Chapter 6: The road to Russia

The letter arrived with the weight of fate itself. Sealed with golden wax, marked by the emblem of Russia's imperial Court, it found us in the velvet - wrapped Chambers of a French Palace, where the air still hummed with the echoes of whispered secrets and hurried escapes. Months had passed since then - months of restless travel, of hiding in candlelit inns and stealing kisses in quiet corners of foreign streets. And now, as the wheels of our carriage grounded against the frozen earth, the grand city of St. Petersburg loomed before us.

Russia. A land of cruel winters and lavish feasts, where emperors and expresses ruled with a strength colder than the ice on the Neva River. I had pictured a man waiting for us - a ruler as harsh and unyielding as the land of governed. But fate, ever the playwright of irony, had other plans.

The emperor had summoned us.

I sat across from Anthony, watching him through the dim light that filtered into the carriage. He was wrapped in a dark wool coat, lined with fur to keep the bitter cold at bay. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the window, where a landscape of white stretched endlessly in every direction. He had been quiet for most of the journey.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, leaning forward.

"That I hope the emperor has good taste in music." He murmured, turning his gaze toward me. A small smile played at the corner of his lips, but there was something else beneath it. A hesitation.

"You worry," I observed.

"I always worry."

The truth was, so did i. Invitations from monarchs were never simple affairs. They were layered, laced with intentions unspoken, and more often than not, they ended in disaster. And yet, here we were, rolling steadily toward yet another grand Court, as if we had not already danced too close to ruin.

The city revealed itself slowly, rising through the mist like a dream half-formed. St. Petersburg, in its winter majesty, was a thing of impossible beauty - domed cathedrals gleaming with gold, palaces sprawling along frozen canals, statues standing guard like silent sentinels of an empire too vast to be contained. The air smelled of snow and candle wax, of burning wood and something else - something electric, as if the city itself was waiting for something to happen.

By the time we reached the Palace, dusk had settled, and the sky burned with the last embers of daylight. The gates swung open, revealing a courtyard blanketed in untouched snow, where carriages stood like dark, elegant beasts. We were ushered inside, past towering marble columns and gilded walls, the floors beneath us polished to a mirrors sheen.

And then - her.

The emperor of Russia was not a man at all, but a woman with eyes as shap as a daggers edge. She stood at the far end of the great hall, dressed in deep blue silk, her hair gathered in elaborate golden braids. There was something unsettling familiar about her - a quiet power that did not need to be spoken to be understood.

She smiled. "Gentleman. Welcome."

Anthony bowed first, graceful as ever, and i followed, ever the charming liar.

"Your majesty," I said, offering my most winning smile. "We are honered."

"Are you?" She asked, tilting her head. "Or are you simply curious?"

I laughed, because there was no point in pretending otherwise. "Both, I suppose."

The empress let out a soft hum of amusement before turning to Anthony. "They say you have a voice that make men weap. Is that true?"

Anthony hesitated, then nodded. "I have been told so."

"Then you shall sing for us tonight," she declared, as if it had already been decided. "But first, you will dance."

A grand ballroom awaited us, its chandeliers casting golden light across the marble floor. Music swelled from a hidden quartz, and suddenly, we were swept into the arms of something dangerous and exhilarating. I was no stranger to dancing, but Anthony... he moved with a kind of ease that left no room for doubt. His hand found mine - strong, steady, sure.

"You're enjoying this," I murmured, breathless.

"Are you not?" He countered, shining me with a practiced grace.

I was. I hated that I was.

The night unfolded in a blur of movement and laughter, of whispered words and stolen glances. We dined beneath candlelight, feasting on meats seasoned with spices I could not name, on fruits too sweet to be real. And then, finally, the moment arrived.

Anthony stepped onto the small stage, the room falling silent as he took his place. His eyes found mine for the briefest of seconds before he began to sing.

And then-

A sound. A shift.

The doors slammed shut.

Guards appeared as if conjured from the very walls. A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. I turned, searching for the empress, but she remained seated, her expression bot readable just like Anthony's usually is.

From the shadows, a man stepped forward.

Not just any man.

The Vatican.

I knew it before he spoke, before the guards seized our arms, before the weight if what was happening settled un my chest like a stone. The church had found us.

"Jack Brown. Anthony Cane," The man's voice was cold. "You will come with us."

Anthony tensed beside me, but he did not fight. Not yet.

I met the man's gaze, spreading a fake smile across my face. "I was rather enjoying the evening. Must we?"

The guards pulled us forward.

The empress said nothing.

And just like that, the night came crashing down.

---

The road stretched before us like a slow, unrolling thread of fate, winding through snow - laden forests and frozen rivers, each turn leading us further from freedom. The carriage rattled over uneven ground, its wheels carving shallow scars into the frost - bitten earth. The vatican had wasted no time. We were bound for Venice - our so - called home - where the weight of our crimes would be measured, judged, and punished accordingly.

The air inside the carriage was thick with silence. Anthony sat across from me, his hands bound, his posture rigid. He had spoken little since our capture, his mind likely tangled in the same impossible thoughts as mine. Escape. Survival. The cruel joke of it all was that we had been in this position before. Shackled, accused, staring down the unforgiving hand of justice. But this time, the gallows felt closer.

I exhaled sharply, watching as my breath curled into the cold air. "Tell me, dear Anthony, have you any brilliant schemes tucked away in that gorgeous head of yours?"

Anthony lifted his gaze, his dark eyes wandering not quite able to render our situation. "If I did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"A shame. I was rather hoping for a miracle."

He sighed, shifting slightly against the wooden seat. "Miracles are for men who pray."

"Ah," I mused. "And here I thought we were being tried for heresy."

The words settled between us like a slow-moving poison. The vatican had accused us of many things - heresy, defiance, sin. But what it truly came down to was power. The church had spent centuries shaping the world as it saw fit. And men like us - free men, godless men, men who dared to love without their permission- were dangerous.

Outside, the scenery changed, the endless stretch of Russian white giving way to dark forests and low valleys. We were crossing into lands where the air smelled of damp earth instead of ice, where the rivers ran black beneath the moonlight. The thought struck me, sudden and unwelcome: this might be the last time I see the world from outside a prison cell.

Anthony must have seen something in my expression because his voice softened. "We've gotten out of worse."

I let out a short laugh. "Have we?"

"We will," he corrected, though the conviction in his voice wavered.

We spoke of plans then, useless as they were. Could we bribe the guards? No, they were vatican men - more devoted to their cause than to coin. Overpower them? Difficult, given our restraints and their number. Escape on route? Perhaps, but where would we go? The world had already turned its back in us. Every road led to the sake gallows.

The conversation died there, snuffed out like the lost flicker of a candle...

---

Venice.

It should have felt like a homecoming, but there was no warmth in its embrace. The canals still gleamed under the midday sun, the air still carried the scent of alt and age, but Venice was not ours anymore. We were brought to the courts, where men in robes sat high above us, their expressions carved from stone.

The trial was fierce.

A list of our sins was read aloud, our supposed crimes woven into something monstrous. We had abandoned the church. We had lived as deceivers. We had corrupted the sacred order of men and women. I stood there, listening to my own life being written, and I found myself almost amused by the dramatics of it all.

Anthony, ever the wiser, held his tongue.

The sentence came swiftly, as it always did in matters where mercy was but a ghost of an idea.

Blasphemy.

Heresy.

Defiance of the church.

For such crimes, the punishment was severe decades of imprisonment, a lifetime behind stone walls. The weight of it settled into my bones as the guards led us away their grip firm, their faces unreadable.

I turned to Anthony as we walked. "Well," I said, "at least they didn't burn us."

He didn't laugh.

The cell awaited us like a grave left open.

It was high in one of the prison towers, accessible only by a winding stone staircase that spiraled upward in endless coils. Each step we climbed felt heavier than the last, as I'd the weight of our fate grew with rhe ascent.

The room itself was small, it's walls thick with centuries of damp and despair. Two beds, old and stiff with time, stood against opposite walls. A single, narrow window allowed a silver of moonlight to cut through the darkness. In the corner sat a crude wooden bucket - the only concession to our dignity.

It was not the worst place I had been imprisoned.

But it was certainly not the best.

I ran a hand along the stone wall, feeling the cold seep into my skin. "Charming," I muttered. "Truly."

Anthony sat on the edge of one of the beds, his expression new and cold. He said in silence.

Weirdly, for the first time since this nightmare began, I didn't have a clue what to say either.