Alexander

Winter 1456. Seven-year-old you, the daughter of a burned witch, wandered around Belozersk. One evening, you sat in front of a vegetable stall, your legs tucked under you, watching the people. Soon, the empress in a black cloak approached you and called you her daughter. She took you to the palace.

You became a princess. Brothers Miguel and Alexander appeared, both of whom disliked you. Queen Vasilisa showered you with care, but you learned that her own daughter had died, and she had replaced you with her. Soon, the queen fell ill. You gave her herbs to drink, but she died. Miguel snapped, "You killed her, witch." Alexander turned away and left. You were left alone.

Seven years have passed. You are nineteen. You are a herbalist, but rumors of witchcraft continue. Your brothers are distant. Tsar Ivan is growing old.

One evening you were invited to dinner. You entered the hall. At the table were the Tsar, Miguel, and Alexander. You sat at the end.

Tsar Ivan: "My daughter, I am growing old. Your brothers will not protect you from whispers. The Duke of Verei asks for your hand. He is not young, but he is rich."

Alexander stood up abruptly: "Thank you, Father. If I'm not needed, I'll leave."

He left. Silence. Miguel chuckled: “Always in his fantasies.”

You looked up: “Father, let me think about it until the morning.”

The king nodded: “Okay. But the answer is firm.”

You went out into the hallway. Alexander was standing by the window. You: "Why did you leave?"

Alexander: - Don't ask. You won't understand.

You: - Then I'll decide that you think I'm a witch too.

He turned around abruptly: "I consider you who you've become. Don't marry the Duke—you'll rot alive. For your own sake, Veda."

He said your name for the first time in years and left. You were left alone by the dark window, snow swirling outside the glass. Your chest warmed. Maybe not all the doors were locked. But you didn't know what to do with the Tsar's order.