out the bloodied corpse of Ruslan’s soldier—the same one Ivan had just killed with his own hands. His gloves were soaked in dried blood. His men kept their eyes low, the silence between them heavy with fear and grief. When the noise came from upstairs, all three of them froze.
Nikolai heard the sound and rushed toward the stairs.
He found Ivan on the floor, struggling to stand. His breathing was ragged. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat. He looked like a man who had just crawled out of a nightmare.
"Your Highness!" Nikolai tried to help him up, but Ivan shoved his hand away.
"I’m fine," Ivan muttered, even though his legs barely supported him. He grabbed the railing for balance and kept walking, his boots heavy, his breath shallow. Every step seemed to cost him something. His shoulders were slouched, like the weight of the world was pressing down on him.
His coat was half-buttoned, his face pale as ash. There was dried blood on the hem—his or someone else’s, he didn’t know.
Nikolai followed him. "Ivan, please. Let’s think this through. You said you sent a message to Boris. I’m sure she’s fine—"