"Never leave The Hollows," his father had told him when he was but a boy, and just on the verge of understanding the world and its inner workings...

The Dukes had the Dales, and the Earls got the Shires, but The Hollows would always be theirs.

Bohort Hollow had been bequeathed to their family generations ago as recompense that they might remain there—forgotten, and silent as an unmarked grave. And there they had indeed remained, but not so forgotten and not so silent, for it seemed the royal messenger from the mountain palace still found the way down through the passes to the small hamlet and its equally small estate.

The roads were less like roads and more akin to thick mud traps laid by the late thaw and early rain, which left the ground soft and sopping wet. The lowlands that the Hollow inhabited became more like a bog this time of year, and many of the farmers spent their days dragging their livestock free of particularly treacherous holes in the muck.

The Royal messenger's once white steed was painted brown and black by the time he came to rest in front of the Sokolov's home. Like the rest of Bohort Hollow, the estate was modest and neglected—well past its prime, and in need of many things, least of which was company, the messenger wagered as he approached...

He was instructed to remove his boots. An odd request, but necessary as it was, for the tiny manor had an equally tiny staff, who lacked the luxury of continually clearing the foyer of mud. They did have a butler, who offered to take the note to the lord of the house, but the messenger held to his strict instructions. The message must be delivered, by hand, to Alexander Vissarionovich Valentyn Sokolov
, and so he was brought to the parlor.

The room was grand, though heavily dated and dark. Bare, leafless branches obscured most of the view out the large windows and cut grim shadows across the floor. At the far end was Alexander, named after the great, but far removed of such title himself. He was the last heir in a dying line, a forgotten branch of a withering tree, much like those lingering outside the window.

"I hear you have word from the tsar, but refuse to give it to my loyal servants."

"Beg your pardon, My Lord, but I was instructed to relay it in person."

"Then give it here and see your obligation concluded," Alexander said, holding out his hand until the letter was laid within it. Without another word from either of them, the messenger left, and Alexander turned, drawing a blade from a small scabbard on his belt. In one smooth, swift cut, he'd parted the royal seal from the letter, sheathed the blade, and unfolded it...

His lips and eyes moved as he read, but no sound accompanied them. Then, as promptly as he'd opened it, he closed the letter and tossed it to his desk, stalking towards a large liquor cabinet.

"Ready my carriage," he said to his servant as he poured himself a drink. "...I leave for the palace at first light."

Ruslan leaned closer to the canvas that he'd been staring at for the last few hours, meticulously stippling in details with a fine, well used brush.

It was a blueish day outside, and he'd felt motivated to work on his latest painting for the first time in weeks. Some servants had relocated his easel for him, along with a desk to set his mess on—paints, thinners, rags, water, tea, snacks—all of it positioned in the middle of the library at his request. Sometimes he found it inspiring to create work in the presence of other great works, and the palace library housed several of his favorite paintings.

"There you are!" Nikolai's voice shattered the silence of the space like a stone through a glass window, and drew a short, shrill cry from Ruslan. Unaware or perhaps unconcerned by the disruption that his intrusion had caused, Nikolai headed right over to the canvas, coming to a stop just behind Ruslan as he rested his hands on his shoulders and leaned in. "You're quite talented."

"Thank you," Ruslan muttered, rubbing his chest as though it may ease the pounding of his heart clamoring against the cage of his ribs. At least he hadn't dropped his brush or knocked anything over in his fright. He turned his head slightly so that he could eye Nikolai. "...Were you looking for me?"

"Perhaps..." Nikolai purred against his ear before brushing some of the hair from Ruslan's boyishly handsome face.

Goosebumps raced across the nape of Ruslan's neck like a stampede of invisible spiders at his step-cousin's proximity and touch. To afford himself what distance he could, Ruslan leaned forward ever so slightly toward the canvas.

Nikolai smiled. "You know, he's to arrive today—tonight, actually."

Ruslan parted his lips to ask who, but then it came to him. He scoffed and made a few more gentle strokes with his paintbrush. "What difference should the arrival of one more distant cousin make to me?" Ruslan said, feigning indifference to the best of his ability as he set down his brush and wiped his hands on the dry cloth draped over his lap. He found that the portraits hanging between the massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelves no longer felt like a source of inspiration.

Instead, the paintings' subjects seemed almost intrusive... Sets of eyes that before appeared harmlessly impassive, now coldly and silently bore witness to Nikolai's invasion of his space... He swore he could still feel Nikolai's breath against his hair.

"I thought it may interest you to know."

"Well, it doesn't." With the swiftness and accuracy of a horse swatting away a fly with its tail, Ruslan snatched the little brass bell on the table next to his pallet and murky water—rang it, before clacking it back down on the paint-splotted surface.

The corner of Nikolai's mouth pulled into a lopsided smirk, now aware that their time alone was due to expire. "But it does trouble you..." he whispered before pulling back just as the door opened, and in stepped the diligent servant who bowed and awaited orders like a little toy soldier in his uniform of deep red and black.

"I think I'm done painting for today, and I'll take some tea and lunch in my room," Ruslan said, carefully avoiding eye contact with Nikolai until he was ready to address him again, turning on his stool. "Not at all," he lied. "Actually, now that I think more of it, I'm rather anxious for cousin Vissarion Sokolov's son to get here. In fact, I have every bit of confidence that upon their meeting, mother will realize what gross lunacy she's been entertaining, and send him right back to the swampy little bog he came from."

"One can only hope," Nikolai replied simply as he widened the gap between them so that the servant could begin collecting and tidying the paints and brushes. He gave one last smile and nod to Ruslan before slipping back into the hall.

Once he'd gone, the servant paused for a moment to look at Ruslan with some concern. "...Was he bothering you again?" Bernard asked in a hushed tone, as though he were in a position to do something about the Count's son, who also held the title of his father, making Nikolai a count as well. Bernard wasn't, of course, in a position to do something, and that was the most frustrating part for him. There were certain things he was powerless to do for his master.

Bernard's concern, however, did bring a faint but sincere smile to Ruslan's face—one he dared only allow for a moment. Bernard had been Ruslan's personal servant for the nearly eight years since he'd turned twelve.

Ruslan's mother had pushed for a lady's maid, of course, but Ruslan ran every one of them off until his parents finally relented and allotted him a personal servant. A male, as his brother had when he was alive, and as his father did have, though the decision didn't come lightly.

A male privately attending to a tsarevna, a princess—which was what he knew many still considered him behind his back—was unprecedented. Unthinkable. They considered getting him a boy from the church. Even as a child, Ruslan could recall the macabre discussion with clarity...

"What about a boy from the local chapter?" Mother questioned. "The covenant doesn't allow them to stay...intact, do they? They alter them, right? When their lives have been committed to god?"

"They're intact," Father had said. "That's but a rumor—circulated by heretics wishing to spread their fearfulness of the faith."

"You wouldn't have to keep him intact," Grandmother suggested.

"Do you suppose such a procedure can be done reliably?" Mother wondered. "You know, without killing the boy?"

"If he does die, then just choose another," Grandmother said, as if that should be obvious. "The chapter has plenty more young men."

...Ruslan shook his head and shrugged off the chills the memory evoked. Bernard hadn't been mutilated in such a way, and for that, Ruslan was glad.

Bernard was truly a miraculous soul. Loyal and dutiful, and no doubt well aware of how hopelessly bound his own life and future were to Ruslan's comfort and well being. Yet, Bernard had never been unkind to him. If he were harboring any secret resentment or hate for Ruslan, he never showed it. He was one of the few people in the entire empire that Ruslan felt he could consider something of a friend...

He cherished Bernard for that.

But Bernard was still staring at him expectantly while his hands worked at cleaning up Ruslan's mess...waiting to listen attentively if Ruslan chose to answer his question.

"Oh... No more than Nikolai usually sees fit to bother me," he said truthfully.

What Ruslan hadn't yet confessed concern over, even to Bernard, was how it seemed Nikolai was becoming bolder in his advances...if that's what they were.

It was certainly what they felt like to Ruslan, especially since Nikolai only seemed to be so emboldened when he found him alone. It didn't make sense, in that there was nothing Nikolai stood to gain from him, and yet he behaved the way he did...

Ruslan sat in the library for some time dwelling on the matter before rising, remembering his tea and lunch.

While he was ascending the east staircase, however, he paused. There was a sound...melodic. No—rhythmic, rather...but as he turned on the staircase towards the front of the palace, he determined it not to be music. Then it registered.

He was hearing the distant, but distinct clang of bells—the front gates announcing the arrival of kin...

The arrival...of Alexander Sokolov.

Thanks so much for reading!!

How are we feeling about the characters? I know it's only chapter 2, but is there anyone you love or hate yet~?