CHAPTER 92: YOU DIDN’T WIN

It was the third night since the fight at the mountain pass. The sea air was colder now, crueler. Waves crashed against the rocks with angry force. The sky was still dark, though a faint glow had started to rise in the east. Ivan stood silently near the edge of the cliff, where the path met the sea. He had not moved in hours. His boots were buried in snow. The hood of his coat was pushed back, letting the wind bite his ears and sting his face. He didn’t care.

The cold clung to him like a second skin. His fingers had long since gone numb inside his gloves, but he didn’t move them. Every breath he took hurt his lungs. The salt in the air burned his throat. Still, he didn’t step back. Something inside him felt frozen, but it wasn’t just his body. It was something deeper.

Below him, men from the village were still searching. They moved carefully along the jagged rocks, their torches flickering like small stars. One of them waded waist-deep into the icy shallows, checking for anything the waves might have pushed forward.

Ivan’s arms were crossed tightly against his chest. But it wasn’t the cold that made his jaw tight. It was the wait. The silence. The question that had not left his mind since the moment Ruslan vanished beneath the water.

Was he dead?

He kept going back to the moment—Ruslan slipping, the splash, the silence after. It played in his head over and over, like a punishment.

Beside him, Nikolai walked up quietly. His coat was dusted with snow, and his breath came out in visible puffs.

"My men are still searching," Nikolai said. "One of Ruslan’s men fled, but he was wounded. He couldn’t have gotten far. We’ll find him soon."

Ivan didn’t answer.

Nikolai paused, then added, "Your Highness, you should leave. Let us handle it from here. We’ll bring you his body as soon as we find it."

Ivan slowly turned his head toward him. His eyes were empty, almost hollow.

"No," he said. "I won’t leave. Not until I see him. Not until I know. I’ll drain this entire sea if I have to."

Nikolai didn’t argue. He only nodded and gave a quick order to the men below to keep searching.

The wind picked up again, fiercer this time, as if trying to tear Ivan from the edge. Snow slapped across his face. Still, he didn’t blink. The salt from the sea stung his throat. But he stayed, watching. Waiting. His body felt numb, but his mind was wide awake. Every crashing wave sounded like a scream in his ears.

He thought of Lydia. Of the promises he’d made. The danger that had followed them for years. Ruslan was a shadow that never disappeared. Even in death, he didn’t go quietly.

---

The third morning arrived with heavy clouds and cruel wind. The sun barely made it past the grey. The snow hadn’t stopped falling.

Ivan stood exactly where he had the night before, staring into the same waters. The wind had turned his cheeks red, and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t spoken since before sunrise. The pain in his legs had gone hours ago. Now there was only cold—and determination.

Suddenly, a voice cried out from below.

"We found something!"

Ivan’s heart stopped. He turned sharply. Nikolai was already rushing down the hill, slipping over stones. Ivan followed, boots crunching and sliding on ice.

They reached the shore together, pushing past the other men.

There, lodged between two jagged rocks, was the body.

Bloated. Twisted. Barely human anymore.

The current had dragged it across the sharp underwater cliffs, smashing bone, tearing skin. The black coat was in shreds. But the ring remained. The silver insignia glinted faintly in the pale morning light.

Nikolai crouched and examined the body with careful hands. "It’s him," he said. "No doubt. The ring, the build. The face is completely smashed but you can still see the scar across his arm. It’s Ruslan."

Ivan didn’t move. He just stared.

This was the man who haunted his youth. Who ruined his peace. Who nearly took everything.

He felt nothing.

No joy. No relief. No pain.

Just... emptiness.

He stepped closer. The stench was overwhelming. Still, he looked down, eyes narrowing.

The fire scars were still faintly visible across what remained of Ruslan’s shoulder and side.

It was him.

Ivan let out a breath.

"Bury him," he said finally. "No stone. No name. Just the earth."

Nikolai nodded and gave the order.

Ivan turned without another word and began walking back to the village.

The snow fell heavier now. The village of Novostav was quiet, almost as if it too was holding its breath.

Ivan walked with his head low. His boots dragged slightly. His limbs were heavy. It felt like everything inside him had gone cold. Not from the weather, but from the truth. Even with Ruslan dead, the hole in his chest hadn’t closed. The silence had only grown louder.

The streets were empty. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, but no voices came from the houses. People stayed inside. Perhaps they sensed something had ended—or perhaps something darker had just begun.

As he reached the end of the road, his eyes lifted. Just ahead, sitting quietly by a bare tree, was the healer’s cottage. The same place where Ruslan’s mother lived.

Ivan stood there for a long time.

The branches of the tree beside the cottage creaked with frost. A crow flapped its wings and flew off, its cry sharp in the cold morning.

Then, almost without thinking, he turned and walked toward it.

He knocked gently.

A woman in her forties opened the door, wrapped in a wool shawl. Her eyes were cautious.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Ivan forced a polite smile. "I’m a friend of Ruslan’s," he said. "I came to see his mother."

Her eyes softened. "Come in."

He stepped inside. The warmth of the cottage wrapped around him like a blanket. A soft fire crackled in the hearth. The healer led him down a narrow hall to a small room.

There was a faint scent of herbs. The walls were lined with jars. The floor creaked beneath their steps.

Ruslan’s mother lay on a low bed, covered in thick blankets. Her skin was pale, her cheeks hollow. Her breathing was slow.

"Mama," the healer said gently. "A friend of Ruslan’s has come."

The old woman opened her eyes.

They were faded. But not blind.

She looked at Ivan for a long time. Then, her mouth curved slightly.

"You must be Ivan."

Ivan froze.

"He told me about you," she said softly. "Years ago. In a letter."

Ivan nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.

She reached out a trembling hand.

He took it.

Her fingers were fragile. Almost weightless. But they held his hand with surprising strength.

"He said you were the only one who ever made him feel human," she whispered. "He said you were like a little brother to him."

Ivan lowered his head.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly.

She closed her eyes again. "Don’t be. It’s not your fault he died. It’s mine. I fell sick and he had to join the army because of me."

She didn’t cry. Maybe she had already cried herself dry. Or maybe some grief runs too deep for tears.

He didn’t stay long.

When he stepped out of the cottage, the air hit him again. This time, he felt it.

The wind was colder. Sharper. But it wasn’t enough to distract him from the ache inside his ribs.

Nikolai was waiting a few paces away.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just said, "We found him."

---

The wounded soldier. Ruslan’s last remaining man.

He was found bleeding in a shed behind an old barn, hiding under sacks of hay. His wound was festering, his eyes glassy with fever.

The smell of rot hit them before they even opened the door.

But when they dragged him into the main cottage, he still had a wicked smile.

Ivan stepped inside, followed by Nikolai. The soldier sat slumped on a stool, blood soaking through his uniform.

His face was pale, lips cracked, but his grin still curled like a knife.

Ivan stared at him.

"He has no use anyway," he said. "General Petrov, kill him."

Nikolai stepped forward and drew his sword.

But the man spoke. His voice low. Sharp.

"Do you think you’ve won?"

Ivan paused.

The man grinned wider, blood on his teeth.

"She’s probably dead by now."

Ivan turned slowly.

"What did you say?"

The soldier laughed. "You think General Zaitsev came here without a plan? That he didn’t know it was a trap? He knew. He made sure you’d lose no matter what. He gave one final order. Kill the Grand Duchess."

Nikolai’s hand froze. Ivan stood like stone.

The man leaned forward, eyes burning. "If you leave now, maybe you’ll make it back in time for her funeral. That is, if her body hasn’t started to rot by now."

Silence.

Then...

Ivan snapped.

He grabbed Nikolai’s sword straight from his hand.

In one motion, he drove it through the man’s chest.

The smile faded instantly. The soldier let out a choking sound. Then slumped forward.

Dead.

Ivan let go of the hilt. His hands trembled.

His breathing was loud. Harsh. Wild.

The whole room felt like it was spinning.

Nikolai stared at him. But said nothing.

Because they both knew...

There was no time to waste.