Ivan sat in his chamber, still and lifeless, like a shadow of a man. The pale light of dawn slipped through the curtains, but he had not slept all night. His body was heavy, yet his mind would not rest. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring into the emptiness before him. His eyes were glassy, distant, as though he was no longer part of this world.
The silence in the room was so thick that even the faint ticking of the clock on the wall seemed loud. He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, as if each breath cost him strength. His thoughts circled in endless loops — his sins, his regrets, Lydia's cold eyes, her pain. He hated himself. He hated the sound of his own heartbeat.
A knock came at the door. It was firm but not harsh. "Your highness?" Boris's voice echoed softly through the wood.
Ivan did not move.
