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Chapter Text

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅

𝘉𝘦𝘻𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘰  '𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦'

Paris Morozova was the type of person you either loved with all your heart, or despised with every fibre of your being. He was arrogant, self-assured, powerful and... annoyingly handsome. Gifted with the rare powers of earth manipulation, not only could he boast about being the only Grisha ever born with such power, but his father's status as the Darkling made it all too easy for him to have a big head. 

But, when the Sun Summoner finally comes to the Little Palace and knocks Paris down a peg or two, he may finally start to realise the ugly truth about his heritage and where his loyalties lie. Even if his ego gets slightly wounded in the process. 

───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───

𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃:

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚉𝙾𝚅𝙰 ('𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃')

“Trust me - I can bring the house down. Literally. Earth-bending perks, darling.”

𝙰𝙻𝙴𝙺𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚉𝙾𝚅𝙰 ('𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶')

“You’ll find I have more patience with eternity.”

𝙰𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙾𝚅 ('𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙽 𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙴𝚁')

Played by Jessie Mei Li

'Please, that boy is a walking landslide with a god complex.'

𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙰𝚂 𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂 ('𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙴𝚁')

Played by Jacob Aaron Gaines 

'One day you'll stop getting into trouble. But today is clearly not that day.'

𝚅𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙻𝚈 𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂𝙾𝚅 ('𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙴𝚇𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴')

Played by Edward Davis

'You overstep, you little bastard'

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚅 𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶.

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

Disclaimer: 

This is a work of fanfiction based on the Grishaverse created by Leigh Bardugo. I do not own the characters, settings, or any elements of the original series. All rights to the Shadow and Bone universe belong to Leigh Bardugo and the publishers. 

Warning!

This book contains strong language, some discriminatory language (cough, Vasily, cough) and scenes of violence (don't worry! nothing gory). Suitable warnings will be placed before each chapter and I as the author do not condone any of this. Read with care! 

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺:

0:57               ———————|————————                  2:10

'𝘋𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭
𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭'

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘔𝘰𝘮 - 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘫𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘦

'𝘖𝘩, '𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 '𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬
𝘠𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 '𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭'

𝘞𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘞𝘦 𝘎𝘰 - 𝘒𝘈𝘓𝘌𝘖

'𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦?
𝘗𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 '𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦?'

𝘎𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 - 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘺

'𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘢ï𝘷𝘦𝘵é 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦
𝘚𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘙𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺.'

𝘙𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 - 𝘌𝘗𝘐𝘊 : 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

'They named him after the boy who burned a kingdom for love. But this Paris? He’ll burn it for something colder. The only question is—when the fire comes, will he stand beside his father… or set him alight with the rest?'

Chapter Text

The Little Palace glittered like a jewel under moonlight, a fortress of glass and gold where power paraded itself in every corridor. Paris Morovoza thought it looked like a cage. A very pretty one, stocked with fine wine, soft beds, and more lovers than he could ever reasonably keep track of. But a cage nonetheless.

The ground always spoke to him first. Not in words, but in pressure, in memory—stone held secrets longer than any court gossip. Paris could feel the heartbeat of the palace through the soles of his boots, the slow shifting of the earth beneath its perfect symmetry. Marble and obsidian bent to his will like silk between his fingers, but it was the raw power underfoot he craved most. The old bones of the world, deep and unmoving. Untouched by gold or glory.

He could shatter mountains with a thought. Crack the floor of the Grand Hall with a twitch of his hand. And still, he felt powerless where it mattered most.

Son of the Darkling.

That was the name that followed him, curled around his spine like smoke. He hadn’t inherited his father's shadow-summoning, nor the cold, magnetic command that made men bow and saints tremble. No—Paris was something older. A mistake, some whispered. A curiosity. His power didn’t blind or burn. It buried. 

He had once opened a fault line during a tantrum at twelve, the tremor felt as far as Os Kervo. They still talk about it in cautious tones. Not with awe—never awe—but with the quiet dread reserved for things no one can quite explain.

And yet, despite what he could do, Paris was not feared the way his father had been. He was not revered. He was not... enough.

So he played the part. The pleasure-seeker. The golden boy with dust on his cuffs and soil under his nails. They thought him careless. He let them. Let them see the smirk, the reckless grin, the litany of affairs and drunken escapades. Let them call him wild, spoiled, soft. Because it was easier than admitting the truth: that all his power, all his beauty, all his hollow triumphs were just noise in the void left by a father who had never once said his name like it meant anything.

The earth bent for Paris Morozova. But not the man who made him. And some nights, that truth felt heavier than any mountain he could raise.

»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««

If there was one person that could bring out the worst in Paris Morovoza, it was Prince Vasily. 

He swept into the Hall like he’d been choreographed—military-cut velvet, a cascade of medals he hadn’t earned, and that ever-present smirk carved into his face like a family crest. Too polished. Too princely. Too perfect in all the ways Paris found vaguely nauseating. The sort of man who never needed to raise his voice to command attention because the weight of his future crown did it for him.

“Morozova,” Vasily said, already smiling, “still loitering like you’re above the festivities?”

Paris didn’t even turn. “No, I’m just waiting for them to get interesting. So you can imagine how long I’ve been standing here.”

Vasily’s laugh was quick, practised. He joined him at the pillar, shoulder brushing against Paris’s as if they were boys again, hiding from tutors behind the western stables. But they weren’t boys anymore. And Vasily didn’t hide. He hunted.

“Interesting?” Vasily repeated. “Darling, these people are the interest. All their schemes and secrets sewn into gold thread. I’d think you of all people would appreciate the theatre.”

Paris gave him a side glance, arching a brow. “I prefer tragedies. At least they’re honest about the ending.”

Vasily hummed. “That’s the problem with you. No ambition. You have power, blood, mystery—and no idea what to do with it. It’s tragic, really.”

“And you,” Paris said, voice mild, “have enough ambition for the both of us. But no taste.”

“Careful,” Vasily said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I might take that as a compliment.”

Paris took a slow sip of wine. The stones beneath his feet pulsed — quiet, responsive. His power was always there, buried deep, patient. Unlike Vasily, who wanted everything now. The court. The throne. The crown. The control. It was always in his eyes — just under the charm.

The hunger. He didn’t wear it openly, not yet, but Paris had seen it enough times to recognise it for what it was. Not just entitlement. Intent.

“Do you think it will make you happy?” Paris asked suddenly, not quite knowing why he’d spoken the thought aloud.

Vasily blinked. “What?”

“The throne,” Paris said, looking out at the sea of silks and smirks and empty smiles. “Do you think sitting on it will fix whatever it is that keeps you up at night?”

Vasily was quiet for a moment. Too long. Then he said, too harshly, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” Paris said, “I don’t suppose I would.”

He wasn’t built for ruling. That had never been his purpose. He was a weapon carved out of ancient stone, raised in half-shadow, trained to fracture and command—not to lead. But Vasily… Vasily wanted to rule. Needed to. Like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

And despite himself, Paris still liked him. Maybe it was because they were both content with each other's misery, safe in the knowledge that someone else's life was just as shit as yours. 

»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««

The Little Palace had its quiet hours, but that didn’t mean Paris spent them alone. Leaning lazily against the edge of his table, he twirled a wine glass in one hand and let the other trace faint lines in the marble floor. Tiny ridges rose and fell beneath his fingers, responding to his will like the obedient servants he preferred not to bother.

Behind him, the bed was a mess of silk sheets and discarded clothing, still warm with someone else's body heat. A jacket hung half-off the headboard. A boot rested awkwardly on the chaise. The boy it all belonged to was already gone—slipped out without a word, though not without a glance over the shoulder. Paris hadn’t looked up. He rarely did.

It wasn’t cruelty. Not really. Just habit.

He brought the wine glass to his lips and let the rich red stain his tongue. Sweet. Cloying. He hated the vintage, but the bottle had been a gift from a too-eager diplomat with an even worse palate. He drank it anyway. The scent of sex still hung in the air—salt and musk and something faintly metallic, like ozone after lightning. The boy had been pretty. Not remarkable. Not clever. But willing. Eager. He’d gasped Paris’s name like it meant something, like he was offering a confession. Paris had murmured praise in return, hands firm on hips, mouth tracing paths down skin already beginning to forget him.

It wasn’t about connection. It never was.

He could have made it last longer. Drawn the boy in tighter, let him stay, let him speak. But that always led to questions. To expectations. And Paris wasn’t interested in being known—only in being wanted.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the wine glass tipping precariously before steadying in his grip. The marble beneath his fingertips quivered, a small tremor echoing out like a held breath. He hadn’t meant to summon it. But his power was always listening. Always waiting.

Paris stood slowly, stretching the soreness from his spine, letting his bare feet press into the cold floor. The sensation grounded him in a way touch never could. The palace felt more real to him than most people did. He could feel its bones shifting, its old stones whispering secrets too ancient for human tongues.

He listened for a moment, as if the earth might tell him what he already knew: that the night was still young, and he was still alone, and none of this—power, beauty, pleasure—would ever be enough to fill the hollow place where love was supposed to live. That place his father had carved out long ago and left empty.

Paris exhaled. He would dress soon. Return to the corridors. Smile at whoever caught his eye. Pretend the ache in his chest was just indulgence, wearing thin.

But for now, he stood in the quiet, drinking bad wine, with the ghost of someone else's warmth still fading from his bed, and the earth still shifting beneath his hands like it, too, didn’t know what to do with him. The glass tipped again, this time too far—slipping from his fingers, shattering on the floor in a burst of crimson and crystal.

Paris didn’t flinch. He just stared at the mess, the stain bleeding across the stone like spilled blood. His breath came slower now, deeper, as he crouched down, one palm flattening to the floor. And the palace listened.

The air changed—tightened. A hum rose beneath the silence, low and ancient, like something stirring beneath a grave. The marble under his palm began to shift, imperceptibly at first, then more violently. Cracks spiderwebbed outward in thin, jagged lines, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He pushed.

The floor broke.

Not shattered—reformed. Slabs of marble ground against each other like tectonic plates, rising into sharp, jagged shapes that cut the room in half. A pillar split from the floor in the far corner, jutting like a monument, polished smooth in the space of a breath. Another twisted mid-rise into something spiral and wrong, as if grown, not shaped.

His power surged out like a tide, ancient and unrelenting. The bones of the earth obeyed him. Not like a servant—but like something older recognizing one of its own. Dust filled the air. The bed rattled. Candlelight flickered violently, casting monstrous shadows across the walls. And still he pressed.

Stone buckled beneath his bare feet, curling like paper around the places where his rage made contact. The room groaned, walls reverberating with stress they were never meant to endure. And then—

Stillness.

Paris stood in the eye of the destruction, breathing hard, chest bare, sweat at the hollow of his throat. The marble floor around him had become a war map of chaos and precision: jagged ridges, broken angles, sharp lines smoothed into curves that had no business being there.

The last of the tremors faded into silence. Dust hung in the air like smoke from a distant fire. Marble lay fractured at his feet, cold and sharp and beautiful. Paris stood in the aftermath of it all, jaw tight, spine taut, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

He hadn't meant to lose control. Not entirely.

But the earth had risen for him. And now it was still. Then—

A shift in the air. No sound. No footsteps. Just that feeling. Shadow. It poured in from the corners of the room, bleeding like ink into the cracks in the marble. Candlelight guttered. Cold slipped in beneath his skin. Paris didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The weight of that presence was unmistakable—like a storm settling its eye directly over him.

"You’re losing control."

The voice cut through the room like a blade wrapped in velvet. Low. Patient. Inevitable. Paris stilled. His hands paused at the clasp of his coat, fingers tightening around the fabric. He didn’t turn around.

“Is that what you think this is?” he asked, tone cool, almost amused. “Me… losing control?”

He heard the footfall behind him—measured, precise. No rush. No threat. The kind of stillness that came only with terrifying power. The kind that didn’t need to raise its voice.

“Don’t play coy, Paris,” the Darkling said softly. “I felt it halfway across the grounds. The palace is still humming.”

Paris turned, finally. His expression was composed, but his eyes—his mother’s eyes, people always said—held that familiar glint. Mockery worn like armour. Rage tucked just behind it.

“I thought you didn’t feel anything anymore,” he said. “Isn’t that your whole thing?”

The Darkling stepped forward from the shadows, long coat trailing behind him like a living thing. He looked unchanged, as always—ageless, sharp, carved from myth. The kind of man who bent history to his will and left the world scrambling to catch up. He looked at the damage in the room, eyes moving slowly over the ruptured marble, the sculpted spikes of rock, the raw geography of his son’s temper made manifest. Then his gaze returned to Paris.

“You’re more dangerous than you understand,” he said. “That should concern you.”

Paris let out a short laugh. “What a strange way of saying ‘well done, son.’”

The Darkling said nothing. Of course he didn’t. Praise from him was a ghost Paris had stopped chasing years ago, though the want still coiled somewhere deep in his gut, ugly and raw and ever-hungry. He hated it. Hated him.

“I could bring the palace down if I wanted to,” Paris said suddenly, voice low. “Split it clean in half. Bury it in itself. I could raise a mountain through the throne room. What would you say then?”

The Darkling stepped closer, now only a breath away. His voice was quiet. “I would ask you why you’re wasting power on tantrums.”

Paris went still. The silence stretched. Then, slowly, he smiled—tight-lipped and hollow. “That’s the difference between us,” he said. “You think everything’s a war. I think sometimes it’s just being alive.”

The Darkling studied him. Not with warmth. Not even with cruelty. Just… interest. Like one studies a creature in a cage of their own making.

"I will return to the front tomorrow," the Darkling stated, with no room for argument, "there is much to be done, if we are to win this war."

Paris couldn't care less. He had been to the front lines once—months ago—and decided within hours that war was nothing but mud, boredom, and men screaming for glory they didn’t understand. The blood, the noise, the endless posturing—it all reeked of desperation. He’d returned to the Little Palace with dirt under his nails and a migraine behind his eyes, unimpressed and unscarred. His father hadn’t spoken to him for days after, a silence that Paris wore like a medal - deliberately shirking the soldier’s path to needle the Darkling, knowing full well it drove him mad. War was a cage he refused to live in, and if his refusal tore at his father’s ambitions, all the better.

“One day, it will ask something of you,” the Darkling said softly. “Your kind of power doesn’t lie dormant forever. It will want something back. And when it does… you’ll have to decide what kind of man you are.”

Paris turned his head. Met his father’s eyes without flinching. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I already know what kind of man I won’t be.”

The Darkling didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He was already fading into the shadows again, his silhouette swallowed by the dark like smoke returning to the flame.

And just like that, Paris was alone again.

For a long time, he stood there in silence, the room still marked by the violence of his temper—cracked marble, splintered stone, the air tight with the memory of power. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to the woman whose name had all but been erased from these halls—his mother. A ghost with no portrait, no stories, no place in his father’s carefully curated legacy. She had vanished when he was too young to remember, and the Darkling never spoke of her. Not even once.

Sometimes Paris wondered if she had left… or been driven away. Or worse.

She’d been the first person to disappear from his life. His father just made sure everyone else followed.

»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««»»-------¤-------««

Paris woke with a pounding headache and a sour taste lingering at the back of his throat—the bitter aftermath of bad wine and worse memories. The sun slanted weakly through the high windows, dust motes dancing in the light like tiny ghosts. His fingers itched with restless power, the marble scars from last night’s outburst still a fresh burn beneath his skin. 

Paris rolled onto his side, eyes narrowing as the dull ache behind them sharpened. His jaw clenched against the bitterness curling in his gut.

One day…

His father’s warning echoed in his mind, but Paris wasn’t interested in waiting around to see what the earth wanted from him.

Paris stayed crouched for a long moment, fingers hovering over the wine-stained marble, tracing the spiderweb cracks his power had left behind. The scent of dust and iron clung to the air, mingled with the fading sweetness of the spilled wine. Every breath scraped against his throat like grit.

The room was a ruin. Pillars of warped stone jutted from the floor where rage had reshaped the marble into something jagged and unnatural. The furniture lay in disarray—one of the carved chairs split clean in two, the velvet torn, stuffing spilling out like entrails. A mirror hung crooked on the far wall, cracked into a dozen reflections of his own tired face.

He looked like hell. Eyes bloodshot, hair dishevelled, a faint smear of ash along his jaw and a sag in the shoulders that would suggest a broken spine. The kind of mess his father would sneer at. The kind that said weakness.

Paris pressed a hand to the stone again, letting the faint hum of his power murmur back at him. Beneath the chaos, the earth still listened—steady, patient, ancient. He could feel it breathing under the marble, waiting for his command, ready to move again at the smallest flicker of his will. It would always answer him. Even when no one else did. He wished that comforted him. It didn’t.

The silence gnawed at him instead, hollow and accusing. He stood abruptly, the motion sending a pulse of dizziness through his skull. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and the taste of regret was sharp as salt on his tongue. You’re more dangerous than you understand. The memory of his father’s voice was a shadow that wouldn’t fade.

“Dangerous,” he muttered, pacing toward the shattered remnants of the mirror. “You should talk.”

He grabbed his coat from the bedpost, pulling it over his bare shoulders without bothering to button it. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and perfume—last night’s ghosts clinging like a second skin. He needed air before he caused another earthquake.

The corridors of the Little Palace were quiet when he stepped out, the hush of early morning broken only by distant footsteps and the faint rustle of wind through the open windows. The cold stone underfoot steadied him, every vibration a heartbeat he could feel through his bones.

He was halfway down the hall when a voice called, bright and too amused for the hour.

“Morozova,” Prince Vasily drawled, leaning lazily against a pillar. His uniform was immaculate as ever—collar crisp, hair slicked back, a golden ring glinting on one finger. “You look dreadful. Must’ve been quite the evening.”

Paris exhaled slowly through his nose. “And yet here you are, bright-eyed and unreasonably smug. Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not when there’s gossip to collect.” Vasily’s grin was wolfish as he pushed off the pillar and joined him, falling into step. “Word is the palace shook in the middle of the night. Half the staff thought it was an earthquake.” He cast Paris a sidelong glance. “Care to comment?”

Paris smirked without humour. “Tell them to blame the wine. It was a disaster.”

Vasily laughed softly, the sound echoing down the hall. “So modest. You really ought to give me lessons in deflection, Morozova. I could use them.”

They reached one of the long windows overlooking the gardens, pale sunlight spilling through onto the marble floor. Paris stopped, resting a hand on the cool stone of the windowsill. The ground beyond the glass felt alive under his skin—quiet, watchful.

“You’re wasting yourself here,” Vasily said after a pause, voice low now, almost serious. “Drinking, brooding, pretending you’re above it all. You have power. Influence. You could—”

“Be my father?” Paris cut in sharply.

The prince’s expression faltered for half a breath, then smoothed into a knowing smile. “You could be anything you want, if you stopped trying to spite him.”

Paris turned to face him fully, eyes hard but tired. “Spiting him is the only thing I’m good at.”

Vasily studied him for a moment, the smirk softening into something like pity. “That’s a waste of a dangerous man.”

Paris’s jaw tightened. “You sound like him.”

“Maybe,” Vasily said, adjusting his cuff. “But I don’t mean it as a threat.”

For a moment, the air between them was still—charged with old familiarity and the unspoken awareness of what they both wanted, and what neither could have. Then Paris looked away, the faint tremor under his feet betraying the emotion he refused to show.

“Tell your spies I’m alive,” he said, brushing past. “They worry when I’m quiet.”

Vasily’s laugh followed him down the corridor—soft, practiced, and sharp enough to cut. When Paris finally turned the corner, he let out a long, shuddering breath. His headache pulsed behind his eyes, his father’s words still echoing in the back of his mind.

He hated his father. But most of all, he hated being tied to him.

And one day, he’d make sure there was nothing left to tie him at all.