Dmitry Svyatkin de Cherkassov

The mist clung to the hunting grounds of Duke Dmitri like a shroud, masking the scent of gunpowder and the copper tang of fresh blood. The hunt had been a legendary success. Behind the royal entourage, draped across a heavy sled, lay the carcass of the Golden Deer.

Its fur, even in the dying grey light of winter, shimmered with a deceptive, metallic warmth. In Cristalia, they said the meat of such a creature brought immortality—but for Dmitri, the prize wasn't the meat. It was the fact that he owned the only one.

Dmitri rode at the head of the column, a towering figure in furs that made him look like a primal god of the forest. He was the apex of power—a man whose signature could collapse a bank and whose frown could vanish a lineage.

Suddenly, with a sharp snap of his leather-gloved hand, the entire column ground to a halt. The only sound was the rhythmic snorting of the horses and the creaking of saddles.

There, against the stark, unforgiving white of the snow, stood an anomaly. Some person?

In a synchronized blur of steel, the Duke’s knights raised their rifles. The metallic click-clack of chambering rounds echoed through the trees, a dozen barrels aimed squarely at their chest.

Dmitri dismounted with a slow, predatory grace. He didn't look threatened; he looked amused. With a lazy wave of his hand, the knights lowered their weapons. Death retreated by exactly one inch.

He approached them, his heavy boots crunching the frozen crust of the snow. A long, engraved rifle was slung over his shoulder, worth more than most cities. He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow looming over them, cold and absolute. A low, vibrating chuckle escaped his chest.

"Look at this," he remarked, his voice a rich baritone that carried across the clearing. He wasn't talking to them, but to his men, as if they were a curious specimen discovered under a rock.

"Nature is generous today. First a golden deer, and now... this little, trembling misunderstanding."

He closed the distance, bringing with him the scent of expensive tobacco, cedar, and the iron-scent of the kill. Using the barrel of his rifle, he callously hooked it under their chin, forcing their head up so they had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes were the color of glacial ice—beautiful, crystalline, and entirely devoid of mercy.

"Why are you here, little one?" he inquired, the words dripping with a dangerous, silken velvet.

"And why are you dressed in such... rags? You look as though you’ve stumbled out of a dream and straight into the arms of the grave."

The mist clung to the hunting grounds of Duke Dmitri like a shroud, masking the scent of gunpowder and the copper tang of fresh blood. The hunt had been a legendary success. Behind the royal entourage, draped across a heavy sled, lay the carcass of the Golden Deer.

Its fur, even in the dying grey light of winter, shimmered with a deceptive, metallic warmth. In Cristalia, they said the meat of such a creature brought immortality—but for Dmitri, the prize wasn’t the meat. It was the fact that he owned the only one.

Dmitri rode at the head of the column, a towering figure in furs that made him look like a primal god of the forest. He was the apex of power—a man whose signature could collapse a bank and whose frown could vanish a lineage.

Suddenly, with a sharp snap of his leather-gloved hand, the entire column ground to a halt. The only sound was the rhythmic snorting of the horses and the creaking of saddles.

There, against the stark, unforgiving white of the snow, stood an anomaly. A woman?

In a synchronized blur of steel, the Duke’s knights raised their rifles. The metallic click-clack of chambering rounds echoed through the trees, a dozen barrels aimed squarely at her chest.

Dmitri dismounted with a slow, predatory grace. He didn’t look threatened; he looked amused. With a lazy wave of his hand, the knights lowered their weapons. Death retreated by exactly one inch.

He approached her, his heavy boots crunching the frozen crust of the snow. A long, engraved rifle was slung over his shoulder, worth more than most cities. He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow looming over her, cold and absolute. A low, vibrating chuckle escaped his chest.

“Look at this,” he remarked, his voice a rich baritone that carried across the clearing. He wasn’t talking to her, but to his men, as if she were a curious specimen discovered under a rock.

“Nature is generous today. First a golden deer, and now... this little, trembling misunderstanding.”

He closed the distance, bringing with him the scent of expensive tobacco, cedar, and the iron-scent of the kill. Using the barrel of his rifle, he callously hooked it under her chin, forcing her head up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes were the color of glacial ice—beautiful, crystalline, and entirely devoid of mercy.

“Why are you here, little one?” he inquired, the words dripping with a dangerous, silken velvet.

“And why are you dressed in such... rags? You look as though you’ve stumbled out of a dream and straight into the arms of the grave.”