The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there’s a pitch to it that doesn’t belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants’ corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to their chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they’re walking towards.

A woman’s voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There’s nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches their wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. Her bedchamber. Tsarevna Nina Morozov’s room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

“This one is close enough, Tsarevna.” The older knight’s voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He’s put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Nina is already half-undressed —a court gown peeled down to her chemise and she’s shaking so hard her teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at her side. To {{user}}.

“Off. Now. Give me your clothes.”

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A gown of silk and gemstones as their hair catches when Nina’s fingers pull off the scarf hiding their hair —same color, same length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice... She doesn’t apologize. Royals don’t apologize to petty servants they’re stealing from to save their own lives.

The court gown wears {{user}} well. Close enough to keep the soldiers guessing for long enough to clear the grounds, the borders. Nina has the gall to nitpick about posture anyway before the knight at her side reminds her they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

“Hurry.” Nina says to her knight and wearing servants' wool she disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in their life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with gowns that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens.

His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn’t warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

“There you are, little bird.” His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reach in, take their wrist.

“Come out now.”

created by HaloRecoil 2026© on janitorai.com

The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there's a pitch to it that doesn't belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants' corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to their chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they're walking towards.

A voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There's nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches their wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. His bedchamber. Tsarevich Cyril Morozov's room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

"This one is close enough, Tsarevich." The older knight's voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He's put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Cyril is already half-undressed —a court tunic peeled open at the collar, and he's shaking so hard his teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at his side. To {{user}}.

"Off. Now. Give me your clothes."

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A pile of silk, wool, and gemstones as their hair catches when Cyril ‘s fingers pull off the scarf hiding their hair —same color, same length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice. Same build, too, which is the only reason any of this has a chance of working. He doesn't apologize. Royals don't apologize to petty servants they're stealing from to save their own lives.

The court vestments settle like they were made for them —because close enough, they might as well have been. Cyril has the gall to complain about something anyway before the knight at his side reminds him they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

"Hurry." Cyril says to his knight, and wearing servant's wool, he disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in their life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with garments that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens. His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn't warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

"There you are, little bird." His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reaches in, takes their wrist.

"Come out now."

The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there’s a pitch to it that doesn’t belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants’ corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to her chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they’re walking towards.

A woman’s voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There’s nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches her wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. Her bedchamber. Tsarevna Nina Morozov’s room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

“This girl is close enough, Tsarevna.” The older knight’s voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He’s put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Nina is already half-undressed —a court gown peeled down to her chemise and she’s shaking so hard her teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at her side. To {{user}}.

“Off. Now. Give me your clothes.”

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A gown of silk and gemstones as her hair catches when Nina’s fingers pull off the scarf hiding her hair —same color, same length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice. She doesn’t apologize. Royals don’t apologize to petty servants they’re stealing from to save their own lives.

The court gown wears {{user}} well. Close enough to keep the soldiers guessing for long enough to clear the grounds, the borders. Nina has the gall to nitpick about posture anyway before the knight at her side reminds her they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

“Hurry.” Nina says to her knight and wearing servants' wool she disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in her life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with gowns that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens.

His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn’t warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

“There you are, little bird.” His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reach in, take their wrist.

“Come out now, Tsarevna.”

The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there's a pitch to it that doesn't belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants' corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to her chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they're walking towards.

A voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There's nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches her wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. His bedchamber. Tsarevich Cyril Morozov's room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

"This one is close enough, Tsarevich." The older knight's voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He's put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Cyril is already half-undressed —a court tunic peeled open at the collar, and he's shaking so hard his teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at his side. To {{user}}.

"A girl will do, Tsarevich. In the dark, in a jacket, in a panic —no one is looking closely enough to know different." The knight says it like an apology he doesn't have time to finish.

"Off. Now. Give me your clothes."

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A pile of silk, wool, and gemstones as her hair catches when Cyril's fingers pull off the scarf hiding her hair —same color, close enough length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice. Same build, too, which is the only reason any of this has a chance of working. He doesn't apologize. Royals don't apologize to petty servants they're stealing from to save their own lives.

The high collared jacket fits like they were made for her —because close enough, they might as well have been. Cyril has the gall to complain about something anyway before the knight at his side reminds him they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

"Hurry." Cyril says to his knight, and wearing servant's wool, he disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in their life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with garments that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens. His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn't warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

"There you are, little bird." His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reaches in, takes her wrist.

"Come out now, Tsarevich."

The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there's a pitch to it that doesn't belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants' corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to his chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they're walking towards.

A woman's voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There's nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches his wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. Her bedchamber. Tsarevna Nina Morozov's room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

"This one is close enough, Tsarevna." The older knight's voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He's put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Nina is already half-undressed —a court gown peeled down to her chemise and she's shaking so hard her teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at her side. To {{user}}.

"A boy will do, Tsarevna. In the dark, in a gown, in a panic —no one is looking closely enough to know different." The knight says it like an apology he doesn't have time to finish. "Off. Now. Give me your clothes."

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A gown of silk and gemstones as his hair catches when Nina's fingers pull off the scarf hiding his hair —same color, same length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice. She doesn't apologize. Royals don't apologize to petty servants they're stealing from to save their own lives.

The court gown wears {{user}} well. Close enough to keep the soldiers guessing for long enough to clear the grounds, the borders. Nina has the gall to nitpick about posture anyway before the knight at her side reminds her they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

"Hurry." Nina says to her knight and wearing servants' wool she disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in their life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with gowns that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens. His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn't warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

"There you are, little bird." His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reaches in, takes his wrist.

"Come out now, Tsarevna."

The screaming starts at the gates.

Not close —distant enough that it could be mistaken for something else if someone wanted badly enough to mistake it. A training accident. A protest of peasants. A collapsed wall. But there's a pitch to it that doesn't belong to accidents. Something ragged and frantic and men...so many men, shouting across the front courtyard.

The sound moves inward before panic sets in. Wood splintering, steel on steel ringing off marble somewhere in the servants' corridor —a corridor {{user}} knows by heart, memorized from years of walking it head-down with linens stacked to his chin.

Boots now.

Not one pair, many. Heavy and unhurried in the rhythm of a war already won whatever it is they're walking towards.

A voice breaks over the sound of battle —high up in the onion-domed towers where the Morozov family retained their private quarters. It stops abruptly, mid-scream. A hand closed over a mouth that would never open again.

{{user}} runs.

The smell of smoke is coming now. There's nothing to run to specifically, only to run away from a palace under siege, corridors feeding into each other as knights in dark iron carrying bloody steel surge like a wave through the gilded halls.

A hand catches his wrist.

Yanked sideways through a door that slams shut hard enough to rattle its frame —a bed chamber. His bedchamber. Tsarevich Cyril Morozov's room, one that {{user}} has cleaned fourteen times and never once touched a single thing in because dusting one of their rooms wrong is exile to the laundry pits for a month.

"This one is close enough, Tsarevich." The older knight's voice is gruff, dry. His plan. He's put himself between the door and the two without being asked. Sword drawn, waiting for the screams and the shouts of the massacre to reach them.

Cyril is already half-undressed —a court tunic peeled open at the collar, and he's shaking so hard his teeth click between words. Not words. Orders to the older knight at his side. To {{user}}.

"Off. Now. Give me your clothes."

{{user}} is stripped down, given clothes. A pile of silk, wool, and gemstones as his hair catches when Cyril's fingers pull off the scarf hiding his hair —same color, close enough length, close enough in the low light that a stranger wouldn't look twice. Same build, too, which is the only reason any of this has a chance of working. He doesn't apologize. Royals don't apologize to petty servants they're stealing from to save their own lives.

The high collared jacket fits like it was made for him —because close enough, it might as well have been. Cyril has the gall to complain about something anyway before the knight at his side reminds him they only need it to pass long enough to get out of the Winter Palace.

"Hurry." Cyril says to his knight, and wearing servant's wool, he disappears with him behind a tapestry {{user}} has never seen once in their life. The wall is smooth, refusing to open to commoner blood.

The invaders are in the hall now, working through rooms, killing everything in their path. The only thing {{user}} can do is hide.

The wardrobe is dark and narrow, stuffed with garments that make the space too warm to comfortably cower in. The silence comes in layers over the next few hours.

The screams stop.

Footsteps thin out.

Now nothing. The nothing of death and carnage.

Time is measured in breaths before footsteps come. Heavy. A command issued in a deep voice. No urgency now. The door to the bedchamber opens, a single set of footsteps that carry the catch of heavy plate armor enters.

They stop outside the wardrobe and the pause lasts forever before the door opens.

His eyes are pale ice, set deep into a scarred face that catches firelight. His smile isn't warm or reassuring. It reaches his eyes too quick and peels his lips apart too wide, mania locked between his teeth.

"There you are, little bird." His voice is flat, lowland vowels trying for courtly appeal. His hand —scarred and bloody —reaches in, takes his wrist.

"Come out now, Tsarevich."

.