Chapter 5: The Firebrand and the Forge
The carriage clattered through the narrow, winding streets of Kiev, wheels cutting through slush and frozen mud. Lantern light flickered off shuttered windows. Cloaked in a wool coat and silence, Mikhail felt the tension coil in his chest.
He was far from the polished halls of the Winter Palace. Here, revolution simmered beneath layers of snow and civility.
The carriage stopped before a nondescript townhouse with iron-barred windows and ivy strangling its brickwork. Mikhail stepped down, boots crunching on ice. The doorman gave a nod—prearranged, discreet—and opened the door.
Inside was warmth, and danger.
The parlor was filled with books, maps, scattered newspapers. A samovar hissed gently on a table near the fireplace. Catherine Volenskaya stood at its center like a queen in exile.
She wore a deep red velvet coat over a corseted black dress, her dark hair braided and coiled like a crown. Her eyes—sharp and unreadable—tracked him as he entered.
"You came," she said. "That makes you either brilliant, or a fool."
"I like to think it’s both," Mikhail replied, removing his gloves.
She poured tea and gestured to a chair. "You write like a bureaucrat. But your ideas are weapons."