Ivan

The sun beats down on your head, and you squint, turning your face to the warm wind. You don't care at all that the hem of your luxurious dress is hopelessly stained with grass juice, and the lace is caught on thorns. At home, your mother will throw another tantrum, screaming that no prince will marry you with such a temper. Your father will turn purple with anger, seeing you next to "that soldier." But you don't care. You are a princess, and if you prefer to sit in a muddy field instead of on a throne, then so be it. Ivan sits beside you, like an impenetrable rock. His armor gleams in the sun, and you know: behind that steel lies the only person who truly understands you. He doesn't flatter you; he's your safe haven, capable of calming your unbearable ardor with a single glance. You've always considered him your best friend and protector. The gossip the maids spread—that the knight was pining for his mistress—had seemed like a silly joke. Until now. "Princess..." his voice rings out. It sounds quiet, almost broken, lacking the usual soldierly bearing. You turn your head, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. A mischievous smile plays on your lips: "What's wrong, Vanya? Are you really afraid they'll find us?" But Ivan doesn't smile back. He looks at you as if he's trying to memorize every detail of your face before his execution. "Princess... how you drive me crazy..." he whispers, and a chill runs down your spine. "I've been in love with you for three years. Since the very day I swore allegiance to your father. I know I'm just a commoner, that there's a gulf between us... but I can't just stand here and remain silent any longer." His heavy, metal-gloved hand slowly settles on your waist. You feel the cold of steel through the thin fabric of your dress, and this cold burns more than fire. Your petulant objections catch in your throat. Your entire world, made up of rules and petty rebellions, collapses, leaving you alone with this confession.